The weaver in me

One of the biggest frustrations in my life has always been my inability to make any significant pictorial representation. As an engineer I have had my lot of technical drawing, and I was very capable at it, but it was clearly a means for communication, never for expression. Representing complex objects in perspective was not more of a challenge than doing basic arithmetic, but the situation changed when we speak about painting. I have never managed much more than a few crude doodles, but then I have to admit that I have never put too much time into the job, so it is not surprising that I have never reached a satisfying performance.

On the other hand, I seem to have suffered a replacement effect similar to what happens to people who are blind. In the same way that they develop an enhanced sensitivity both in their hearing and touch I have gained and cherish an appreciation for words, both in written and spoken form, to the point that I do not suffer too much for my poor hand at drawing. Now that I come to think about it, the sensitivity for drawings and paintings just was not there in my childhood home: famous painters were appreciated for their talent and dexterity, but were considered  an interesting oddity, not a hobby that anyone in their right mind would even consider taking up. Surprisingly, the flat where my mother grew up (a grand dwelling with heavy tapestries hanging from the walls, long corridors and a small host of maids and kitchen hands) was in the same building as the studio of a relatively well known painter, so she played with his children and even sneaked occasionally into the studio. So there is no discussion that she had exposure to the plastic arts, but then again it is just a job for the bohemians and well educated people did not put their time into that kind of pointless endeavors.

Photo: wwwuppertal

The end result of this education is that I have grown very fond of the act of writing (as these 350 blog entries dutifully attest). Putting words together has always been compared with weaving, and that with good reason: to start with, words are typically aligned in rows, very similar to the warp in a loom; but also because, in the end, there is no way around picking every single word one by one. When painting, every square centimeter has to be either painted or left blank, that is true, but one can just select a color and cover a certain region. There is some decision as to what the extent of the region should be, but everything within would be colored by default. With words, the process is different because each word has to be selected from your vocabulary, checked both for correctness and suitability and then laid next to the previous one.

As I mentioned before, telling (whether in written or in spoken words) is an act of mediation between the concept that the teller has in their mind and the what the listener or the reader will form in their own. There is no doubt that the creative act, the mental composition of an imaginary world or the assembly of an interpretation of the real one, happens before the words exist, but this is such an intimate activity that it can go completely unnoticed unless we, as creators, take further action and, for all intents and purposes, create this fictional world by producing the words that describe it, in the same way that the weft creates the cloth where before there was only the warp.

It might be the sign of an incipient mid-life crisis, but I have recently been considering my professional career and I have mixed feelings about it. On the one hand I have to admit that some of the space missions where I have participated have been extremely interesting, providing insights into places never visited before (and which we will probably never visit again at least in another 20 years). I have produced careful observation plans, which went well most of the time but also suffered a certain number of hiccups. Some tools have helped us, over the course of the years, to ensure that we do not push the instruments beyond its capabilities just to please the ever hungry scientists, preventing more than once what could have been a significant loss of science. I have forged friendships and alliances that will probably last a lifetime. However, at the end of the day, what I have always enjoyed the most was actually telling about these achievements.

Surprisingly, I have never sought (or at least that is my impression) recognition for the achievements; in the end, there are many people with much more essential contributions than mine, I have just been standing on the shoulders of giants. Whenever I set up to tell a story it is meant to share the feelings that I had myself, to make my listeners part of the elation, the amazement, the joy that I had at the moment. In fact, it is not infrequent that I end up sharing second hand anecdotes just because I found them so beautify, interesting or funny when I heard them myself. And the fact that this act of sharing only takes a bit of time and a couple of breaths means that it is very easy to spread both knowledge and happiness. It would be such a shame not to share when it cost so very little.

Of course, not every person and every situation lends itself to this kind of interaction. The listener has to be in a receptive or, at least, indifferent mood, so that they do not react in a negative way. Telling a funny anecdote to someone in a hostile state of mind will not only demonstrate an outrageous lack of tact but probably also cause a serious (and completely justified) backfire. That is precisely why it is so rewarding to take part in public outreach activities: the audience that comes around is actively interested in the subject that you are talking about, they probably have some background and they are willing to put the time to listen you to the end. Even if someone comes up with a snarky remarks one can always reply that they should not be there if they are not interested in the subject in point.

The reason why I am reviewing all this is because I am considering what to do with the next 15 years of my work life. I could certainly continue doing what I do, because I do it fairly well, but it is equally true that I could probably increase my level of enjoyment if I managed to engage more often with the public. In the times before the pandemic I used to enjoy lunch very much: I did not always have a new story to share, but whenever I did I knew well enough how to weave it in a way that my colleagues would listen to it and enjoy it. These days the practices is significantly reduced, with just Karen, the kids and, once a week, my mother and my brothers. Time will say in which direction I will finally go, it is all idle lucubration for now. I will keep you posted. Have a nice week.