I think one of the defining moments of adulthood is the realization that nobody's going to take care of you. That you have to do the heavy lifting while you're here. And when you don't, well, you suffer the consequences. At least I have. (And in the empirical study I'm performing about interacting with the universe, I am unfortunately the only test subject I have complete access to, so my data is, as they say, self-selected.) While nobody's going to take care of us, it's incumbent upon us to take care of those around us. That's community.

The fiction of continuity and stability that your parents have painted for you is totally necessary for a growing child. When you realize that it's not the way the world works, it's a chilling moment. It's supremely lonely.

So I understand the desire for someone to be in charge. (As a side note, I believe that the need for conspiracy theories is similar to the need for God.) We'd all like our good and evil to be like it is in the movies: specific and horrible, easy to defeat. But it's not. It's banal.

[...]

No one is in charge. And honestly, that's even cooler.

The idea of an ordered and elegant universe is a lovely one. One worth clinging to. But you don't need religion to appreciate the ordered existence. It's not just an idea, it's reality. We're discovering the hidden orders of the universe every day. The inverse square law of gravitation is amazing. Fractals, the theory of relativity, the genome: these are magnificently beautiful constructs.

The nearly infinite set of dominoes that have fallen into each other in order for us to be here tonight is unfathomable. Truly unfathomable. But it is logical. We don't know all the steps in that logic, but we're learning more about it every day. Learning, expanding our consciousness, singly and universally.

As far as I can see, the three main intolerant religions in the world aren't helping in that mission.

For all their talk of charity and knowledge, that they close their eyes to so much—to science, to birth control education, to abuses of power by some of their leaders, to evolution as provable and therefore factual (the list is staggering)—illustrates a wide scope of bigotry.

Now, just to be clear. If you want to believe, or find solace in believing, that someone or something set these particular dominoes in motion—a cosmic finger tipping the balance and then leaving everything else to chance—I can't say anything to that. I don't know.

Though a primary mover is the most complex and thus (given Occam's razor) the least likely of all possible solutions to the particular problem of how we got here, I can't prove it true or false, and there's nothing to really discuss about it.

If Daniel Dennett is right— that there's a human genetic need for religion— then I'd like to imagine that my atheism is proof of evolutionary biology in action.

[excerpt from Adam Savage, "Food for the Eagle", speaking to the Harvard Humanist Society, April 2010.]

Mr. Jackson came to my attention thanks to a brief conversation I had with a relative stranger (I'd seen him before but we never talked) today at the Taco Bell that went like this:

"Hey," he says, "how many people have told you you look like Phil Jackson?"
"Up to this point," I responded, "none."
"Well, you look exactly like him–even your expressions. He is a little taller though, but you can't tell that if you're sitting down."
"That's cool," I said. "I've always wondered whom I looked like."
"Phil Jackson, definitely. Have a nice day."
"I'm sure I will now that I know whom I look like!"

The resemblance doesn't seem so striking to me, but I'm sure I see myself differently than others see me. On the other hand, I can see enough similarities that I can believe someone might feel that Mr. Jackson and I look rather alike. He is eleven years older than I, but I think he's looking quite good enough to be a model for how I should like to look when I reach 65.

Now while we're on the subject of look-alikes, I want to ask for some help identifying the circumstances or people in the photograph below. It is probably about 15 years old, this picture, evidently taken at a bear gathering of some sort. I ask because the middle of the three guys seated at the table in the foreground looks so uncannily like me–to me–that I sometimes wonder whether I was at this dinner and forgot about it. But how could I forget such delightful looking dinner companions?

James Randi is a retired professional magician (“The Amazing Randi”), author, lecturer, amateur archaeologist/astronomer. Born in 1928 in Toronto, Canada, where he received his high school education. He was naturalized a U.S. citizen in 1987, and now lives in Florida. He is single.

Of course, many of us know Randi in his post-Amazing days when he is still amazing, working tirelessly as one of the world's leading skeptics helping to save the world from mysticism, superstition, and unscrupulous charlatans. When it comes to unmasking the tricks of the world's cheats, Randi's career as an extraordinary magician gives him lots of credibility. I'm thinking that I first encountered Randi, probably on "The Tonight Show" (with Johnny Carson), showing how the then popular Uri Geller "bent" spoons and keys with "psychic energy".

Anyway, the world is a better place for rational living thanks to Randi and the James Randi Educational Foundation (JREF). Although no one has yet successfully taken him up on his offer–no surprise!–for some year's he's extended his "$1 Million Challenge" (application):

I, James Randi, through the JREF, will pay US$1,000,000 [One Million Dollars/US] to any person who can demonstrate any psychic, supernatural or paranormal ability under satisfactory observing conditions. Such demonstration must take place under the following rules and limitations [given in the application]….

