Saturday, November 15, 2008
A Relatively Good Day
So for those not in the know or with short-term memory loss, I am currently working as a teaching assistant (or "preceptor" as they say here at Old Ivy) for a course on the history of modern science. The semester is approximately 2/3 of the way done by now and we've just started talking about the 20th century. Last week, class discussion centered around eugenics and the emergence of molecular biology and this week we've been getting high on ether theory before introducing the students to a Swiss patent clerk named Albert.
Considering that 75% or so of the class identified themselves as scientists (as opposed to humanists) at the beginning of the semester, the fact that we are moving into more familiar territory is something of a comfort to my students. As a humanist with scientific leanings, however, this shift into the 20th century carries with it additional pressure to truly understand the material involved because, after all, there may be physicists in the room and they will notice if something is amiss. Consequently, I decided to go all out in my preparation for this week's section, supplementing the required reading from Einstein's On Relativity with additional articles on Eddington's 1919 eclipse expedition, the material culture of late fin de siecle Europe, and excerpts from Walter Isaacson's recent biography of Einstein. I also practiced rederiving the formula for time dilation which was presented in lecture (despite interruption by a driveby kickline) so that I could correct students when I asked them to do so in section.
And so, having readied myself to explain everything from Michelson-Morley to Gravity Probe B, I woke up on Friday morning, put on my all too appropriate Einstein necktie (Featuring all of the master's greatest formulae: Mass-energy equivalence! Time dilation! Length contraction! And the rest...) and proceeding to make the commute from the Invisible Suburb for my 9 AM section.
Both of my sections proceeded smoothly, though I think many students remain a little befuddled as to how the luminiferous ether could ever have been deemed a reasonable, if not downright necessary, component of 19th century physics.
Two hours of chatting about Einstein would normally be enough to call it a day, but there was more physics-related excitement scheduled that afternoon. My advisor, an expert on Cold War science and the emergence of nuclear weapons, was part of a panel organized by the University's Eurasian studies program in association with a new opera called "Einstein and Margarita", which dramatized the physicists' relationship with a Soviet spy. So off I went, bedecked in full Einstein regalia, to attend his talk and a screening of the opera in a campus theater. Although I arrived late, I learned a great deal about Soviet espionage during the Manhattan project, which consisted of far more than just Klaus Fuchs.
Then after a brief intermission, it was time for a a screening of the opera. It was hard to avoid comparisons with Dr. Atomic, the recent John Adams opera describing the moral challenges confronting Oppenheimer and the other atomic scientists. Where Adams was able to secure a full-scale staging of his work at the Met, however, the Russian composers of "Einstein and Margarita" adopted somewhat more innovative methods, creating what they called a "media opera." They were able to secure funding for a full cast recording, complete with symphonic orchestration. This soundtrack was then played as a background track to clips of various films from the 1930s and 1940s spliced together to produce a coherent storyline.
All in all, this was a rather innovative, postmodern approach towards a relatively conservative genre. The structure of the opera was also quite creative, incorporating six different languages into its libretto and cryptophony throughout the score (e.g. translating Einstein's mathematical equations into musical notes). The only downside to the screening was an unfortunate lack of cooperation from the theater's DVD player which froze near the middle of the third act. Still, the audience was quite impressed with the work, which presented a far more dramatic story than Dr. Atomic's odd emphasis upon the weather conditions preceding the Trinity test and easily matched the better-financed opera at least so far as the libretto was concerned.
The screening ended around 5:30 in the afternoon, at which point I assumed that I would be heading home to the Invisible Suburb. In one of those odd twists of fate, however, by chatting with my advisor slightly longer than expected as the rest of the audience funneled away, I suddenly found myself in the midst of a discussion concerning dinner plans. Apparently, the event organizers had arranged a dinner for all invited speakers at one of Old Ivy's finest restaurants (and if the rumors are true, a favorite of Einstein's). As I was merely a spectator and not a speaker, I assumed (somewhat understandably) that I would not be able to attend. But my advisor was one of the organizers and when it was determined that there were a few open spots for additional diners I found myself suddenly converted from outsider to participant. (The fact that I was wearing my Einstein necktie may also have helped my chances as several people, including the opera's librettists, expressed an interest in it.)
And that was how ten hours after arriving at Old Ivy to teach my students about relativity, I found myself trading anecdotes with several professors, including my advisor, two members of the Slavic Studies program, a visiting expert on the history of modern physics, and the opera's librettists while dining on chili dusted calamari, an elegantly prepared beef filet, and a freshly-made apple tart.
We talked about Einstein, of course, but the conversation was quite wide-ranging, covering everything from my advisor's course syllabus to the cultural implications of the lack of a Russian word for "fun."
As is so often the case here in graduate school, I found myself somewhat out of my depth, a condition only further exacerbated by the fact that the majority of people at the table spoke Russian and lapsed in and out of it throughout the night. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful dinner, and I consider myself quite fortunate to have been able to participate. Graduate school is not a particularly glamorous place, but every so often there are events like this which serve as reminders that the rewards of academic research are not confined to the journals and books which constitute my stock in trade. There is a social aspect to scholarship, and it is my hope that I will one day be able to effectively balance the temptation to ensconce myself in archives with the ability to interact informally with my colleagues. If I can do that, perhaps this whole career in academia thing may work out for the best after all...
