Schrödinger’s Undead Cat On A Hot Tin Roof

Schrödinger’s cat in a box is a well-known phenomenon in quantum physics. The quantum Zeno effect, as they call it, based on Zeno’s famous arrow paradox: “as an arrow in flight is not seen to move during any single instant, it can’t actually be moving at all.” In quantum physics, that translates to the situation wherein an ‘unstable particle’, if constantly observed, won’t ever decay. As long as you keep measuring an atom often enough, you will actively keep that atom from decaying.

So, let’s say we put a cat in a box, and that the radioactive decay of an atom happens to break a vial of poison in the same box as the poor feline. Does that mean the cat is both dead and alive at the same time – for just as long as the atom’s decay hasn’t been observed, and therefore hasn’t been empirically measured by anyone? Schrödinger suggested that it would; at least, in theory.

So there we have it, the ‘undead cat’, neither dead nor alive for as long as no one notices. A cat on a hot tin roof; wanting to jump off, but unable to. And this (at least in my science journal-and-theatre-addicted-brain), is where Tennessee Williams takes the stage.

BRICK: Maggie, you’re spoiling my liquor. Lately your voice always sounds like you’d been running upstairs to warn somebody that the house is on fire!

MAGGIE: Well, no wonder. Y’know what I feel like, Brick? I feel all the time like a cat on a hot tin roof!

BRICK: Then jump off the roof, jump off it; cats can jump off roofs and land on their four feet uninjured!

But Maggie can’t jump off that roof – not until she will stop longing for Brick. And it is clear that she never will. This particular ‘unstable particle’ won’t ever decay, because she has no choice but to keep noticing Brick. But at the same time, he is never going to notice her. And until he will, she is stuck on that hot tin roof – like Schrödinger’s hypothetical cat is stuck in its box until someone observes the atom decay in that same box.

Paul Newman as Brick and Elizabeth Taylor as Maggie in the 1958 film adaptation of "Cat On A Hot Tin Roof".

Arts and science are often seen as opposites, contrasting mirrors. But are they not trying to do the same thing, after all? They both do not merely study how the world works. Both, at their core, are asking why it does.

Whether a quantum physicist or a playwright, in the end, we might just be asking that same question in all its possible expressions. Might we ever get close to the answer? Or maybe we are stuck in that same box as the undead quantum cat – stuck on that figurative hot tin roof, simply because we don’t have the ability or the means to measure what we really should observe. But then again, maybe we don’t really need to. Maybe it is really the questions that matter most.

After all, isn’t it the hot tin roof itself that Maggie really desires?

Sappho, Hokusai and Aurora Borealis: Some Thoughts On Visuality & Narrative

After teaching several courses on the 'visual language' of Augustan Rome (aka, the power of images in terms of communication and evocation of ideas/propaganda and thus resulting in emulations and fashion trends), I began to ponder some more about the whole idea of visuality. That is, as a means of communication and narrative tool. This led to thoughts about Greek poets, Japanese anime, and Aurora Borealis. It might even make some sense, too.

Sappho, Hokusai and Aurora Borealis - the visual connection?

Language, in the form of written, spoken or sung narratives, often seems the most obvious method we choose to convey and evoke stories, memories, feelings. But how often does our language evoke visuality as a means of expression? If words describe a certain visual image that indirectly evokes certain feelings, instead of directly describing those feelings – does this not have a tendency to move us more? Moreover, is that not what we automatically seem to identify as 'poetic'?

Take, for example, this poem by Sappho (my translation):

Δέδυκε μεν ἀ σελάννα
καὶ Πληΐαδεc, μέσαι δὲ
νύκτεc πάρα δ᾽ ἔρχετ᾽ ὤρα,
ἔγω δὲ μόνα κατεύδω.

The moon has set,
the Pleiades, too. It is the middle
of the night and the hours go by.
But I sit alone.

In this fragment the poet does not mention or describe a single emotion. Instead, she simply 'paints a picture', she evokes a visual scene: a woman sitting alone in the middle of the night. The sense of loneliness, longing and quiet sadness that this image instantly evokes, seems to emphasize the essence of these emotions much stronger than a verbal description would have done. If the poem had instead been written as "I feel lonely in my longing", it would not have been nearly as striking or moving.

But is visuality only a tool for the poetry of words? If, following this question, we go halfway across the world, we find a different kind of balance between poetry and visuality to start with.

Hokusai's Winter Evening 1760.

Throughout Japan’s history, images have been the 'language of poetry'. Whereas Sappho’s words evoked an image in order to express a narrative, Japanese art (most famously the Ukiyo style from the Edo period onwards) evokes atmospheres by means of images in order to, likewise, express narratives. Hokusai’s painting of Japanese winter in 1760, for example, needs no words to convey the atmosphere or the feel of that particular winter's evening – and merely by looking at the image, a narrative immediately seems to emerge.