Anyway, this past week James Randi did something utterly banal yet still amazing: he came out as a gay man. You can read his statement here: "How To Say It?" (Swift [the JREF blog], 21 March 2010). He starts this way:

Well, here goes. I really resent the term, but I use it because it’s recognized and accepted.

I’m gay.

Okay, perhaps he still has a few personal issues to confront, but that's normal for anyone who has just come out. It's the odd phenomenon that no matter how much one tries to imagine and visualize the moment beforehand, there are still issues to take up only after one actually does it. Well, now he's done it and I hope he feels much better for it — it's difficult not to.

His statement is good to read for any number of reasons. Let's remember that Randi was born in 1928 and a lot — more than a lifetime's worth, I'd say — of change has taken place surrounding the lives of homosexuals. But it's also compelling to have a cool, rational, analytical statement from a man who's just coming out at the age of 82.

He says that the immediate prompt to making his statement was having seen the film "Milk", about the life of Harvey Milk. I can imagine why. He also says that he has seen things change around him so much that he feels there is now, with some exceptions, a very healthy acceptance. I believe I can also imagine other reasons why now was the time, or rather, why it just couldn't seem to wait any longer.

It's not a question, I must say, that really came into my mind, whether Randi is gay. Had I been asked I expect I would have simply assumed that he was. I tend to assume people are gay until I find out otherwise (it feels to me like parity of social convention to do so) and besides, he's just too fabulous to be straight.

And isn't it unremarkable just how little remark has been made. His blog posting, not surprisingly, has hundreds of good wishes from supporters and I've seen mention of his statement here and there, but were there blaring headlines? No, it seems that a period of "healthy acceptance" may indeed be upon us.

As banal and utterly unremarkable as one might hope coming out has become, it's still an amazing accomplishment for someone whose life trajectory started in such a very, very different place and time.

Congratulations, Randi!

Wikipedia tells me that Quayle was a friend of Alec Guinness, who was also in this film as Marcus Aurelius. One didn't have to be very astute to deduce that George Lucas had seen the film; there was a notable scene with Guinness dressed in a hooded cape, delivering lines very much as an archetypal Obi-Wan Kenobi.

"The Fall of the Roman Empire" was released in 1964, produced by Samuel Bronston, famous for having produced "El Cid". It's a super-epic, three hours long, with a list of stars as long as your arm. There were tens of thousands of extras (sources disagree) and the cost of the film staggered everyone. It was shot largely in Spain, and Bronstron had a set built that recreated a full-sized Roman forum.

The Wikipedia article for the film sums up our reactions pretty well:

It is believed that though the film was highly spectacular and considered intelligently scripted, its failure was partly attributable to what was considered the wooden performance of Stephen Boyd as the loyal general Livius (a fictitious character). In contrast, the performance of Christopher Plummer as the unstable Commodus was considered highly charismatic. As a fledgling motion picture performer—The Fall of the Roman Empire was only his third appearance on film—he began to emerge as a major Hollywood star.

The part of Marcus Aurelius was considered to be well portrayed by Alec Guinness, notably in a long soliloquy that was largely quotations from the emperor's own philosophical work The Meditations. The composer Dimitri Tiomkin said he found it impossible to write any music for this soliloquy.

Plummer was brilliant and eccentric as Commodus (this just prior to his playing Captain von Trapp in "The Sound of Music"), and Guinness makes acting look easy with great performances like his Marcus Aurelius. And it's tough to beat the sheer epicness of 20,000 real extras in a battle scene no matter how good is one's CGI. Also, Tiomkin's score was huge, appropriate, but unique.

Still, despite all that–maybe even because of it–the total effect seemed a bit flat to us. The whole thing just didn't quite pull together into a story that we really, really cared about.

On the other hand, Anthony Quayle, not to mention tens of thousands of other actors, looked great in their beards. That's nothing to sneeze at, particularly in Super Panavision.