So for those not in the know or with short-term memory loss, I am currently working as a teaching assistant (or "preceptor" as they say here at Old Ivy) for a course on the history of modern science. The semester is approximately 2/3 of the way done by now and we've just started talking about the 20th century. Last week, class discussion centered around eugenics and the emergence of molecular biology and this week we've been getting high on ether theory before introducing the students to a Swiss patent clerk named Albert.
Considering that 75% or so of the class identified themselves as scientists (as opposed to humanists) at the beginning of the semester, the fact that we are moving into more familiar territory is something of a comfort to my students. As a humanist with scientific leanings, however, this shift into the 20th century carries with it additional pressure to truly understand the material involved because, after all, there may be physicists in the room and they will notice if something is amiss. Consequently, I decided to go all out in my preparation for this week's section, supplementing the required reading from Einstein's On Relativity with additional articles on Eddington's 1919 eclipse expedition, the material culture of late fin de siecle Europe, and excerpts from Walter Isaacson's recent biography of Einstein. I also practiced rederiving the formula for time dilation which was presented in lecture (despite interruption by a driveby kickline) so that I could correct students when I asked them to do so in section.
And so, having readied myself to explain everything from Michelson-Morley to Gravity Probe B, I woke up on Friday morning, put on my all too appropriate Einstein necktie (Featuring all of the master's greatest formulae: Mass-energy equivalence! Time dilation! Length contraction! And the rest...) and proceeding to make the commute from the Invisible Suburb for my 9 AM section.
Both of my sections proceeded smoothly, though I think many students remain a little befuddled as to how the luminiferous ether could ever have been deemed a reasonable, if not downright necessary, component of 19th century physics.
Two hours of chatting about Einstein would normally be enough to call it a day, but there was more physics-related excitement scheduled that afternoon. My advisor, an expert on Cold War science and the emergence of nuclear weapons, was part of a panel organized by the University's Eurasian studies program in association with a new opera called "Einstein and Margarita", which dramatized the physicists' relationship with a Soviet spy. So off I went, bedecked in full Einstein regalia, to attend his talk and a screening of the opera in a campus theater. Although I arrived late, I learned a great deal about Soviet espionage during the Manhattan project, which consisted of far more than just Klaus Fuchs.
Then after a brief intermission, it was time for a a screening of the opera. It was hard to avoid comparisons with Dr. Atomic, the recent John Adams opera describing the moral challenges confronting Oppenheimer and the other atomic scientists. Where Adams was able to secure a full-scale staging of his work at the Met, however, the Russian composers of "Einstein and Margarita" adopted somewhat more innovative methods, creating what they called a "media opera." They were able to secure funding for a full cast recording, complete with symphonic orchestration. This soundtrack was then played as a background track to clips of various films from the 1930s and 1940s spliced together to produce a coherent storyline.
All in all, this was a rather innovative, postmodern approach towards a relatively conservative genre. The structure of the opera was also quite creative, incorporating six different languages into its libretto and cryptophony throughout the score (e.g. translating Einstein's mathematical equations into musical notes). The only downside to the screening was an unfortunate lack of cooperation from the theater's DVD player which froze near the middle of the third act. Still, the audience was quite impressed with the work, which presented a far more dramatic story than Dr. Atomic's odd emphasis upon the weather conditions preceding the Trinity test and easily matched the better-financed opera at least so far as the libretto was concerned.
The screening ended around 5:30 in the afternoon, at which point I assumed that I would be heading home to the Invisible Suburb. In one of those odd twists of fate, however, by chatting with my advisor slightly longer than expected as the rest of the audience funneled away, I suddenly found myself in the midst of a discussion concerning dinner plans. Apparently, the event organizers had arranged a dinner for all invited speakers at one of Old Ivy's finest restaurants (and if the rumors are true, a favorite of Einstein's). As I was merely a spectator and not a speaker, I assumed (somewhat understandably) that I would not be able to attend. But my advisor was one of the organizers and when it was determined that there were a few open spots for additional diners I found myself suddenly converted from outsider to participant. (The fact that I was wearing my Einstein necktie may also have helped my chances as several people, including the opera's librettists, expressed an interest in it.)
And that was how ten hours after arriving at Old Ivy to teach my students about relativity, I found myself trading anecdotes with several professors, including my advisor, two members of the Slavic Studies program, a visiting expert on the history of modern physics, and the opera's librettists while dining on chili dusted calamari, an elegantly prepared beef filet, and a freshly-made apple tart.
We talked about Einstein, of course, but the conversation was quite wide-ranging, covering everything from my advisor's course syllabus to the cultural implications of the lack of a Russian word for "fun."
As is so often the case here in graduate school, I found myself somewhat out of my depth, a condition only further exacerbated by the fact that the majority of people at the table spoke Russian and lapsed in and out of it throughout the night. Nevertheless, it was a wonderful dinner, and I consider myself quite fortunate to have been able to participate. Graduate school is not a particularly glamorous place, but every so often there are events like this which serve as reminders that the rewards of academic research are not confined to the journals and books which constitute my stock in trade. There is a social aspect to scholarship, and it is my hope that I will one day be able to effectively balance the temptation to ensconce myself in archives with the ability to interact informally with my colleagues. If I can do that, perhaps this whole career in academia thing may work out for the best after all...
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