Interesting to see is how that even in the popular culture of contemporary Japan 'visual language' is still the leading narrative expression: manga (graphic novels/comics) and anime (animated films) are immensely popular. Like in Hokusai’s picture, these genres use visuality very strongly to evoke atmosphere as their main narrative tool, instead of a strictly written script. This can be somewhat puzzling for Western audiences at first, however if viewers allow themselves to be immersed in the visual language rather than the language per se, the resulting story-experiences can reach levels of atmosphere and emotion that, while in a sense more subtle, can also have a more intimately affecting effect than a linguistic approach would be able to achieve at the same narrative point.

Satoshi Kon's 'Millenium Actress' anime (2002) relies on visuality to convey the emotional structure of the narrative.

This is of course not to say that visual language is more powerful or effective than language in itself. It depends on the content of the narrative what means of expression can evoke its essence best. Some stories are best told in images, other best in words – while others only really find an expression in a musical symphony. But the fact that we turn to images in order to express ideas and feelings, either in language or visual language, is undeniable.

Is this not what we find in the natural world, too? The physical world, nature such as we can see it, hardly ever presents us with written scripts or clearly described narratives. Nature simply does not seem to speak a direct (explanatory) language. On the other hand, no form of art created by humans could even try to match the natural world in terms of visuality.

Take Aurora Borealis, aka the northern lights. If we describe the phenomenon verbally instead of visually, it all sounds quite matter-of-fact: "Charged hot gas gets ejected from the sun, which we call solar wind. When this solar wind interacts with Earth's magnetic shield, high-energy particles can fall into our upper atmosphere, illuminating gasses in the atmosphere."

Aurora Borealis, Alaska (source: Geology.com)

However, when we look at this process visually, it is simply stunning. Words like 'otherwordly', ‘magical’ and ‘beautiful’ come to mind. These illuminated gasses are not just illustrations of a certain physical process. Their visuality seems to be evoking a whole different kind of narrative than their technical description might imply.

Or is that perhaps what we do? Do we insist on looking for a narrative everywhere? For a sense of feeling and atmosphere and 'story' in even the most obscure image, rather than factual observations of what an image might actually be constructed of?
And if we did – why shouldn’t we?

Cultural Innovation and the Imperfect Universe

After what appears to have been a cyberspace-hibernation season, the Daily Dig returns with some bouts of meta-musings, prompted by my contemplating the theoretical angle of cultural innovation and visual language - which obviously led to cosmology. Apologies in advance.

Mathematics & Cosmology Parallel
Basically put, mathematics is intended as a code for the fabric and functioning of the universe (material, immaterial and (sub)-dimensional alike). However, mathematical equations and algorithms aim to define the universe in a quick, logic and ‘elegant’ manner.

Cosmic imperfection - all the more dazzling for it? (Source: NASA)

However, in current research in cosmology, more and more the notion of irregularity is being accepted – out of necessity. It goes so far as that recent observations and studies in cosmology imply that irregularities appear to have caused all of the most significant events in the history of the cosmos [cf. M. Gleiser, 2010. 'The Imperfect Universe' in: New Scientist issue 2759, pg. 28]. But such a theory of imperfection, irregularity and randomness does not align at all with the core idea of mathematics. However it does align with human behaviour (e.g. social development and culture). Human culture might in fact even rely on irregularities as part of its 'pattern'. But this does not mean that there are no 'patterns' in the development processes of human cultures and hence societies.

Cultural processes seem to be organic processes by nature, even when deliberately created (seeing they will inherently have irregularity somewhere in the gathering of cultural biographies that allow for a deliberate creative process drawing from these cultural biographies). A strictly regular pattern would even be an anomaly, in that sense. Therefore, might we say that innovation cannot occur without irregularities to shape it? The idea of innovation (in both biology/evolution and manmade culture) seems to rely on both connecting ideas (organically, naturally, irregularly – aka, circumstantial) and protecting ideas (deliberately, superimposed – aka, deliberate). Therefore the process of innovation can never be a wholly regular process, seeing that circumstantiality, by nature, is an equal and even necessary part of it. [cf. S. Johnson, 2010. The Natural History of Innovation.]

Mathematics needs to rely more and more on unstructured models, such as this algorithm grid exploring a four element airfoil. (Source: MIT)

In a sense, human social behaviour, such as expressed by means of culture, is like an "imperfect universe". To stick to this cosmology parallel, one could apply a metaphor wherein each culture is a galaxy – a galaxy that collides with others galaxies either because of utter circumstantial causes, or because of apparently inexplicable anomalies in the laws of physics for as far as we know them. But these apparently random or irregularly caused collisions are exactly how new galaxies are created – moreover, how life itself appears to have been created (e.g. apparently circumstantial meteor showers on earth that changed the environmental variables like accessibility of water, sunlight for photosynthesis, as well as numerous as yet inexplicable variables that allowed symbiosis between bacteria and self-replicating molecules, etc.)