Here is my abridged version of his official biography (Biographical Directory of the United States Congress):

Representative from Iowa; born in New Martinsville, Va. (now West Virginia), May 30, 1841; moved to Iowa in 1855 with his parents, who settled in Oskaloosa; attended the common schools and pursued classical studies; engaged in agricultural pursuits; learned the trades of bricklaying and plastering; enlisted in Company H, Third Regiment, Iowa Volunteer Infantry, in May 1861[; ...] studied law; was admitted to the bar in 1865 and commenced practice in Oskaloosa, Iowa; [...] elected as a Republican to the Fifty-first Congress (March 4, 1889-March 3, 1891); unsuccessful candidate for reelection; elected to the Fifty-third and to the six succeeding Congresses (March 4, 1893-March 3, 1907); chairman, Committee on Public Lands (Fifty-fourth through Fifty-ninth Congresses); was an unsuccessful candidate for reelection; resumed the practice of law; died in Oskaloosa, Iowa, September 29, 1913….

These days we'd find it exceedingly odd to find the name of someone associated with the Republican party to be a leading conservationist, but times have changed and Lacey is remembered for two important legislative innovations in conservation: "The Lacey Act of 1900", and "The Antiquities Act of 1906".

"The Lacey Act of 1900", sponsored by the congressman, was "the first Federal law protecting game, prohibiting the interstate shipment of illegally taken wildlife, as well as the importation of injurious species. Enforcement of this Act became the responsibility of the Division of Biological Survey, U.S. Department of Agriculture." (source) The ban on the importation of "injurious species" was the connection with starlings and their introduction to North America, although the legislation came 10 years too late to halt that process.

A curious article from the Thoreau Institute ("State Fish & Wildlife Agencies") gives some background to the Lacey Act:

A legal tradition dating back thousands of years governed wildlife by a "rule of capture"–meaning that they are owned by no one unless killed or captured. Under U.S. common law, wildlife are owned by the people, and the states, rather than federal or local governments, have jurisdiction over their use.

Therefore, regulation of "market hunting" was up to the states. Some few did regulate the practice in the late 1800s, but most did not. This resulted in the common evasive practice of animals being killed illegally in one state and transported into another, where killing them was legal, for sale.

Efforts to ban or regulate commercial hunting accelerated in 1887 when Theodore Roosevelt and George Bird Grinnell started the Boone and Crockett Club, which soon became the most powerful conservation organization in the country. The club is not as well known today, partly because it restricts its membership to 100 people, but those 100 people tend to be highly influential.

Bans on commercial hunting were difficult to enforce when hunters could take their wares across state lines. In 1900, Boone and Crockett Club member and Iowa Congressman John Lacey convinced Congress to pass a federal law prohibiting interstate shipping of wildlife taken in violation of a state game law. This effectively put commercial hunters out of business.

The Lacey Act was signed into law on May 25, 1900 by President William McKinley.

By the time Lacey introduced "The Antiquities Act of 1906", Congress had already been creating national parks for some 40 years, including Yosemite Valley, Yellowstone National Park, General Grant, Sequoia, Mount Ranier, and Casa Grande and Mesa Verde. (source). It was concern about vandalism and theft of antiquities from the two historic Indian sites that prompted the Antiquities Act. The bill, signed into law by Theodore Roosevelt on June 8, 1906, gave the President authority to restrict the use of particular public land owned by the federal government by using an executive order to designate a "national monument". The first use of the act: Roosevelt proclaimed Devils Tower National Monument, Wyoming, on September 24, 1906. (source)

While I was researching Congressman Lacey's contributions I came across one more interesting one worth noting, this having to do with the "Jefferson Bible". You may recall that this refers to Thomas Jefferson's highly abridged version of the New Testament in which he cut out all the miraculous and mystical stuff he didn't care for and kept the better ethical teachings of Jesus, ending up with a slim, svelt 82-page volume. The work has been published on several occasions, notably the Beacon Press, associated with the Unitarian Church.

Here reporter Cathrine Dunn ("Jefferson Bible returns to publication") takes up the story:

In 1886 Cyrus Adler found the book, which had been passed down through the Jefferson family. He bought the original copy and donated it to the National Museum – now the Smithsonian Institution – where Iowa Congressman John Lacey happened upon it at the turn of the century [i.e., c1900].

It was Lacey who initiated the idea of publishing the book, introducing legislation in Congress that would fund the printing and distribution of the Jefferson Bible to all senators and representatives at the start of their terms.

Lacey saw the book as an important "moral basis for representatives," said Bellevue University economics professor Judd Patton. "For a good government, we need to have good leaders with moral principles."

For unknown reasons the Government Printing Office stopped publishing the book in 1957, and its distribution to new congressional members ceased.

———-
^* Image source: collection National Conservation Training Center, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service.

In Galileo's day [c. 1610], the study of astronomy was used to maintain and reform the calendar. Sufficiently advanced students of astronomy made horoscopes; the alignment of the stars was believed to influence everything from politics to health.

