The Art and Craft of Scientific Design
Design in the Service of Science
Scientific models of the atom, molecule and the DNA present a fascinating example of science and design amalgamation. When researchers need to create an actual three dimensional model of the abstract formula they worked on and perfected for years, they become designers. They start, however, with an advantage that regular designers lack: their blueprint was sketched by nature itself. Nature is an enviable ally that many artists routinely turn to for inspiration — decorative patterns are known to include flora and fauna elements. Yet, the difference in scientific design is that the minuscule scales of atoms and molecules rule out familiar visual references.
Hence, scientists rely on basic design techniques and follow a trial-and-error method. The model must be a straightforward embodiment of its mathematical blueprint with a stress on such principles as minimalism and simplicity. Following these principles starts with the materials. For instance, Francis Crick and James Watson, who discovered the DNA in 1952 and received the Nobel Prize for Physiology and Medicine a decade later, used only cardboard and metallic wire to build their first replica.
It was Linus Pauling, a two-time Nobel Prize laureate and Watson’s and Crick’s rival in the race for the discovery of the DNA, who introduced the design approach that the two so successfully employed. Pauling’s materials of choice were Tinkertoy parts. Each Tinkertoy set comprises (still marketed today in wood and plastic) several wooden spools with holes in them and sticks; by combining these simple components one could build structures that are complex and unlimited in size. Linus Pauling used the spools and sticks to help him construct and visualize molecules. Watson and Creek took his method one step further, and built the DNA.
The trial-and-error method is the meat and potatoes of design. Interior design, for instance, is impossible to conceive without continuous adjustment and readjustment. Choosing a color scheme for an apartment is an entirely trial-and-error affair — this is what makes it such an enjoyable experience. The designer risks nothing, trying endless color variations until reaching the desirable scheme. The stakes are higher (or perhaps not) when building a scientific model. Color schemes are just as crucial; each hue usually represents only one kind of protein, and cannot recur in any part of the model at the scientist’s whim. A clumsy living room color pattern may repel visitors, but mixing colors in a scientific model may result in a “mutation.”
Scientific Trials and Errors
Scientific perfection drives scientist designers. In the 1950s, researchers relied on two-dimensional laboratory photographs — preliminary plans that could not be changed. There were no digital simulations and the scientists had to define the effects of the missing third dimension — to make educated and creative guesses. Technology simply wasn’t advanced enough then, although it was making gargantuan steps in the field of microscopic photography.
Rosalind Franklin was the scientist who specialized in making these coveted photographs. Franklin, however, didn’t believe in theoretical modeling – in guessing games with molecular structure – and thought that models ought to be created based on proven theoretical knowledge. An admirable and illustrious scientist in her own right, she nevertheless may have lacked the vision and audacity that make a discoverer. In 1952, Watson and Creek got their hands on Franklin’s “photograph 51,” the image that pushed them in the right direction. But it took several tries and models to eventually get there.
For instance, some of the wrong guesses of the famous DNA crew included a single and a triple helix variation that looked outright bizarre. Protein molecules were sticking out of the strands, in a hedgehog-like fashion, instead of linking to each other to create the winding ladder we all recognize today. These were asymmetrical, disjointed and, I daresay, ugly models. More importantly, the scientists themselves could intuit that something was scientifically wrong in them – but had a hard time identifying what it was. In retrospect, the low aesthetic appeal might have been enough to indicate those mutants as the wrong versions. It could be that in that case, artistic principles of beauty intuitively guided science.
Simplicity: The Line and the Circle
Two basic art elements — the line and the circle — form the bulk of the scientists’ designing tools. A few decades after Kazimir Malevich and Vassily Kandinsky liberated the geometrical form and the line from the oppression of figure and created the first abstract paintings, scientists followed suit and made their first abstract sculptures. In painting abstraction, the style essentially denoted the end of the road, or at least an important juncture in it. For scientists, abstract modeling, starting with the discovery of DNA, meant a parallel breakthrough.
A good example as to how science evolved in the abstract direction would be the gradual understanding of the birth and conception process. Medieval scientists (alchemists) believed that the man concealed a miniature human being, or homunculus, in each sperm. Allegedly, he only needed “to plant” the sperm inside a woman’s womb to trigger the growth and development of said homunculus into a baby. Needless to say, the concepts of genes and DNA were non-existent. With the development of science, researchers distanced themselves from the naive, “figurative” understanding of the birth process. With the discovery of cells, and later chromosomes, we saw how more abstract and visually “meaningless” were the biological building blocks that substituted the homunculus. The final step that Watson and Creek took was so groundbreaking because of its complete abstraction and seeming disconnectedness from life as we see it everyday.
Towards Complexity
With time, scientific artists started using more complex materials. Already in 1957, two other chemists, John Kendrew and Max Perutz, used such materials as plasticine, which required the support of wooden rods, to recreate the molecule of myoglobin. The significance of the discovery was once again endorsed by a Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1966. Kendrew’s and Perutz’s first model now rests in Science Museum, London — these “sculptures” have their own special “art galleries.” Thus scientific art branched into “schools,” with some sticking to simple, traditional methods introduced by Pauling, and others using more modern complex such as plasticine. Today, almost all modeling is done on computers and digital apparatuses. In a way, this ultimate complexity reflects the state of art in postmodern world.
Francis Crick said that the idea of the double helix came to him suddenly and unexpectedly. This description resembles very much the notion of inspiration as it is understood by poets. Great scientists resemble great sculptors in that both communicate complex ideas by making succinct three-dimensional objects that now can be perceived and appreciated purely for their aesthetic merits. The winding, circular and linear models, now improved by computer simulation programs, fascinate people for the unusual architectonic structure. We learn about science via the filters of aesthetic beauty and elegance — we learn that the two disciplines are truly inseparable.
>Written by d/visible contributor Elijah Shifrin.