[David Zax, "Galileo's Vision", Smithsonian Magazine, August 2009.^*]

Galileo published The Starry Messenger (Sidereus Nuncius), the book in which he reported his discovery of four new planets (i.e., moons) apparently orbiting Jupiter, in 1610. This business of looking at things and reporting on observations just didn't fit well with the prevailing Aristotelian view of nature and the way things were done.

Some of his contemporaries refused to even look through the telescope at all, so certain were they of Aristotle's wisdom. "These satellites of Jupiter are invisible to the naked eye and therefore can exercise no influence on the Earth, and therefore would be useless, and therefore do not exist," proclaimed nobleman Francesco Sizzi. Besides, said Sizzi, the appearance of new planets was impossible—since seven was a sacred number: "There are seven windows given to animals in the domicile of the head: two nostrils, two eyes, two ears, and a mouth….From this and many other similarities in Nature, which it were tedious to enumerate, we gather that the number of planets must necessarily be seven."

[link as above]

Science as a an empirical pursuit was still a new idea, quite evidently.

At the time it was understood, for various "obvious" reasons (one of them apparently being that they could be seen), that the planets and the stars in the nearby "heavens" (rather literally) influenced things on Earth. There was no known reason why or how, but this wasn't a big issue because causality^‡ didn't play a very large role in scientific explanations of the day. Recall, for instance, that heavier objects rushed faster to tall to Earth because it was their nature to do so.

What I suddenly realized awhile back (I was reading the book by Robert P, Crease, Great Equations, but I don't really remember what prompted the thoughts) is the following.

Received mysticism today claims that astrology, the practice of divination through observation of the motions of the planets, operates through the agency of some unknown, mysterious force as yet unknown to science. Science doesn't know everything!

But this is wrong. In the time of Galileo there was no known "force" to serve as the "cause" for the planets' effect on human life, but it seemed quite reasonable. In fact, the idea of "force" wasn't yet in the mental frame. The notion of "force" as it is familiar to us today only began to take shape with the work of Isaac Newton c. 1687, when he published his Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica, which contained his theories of mechanics and gravitation, theories where the idea of "force" began to take shape, and to develop the ideas of causality.

But the notion that there is no known mechanism through which astrology might work we now see is wrong. The mechanism, arrived at by Newton, which handily explained virtually everything about how the planets moved and exerted their influence on everything in the known universe, was that of universal gravitation.

The one thing that universal gravitation did not explain was astrology. But even worse, this brilliant theory showed that the universal force behind planetary interaction and influence was much, much too small to have any influence whatsoever on humans and their lives.

Newton debunked astrology over 300 years ago by discovering its mechanism and finding that it could not possibly have the influence that its adherents claimed.

Some people, of course, are a little slow to catch up with modern developments.
———-
^* This is an interesting article that accompanies a virtual exhibit, "Galileo's Instruments of Discovery", adjunct to a physical exhibit at the Franklin Institute (Philadelphia).

^‡ Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that our modern notion of causes was quite a bit different from 15th century notions of causes.

It is hard to find a biography of Ives that does not use the phrases "iconoclastic" and "quintessentially American". (This nice one, also the source of the photo, from the Library of Congress uses "distinctly American"–and "iconoclastic"–just for a bit of variety.) I'm thinking that it could be the iconoclastic bit that attracted me to Ives; I admire the artistic fish that swim upriver.

Ives was born in Danbury, Connecticut. New Englanders take their Americanism very seriously, but without wearing it on their sleeves, and there's lots of Americanism and overtones of rugged individualsim in Ives' music. To describe it in words can make it sound superficial, gimmicky, or even corny, but it is none of those. Ives' music is profound, unique, and uniquely American.

Discussions of his musical heritage always point out two things: that his father, George, was a band leader who was fond of making acoustical experiments, famously of having two bands playing different tunes marching simultaneously down intersecting streets, just to see what it sounded like and to stretch the ears a bit; and that hymn tunes play a big role in Ives' music.

It's true about the hymn tunes–they pop up absolutely everywhere–but to think of his music as somehow "hymn-tune based" trivializes what's going on. His first job, at the age of 14, was that of church organist. It's much more that the musical landscape of Ives' life was populated with hymn tunes and so his musical stream of consciousness often finds them floating by, so he incorporates them into the fabric of his compositions. Here's how the LoC bio (linked above) puts it:

To hear the music of composer Charles Ives is to hear a unique voice in American music, and indeed, in Western music as a whole. His work is at once iconoclastic and closely tied to his musical heritage; in its conception and form, both staggeringly complex and immediately accessible; and in its musical language, both universal and distinctly American.

Ives's work embodies a distillation of the diverse stylistic features of the music of his time, from the traditions of Romanticism prevalent in European art music of the late nineteenth century to the simplicity of traditional American hymn tunes, often juxtaposed in unexpected and even experimental combinations.

It all sounds a bit over the top, but I don't find any of that an exaggeration.

Ives went to Yale and studied music there, but did not become a professional musician. After graduating from Yale in 1898, Ives moved to New York and eventually gained a position in the actuarial department of the Mutual Insurance Company. Curiously, he stopped composing about the time of the first world war. Musically he was largely ignored for decades with his music rarely gaining performance. His first two symphonies were not premiered until the early 50s, half a century after their composition.

I could go on and on about Ives, but this is a holiday, so let's celebrate with a Fourth of July recital!

Variations on "America"

I like the flashy and silly, too, and this is one of my guilty pleasures: Ives' 'Variations on "America" ' for Organ; that's "America", the tune that starts "My country tis of thee…". Ives wrote these variations in 1891, when he was 17. The piece is frequently heard in an arrangement for orchestra made by William Schuman, but I much prefer the piquancy of it performed on organ.

I read an essay about the variations that called them "cheeky". That's probably true, but I don't think they go as far as "mocking". Ives treats the theme seriously enough and does up a clever set of treatments, including a very flashy and noisy toccata for a finale — watch for the pedal fireworks.

When I was in college, our college organist played this once on a recital. He hated the piece so he chose the most outlandish registrations he could think of, and it really bought the piece to life. For the finale he literally pulled out all the stops including the Zimbelstern (a little mechanical, tinkly bell device), which he happily left on and tinkling away when he left the organ bench at the end. Brilliant!

In this performance we haveTom Trenny playing the organ at Trinity Church, New York City. The performance is about 7.5 minutes long. (Note for friends at Facebook: I don't think the YouTube embedded videos survive this translation to Facebook, so you might like to visit the original blog page to enjoy the recital.)

As a bonus treat, here is a video of Virgil Fox playing the variations. I don't care for his performance so much, but he is Virgil Fox, and his introduction to the piece is not to be missed.

General William Booth Enters into Heaven

General William Booth was the founder and first "general" of the Salvation Army. Given what we know about Ives, ponder for a minute on the question of how he might go about a musical depiction of the General at the pearly gates. There's hymn singing, marching, a Salvation Army band, and lots of being "washed in the blood of the lamb". It's an amazing concoction, almost like a 6-minute opera. It appeared in Ives' privately published 114 Songs,^* but in this version (apparently by Ives), it's for baritone solo (Donnie Ray Albert), chorus (Dallas Symphony Chorus), and orchestra (Dallas Symphony), all directed by Andrew Davis.

I find it very evocative and very, very Ives.

String Quartet No. 1, 1st Movement, Fugue

The first string quartet is an early piece, composed c. 1900, but not premiered until 1957. (Two sets of notes about the quartet I enjoyed reading: one and the other.)

This is the first movement, a double fugue on two hymn tunes: "Missionary Hymn" (usually with the words "From Greenland's icy mountains….") and "Coronation" (often with words "All hail the power of Jesus' name…"). The former provides the main theme; the latter is heard later as a countersubject. Apparently the fugue (the entire quartet, actually) started life as service music for organ and strings, then was arranged into this quartet.

This particular fugue, which is unusually peaceful, non dissonant, and at first look uncharacteristically Ives, was reused later, orchestrated for a large orchestra, as the third movement of his Fourth Symphony.

Symphony No.4, 1st Movement, Prelude: Maestoso

Ives wrote his Fourth Symphony over a number of years from about 1910 to 1916 (see Wikipedia); it was not performed in its entirely in public until 1965, when Leopold Stowowski did that with the American Symphony Orchestra, which he had founded in 1962.

It is a massive work, scored for a very large orchestra. The second movement, the "comedy", is complex and forbidding and inscrutable and one can't really stop listening to it, either. There are layer upon layer upon layer of sound from which recognizable bits surface every now and then — it always makes me think of recognizable tunes churned up to the surface of a turbulent ocean and then pulled back under again. Perhaps it's Ives reconstruction of his father's "acoustical experiments". This movement is usually performed with two conductors just to keep it all sorted out.

However, it's the first movement that really turned me on originally to the Fourth Symphony. It is a setting with chorus, but no ordinary hymn-tune anthem, of "Watchman, Tell us of the Night"; the colors and mood and rhythmic irregularities are delicious and perplexing. This performance lasts just under 4 minutes.

As a bonus: an analysis / introduction from the Boston Symphony Orchestra's "Classical Companion" about Ives' Fourth Symphony.

Happy Fourth of July!
———-
^* I found (here)this lovely quotation from Henry Cowell's Charles Ives and his Music (pp. 80-81):

The 114 Songs forms the most original, imaginative, and powerful body of vocal music that we have from any American, and the songs have provided the readiest path to Ives's musical thinking for most people. Many of them have a touching lyrical quality; some are angry, others satirical. The best of them are musically very daring, with vocal lines that are hard for the conventionally trained artist, accompaniments that are often frightfully difficult, and rhythmic and tonal relations between voice and piano which require real work to master. Even when the melodic line alone presents no special problem, in combination with the accompaniment it offers a real challenge to musicianship. Surmounting the difficulties of this music creates an intensity in the performer that approaches the composer's original exaltation and has brought audiences to their feet with enthusiasm and excitement. But the simplest and least characteristic of the songs are still the most often performed. Like Schoenberg, whose fame rests on musical usages that had not yet appeared in the early pieces ordinarily performed on concert programs, Ives has been represented, as a rule, by pieces that have little or nothing to do with the music that made his reputation.

The one that I most recently read and enjoyed is John Gribbin with Mary Gribbin, Stardust : Supernovae and Life—The Cosmic Connection (New Haven, Yale University Press, 2000. xviii + 238 pages). Here is my book note.

The book is all about stellar nucleosynthesis: how the elements are made in stars and supernovae. As you may have realized, this is a subject I find fascinating, particularly the history of the discovery of nucleosynthesis. I'm especially keen on the late nineteenth controversy about the age of the sun, a controversy starring two big names in science, Darwin and Lord Kelvin, a controversy that couldn't be settled until the invention of quantum mechanics and the discovery of nuclear fusion.

That problem was finally cracked by Hans Bethe in two papers he published in 1939 in Physical Review ("Energy Production in Stars", first paper online, and second paper online. A very nice short, nontechnical summary of the importance of these papers ("Landmarks: What Makes the Stars Shine?") is also available online. I may have to write more about these sometime.

But the excerpt from Stardust that I wanted to share here has to do with a different question, one that came up in a discussion we had here ("Long Ago & Far Away") following a question Bill asked about the size of the expanding universe.

This doesn't address that question directly, but does answer another related question. I was unclear at the time whether celestial red-shift should be interpreted as the result of actual motion of objects in the universe apart from each other, or as the result of the expansion of space-time itself, or some combination.

The answer is unequivocal in this excerpt: red-shifts are due to expanding space-time. That is, the geometry of space-time itself is stretching out and this is what causes the apparent motion of cosmic objects away from us (with some actual relative motion through space-time going on).

Hard though it may be to picture, what the general theory of relativity tells us is that space and time were born, along with matter, in the precursor to the Big Bang, and that this bubble of spacetime full of matter and energy (the same thing—remember E = mc²) has expanded ever since. The galaxies fill the Universe today, and the matter they contain always did fill the Universe, although obviously the pieces of matter were closer together when the Universe was smaller. Since the cosmological redshift is caused not by galaxies moving through space but by space itself expanding in between the galaxies, it is certainly not a Doppler effect, and it isn't really measuring velocity, but a kind of pseudo-velocity. Partly for historical reasons, partly for convenience, astronomers do, though, continue to refer to the "recession velocities" of distant galaxies, although no competent cosmologist ever describes the cosmological redshift as a Doppler effect. [p. 116]

———-
^* The source of the photo is an (undated) article from American Scientist, "Scientists' Nightstand: John Gribbin", by Greg Ross, which has an interview with Gribbin and gives this thumbnail biography:

John R. Gribbin studied astrophysics at the University of Cambridge before beginning a prolific career in science writing. He is the author of dozens of books, including In Search of Schrödinger's Cat (Bantam, 1984), Stardust (Yale University Press, 2000), Ice Age (with Mary Gribbin) (Penguin, 2001) and Science: A History (Allen Lane, 2002).

Nicholas Konstantinovich Roerich was born in St. Petersburg, Russia, on October 9, 1874, the first-born son of lawyer and notary, Konstantin Roerich and his wife Maria. He was raised in the comfortable environment of an upper middle-class Russian family with its advantages of contact with the writers, artists, and scientists who often came to visit the Roerichs. At an early age he showed a curiosity and talent for a variety of activities. When he was nine, a noted archeologist came to conduct explorations in the region and took young Roerich on his excavations of the local tumuli. The adventure of unveiling the mysteries of forgotten eras with his own hands sparked an interest in archeology that would last his lifetime. [...]
In 1895 Roerich met the prominent writer, critic, and historian, Vladimir Stasov. Through him he was introduced to many of the composers and artists of the time — Mussorgsky, Rimsky-Korsakov, Stravinsky, and the basso Fyodor Chaliapin. At concerts at the Court Conservatory he heard the works of Glazunov, Liadov, Arensky, Wagner, Scriabin, and Prokofiev for the first time, and an avid enthusiasm for music was developed. Wagner in particular appealed to him, and later, during his career as a theater designer, he created designs for most of that composer's operas. [...]
The late 1890's saw a blossoming in Russian arts, particularly in St. Petersburg, where the avant-garde was forming groups and alliances, led by the young Sergei Diaghilev, who was a year or two ahead of Roerich at law school and was among the first to appreciate his talents as a painter and student of the Russian past.

This is the connection I was looking for this week because I wanted to note that we just passed an anniversary for the premiere of the ballet "The Rite of Spring" (originally "Le Sacre du Printemps"), subtitled "Pictures from Pagan Russia". It's notorious opening-night riot took place on 29 Mary 1913 at the Théâtre des Champs-Élysées, Paris.

The music, of course, was by Igor Stravinsky; choreography was by Vaslav Nijinsky; performance was by Les Ballets Russes. It was all produced by Serge Diaghilev. The original costumes and set designs were by Nicholas Roerich.

At first reading Roerich seemed to me an unlikely candidate for this activity, but the paragraphs above foreshadow it all: between his abiding interest in archeology and ancient (pagan) Russia, his growth as an artist, and his social connections among the liveliest of the artists working at the time, he was in the right place at the right time with the right ideas and talents, which strongly influenced the shape of the final work. As Wikipedia tells the story of the ballet's genesis:

The painter Nicholas Roerich shared his idea with Stravinsky in 1910, his fleeting vision of a pagan ritual in which a young girl dances herself to death. Stravinsky's earliest conception of The Rite of Spring was in the spring of 1910, in the form of a dream: "… the wise elders are seated in a circle and are observing the dance before death of the girl whom they are offering as a sacrifice to the god of Spring in order to gain his benevolence," said Stravinsky. While composing The Firebird, Stravinsky began forming sketches and ideas for the piece, enlisting the help of Roerich.

The result was not only history, but historic. "The Rite of Spring" endures as a musical masterpiece of the ages, not just the twentieth century, as perhaps the most original and creative piece of musical writing ever. I find it perennially amazing and fresh. Plus, as Bernstein once said, it's "got the best dissonances anyone ever thought up".

And now I'm finding that Roerich is a fascinating person whom I have to investigate further. As one example of his artistic style, here is one of the set designs he did for the Diaghilev production of "Rite", a painting called "Kiss to the Earth (variant 1)", probably implemented as a painted drop.

For a nice collection of paintings by Roerich and his sons, visit the gallery of the Estonian Roerich Society. There are also museums with information and images online: The Nicholas Roerich Museum New York, The Museum by Name of Nicholas Roerich, in Moscow.

Also while I was looking for information, I found this curious article called "Utopia on the Roof of the World" from the magazine Cabinet. The article had something to do with the Shambhala myth and Buddhism, or something, but I read through it and could make much sense of it. However, at the top of the page is a beautiful portrait of Nicholas Roerich by his son Svetoslav Roerich. Apparently Roerich believe Shambhala was located in the Himalayan mountains.

So now I'm interested in knowing why so many people are interested in Nicholas Roerich.
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^* Photo credit: Nicholas Roerich Museum (of New York), link; original caption: "Nicholas Roerich. June 20, 1929. New York / NRM ref. No 400926"

He published his equations in the second volume of his A Treatise on Electricity & Magnetism, in 1873. I think we should look at them because they're pretty; I suspect they're even kind of pretty regardless of whether the math symbols convey significant meaning to you. There are four (which you may not see in Bloglines, which doesn't render tables properly for me):

	;
	;

I don't want to explain much detail at all because it's not necessary for what we're talking about, but there are a few fun things to point out. The E is the electric field; the B is the magnetic field.

The two equations on the top say that electric fields are caused by electric charges, but magnetic fields don't have "magnetic charges" (aka "magnetic monopoles") as their source. The top right equation gets changed if a magnetic monopole is ever found.

The two equations on the bottom say that electric fields can be caused by magnetic fields that vary in time; likewise, magnetic fields can be caused by electric fields that vary in time. These are the equations that unify electricity and magnetism since, as you can easily see, the behavior of each depends on the other.

There's one more equation to look at. A few simple manipulations with some of the equations above lead to this result:

This equation has the form of a wave equation, so called because propagating waves are solutions to the equation. Maxwell obtained this result and then made a key identification. Just from its form the mathematician can see that the waves that solve this equation travel with a speed given by , which is related to the product of the physical constants and that appeared in the earlier equations.

The values of these were known at the time and Maxwell made the thrilling discovery that this speed

was remarkably close to the measured value of the speed of light. He concluded that light was a propagating electromagnetic wave. He was right.

That's fine for the electromagnetism part. What's the relationship with relativity? Let's keep it simple and suggestive. You know from the popular lore that Einstein came up with the ideas of special relativity from thinking about traveling at the speed of light, and that the speed of light (in vacuum) is a "universal speed limit". Only light — electromagnetic waves or photons depending on how your experiment is measuring it/them — travels at the speed of light.^†

In fact, Einstein's relativity paper (published as "Zur Elektrodynamik bewegter Körper", in Annalen der Physik. 17:891, 1905) was titled "On the Electrodynamics of Moving Bodies". (Read an English version here; there are no equations at the start, so read the beginning and be surprised how familiar it sounds.) That's suggestive, don't you think?

Speaking of special relativity, you've no doubt heard of the idea of an "inertial reference frame", a concept that is central to special relativity. But, what exactly is an "inertial reference frame"?

I'm so glad you asked, since that was half the point of this post anyway. You surely realized by this time that Maxwell was partly a pretext. For our entertainment and enlightenment today we have educational films.

First, a quick introduction to the "PSSC Physics" course. From the MIT Archives:

In 1956 a group of university physics professors and high school physics teachers, led by MIT's Jerrold Zacharias and Francis Friedman, formed the Physical Science Study Committee (PSSC) to consider ways of reforming the teaching of introductory courses in physics. Educators had come to realize that textbooks in physics did little to stimulate students' interest in the subject, failed to teach them to think like physicists, and afforded few opportunities for them to approach problems in the way that a physicist should. In 1957, after the Soviet Union successfully orbited Sputnik , fear spread in the United States that American schools lagged dangerously behind in science. As one response to the perceived Soviet threat the U.S. government increased National Science Foundation funding in support of PSSC objectives.

The result was a textbook and a host of supplemental materials, including a series of films. In a discussion I was reading on the Phys-L mailing list recently, the PSSC course was discussed and my attention was drawn to two PSSC films that are available from the Internet Archive: "Frames of Reference" (1960) and "Magnet Laboratory" (1959). (Use these links if the embedded players below don't render properly.) Both are very instructive and highly entertaining. Each lasts about 25 minutes.

Let's look first at the film on magnets; it's quite a hoot. First, the background: when I was turning into a physicist I knew some people who went to work at the "Francis Bitter National Magnet Lab" (as it was known at the time) at MIT. This was the place for high-field magnet work.

Well, this film is filmed there when it was just Francis Bitter's magnet lab, and we're given demonstrations by Bitter himself, along with a colleague, not to mention a tech who runs a huge electrical generation and is called either "Beans" or "Beams"–I couldn't quite make it out. These guys have a lot of fun doing their demonstrations.

At one point in the film we hear the phone ringing. Beans calls out: "EB [?], you're wanted on the telephone." Bitter replies, without losing the momentum on his current demonstration, "Well, tell 'em to call me back later, I'm busy." Evidently multiple takes were not in the plan.

This is great stuff for people who like big machinery and big electricity and big magnets. Watch copper rods smoke while they put an incredible 5,000 amps of current through them. I laughed when Bitter started a demonstration: "All right, Beans, let's have a little juice here. Let's start gently. Let's have about a thousand amps to begin with." Watch as they melt and then almost ignite one of their experiments. It evidently happened often enough, because they have a fire extinguisher handy.

This next film on "Frames of Reference" is a little less dramatic, but the presenters perform some lovely simple but clever and illustrative experiments, demonstrations that would almost certainly be done today with computer animations so it's wonderful to see them done with real physical objects. After they make clear what inertial frames of reference are they take a look at non-inertial frames and really clarify some issues about the fictitious "centrifugal force" that appears in rotating frames.

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^* The photograph comes from the collection of the James Clerk Maxwell foundation.

^† Duh.