In the view of a micro-cosmos approach here, this is also how cultures are formed – by means of usually circumstantial collisions between these cultures. Once colliding, the contact between cultures will continue to develop as a process (and thus often can also become deliberate). This is how innovation is initiated, and becomes a cultural process – a process that does not necessarily follow a logic, 'elegant' pattern, such as a mathematical model of the world would wish to suggest and aim for. But it may very well be that (as part of an irregular, imperfect universe to begin with), it is exactly irregularity and imperfection that keep the process of cultural development and innovation in motion.

Grammatical Metaphor
In the light of visual language, the idea of 'grammar' might be specifically helpful. In a sense, grammar is like mathematics: it aims for a logic, complex, almost an 'artificial code of workings' for communication by means of language. However, these languages themselves are spoken every day, and as such they are continuously altered, randomly, circumstantially as well as deliberately, and therefore they are always developing – often outside of their own grammar. Grammar is very much the tool of scholarship, rather than a practical reflection of the language as an ongoing process. A 'perfect' grammar (like a 'perfect' mathematical algorithm) could, in fact, most likely never even function as a working language.

For example – archaic Greek lyric poetry is considered beautiful because of its many subtle nuances and literary figures expressed in the language. But these nuances are in fact irregularities, deviations in grammar – and exactly those irregularities cause the innovative linguistics that is connected with Greek poetry. (In many cases the irregularities will be deliberate choices of the poets, to fit the poetic narratology; however, because of the oral nature of most archaic poems, it is often just as likely that linguistic innovations occurred specifically by means of the ongoing process of oral literary transition, memory and shifting (in terms of recipients as well as locality).
[Image: P.Oxy. 2076, papyrus fragment from Sappho's second book of poems. Her name is readible in the bottom right corner.]

Language is a product of cultural patterns – and both language and the cultural patterns that they are part of rely on irregularity in order to achieve innovation/development. And yet, both also seem to require a basic structure, in order for us to use/develop it (language) or partake in it/contribute to it/cause change to it (culture). Could we say that what grammar is for language, might be the notion of 'society' for culture?

Finally then, to return to cosmology once more: might we say that mathematics is the grammar of the universe, whereas the cosmos' language is the process of irregularity that mathematics aims to structurize and define?

Roma - Part V: The Quiet Curiosity of Roman Autumn

After another month of (by now chronic) archaeological case study-workaholicism, one cannot help but to start longing for a spot of natural environment, as welcome change from all the urban and academic surroundings. And what better time than autumn, just as it is about to show its face? As it turns out, the experience of Roman autumn is quite an experience, indeed; both unusual and familiar enough for some further musings – and some sun-swept photographic evidence, naturalmente.

One of the things I always liked about the Dutch climate, is the gradual process of summer’s shift into autumn. The first few leaves turning red, brown or bright golden; the first chestnuts and acorns scattered alongside the bicycle lanes; the fresh chill in the air, merging with the scents of twigs and crumbled leaves; bright red toadstools popping up among the yellow grass. A gradual sense of change, in no rush towards winter, but enough to know the summer has done its job for yet another year.

Not so in Rome. The change is, if anything, abrupt. The city itself looks unchanged, immovable: the same orange plaster walls, the same glow of the lanterns, the same polished black cobblestones. Only the air itself seems affected; the warmth of the sun can no longer keep the chill at bay. And suddenly, this week, there it was: that quiet, whispering sense of autumn, silently waiting somewhere among the low sunbeams and the brown, crispy leaves. But to find autumn in Rome, you need to chase it. The trees along the Tiber are shedding their leaves, there is the occasional patch of dying grass – but the evergreen pines and cypresses seem to refuse to let go of summer all together.

Even in Villa Borghese, one of the few Roman spots where autumn dares to show itself uncloaked by urban immobility, the evergreen pines hold their mushroom-shaped crown high in the sunbeams – as if making a distinct statement. Even here, it takes a wee bit of detective work to find Empirical Evidence of the year’s penultimate season. But this is exactly what makes that smell of crumbled leaves, acorns and mossy bark all the more striking, once found. The sudden sight of a thicket full of golden leaves, toadstools hugging a lonely tree; the well-concealed Roman autumn is all the prettier for it, when finally revealed.

There tend to be something wistful about autumn – something warm but lonesome at the same time. But here in Rome, it’s not the crumbled leaves and the low golden sunbeams that evoke this sense. It’s the unchanging orange plaster walls, the same glow of the lanterns, the same streets and alleys; still looking like summer, but suddenly without summer.

The Roman autumn that drifts among the crumbling leaves, the occasional toadstools, acorns, chestnuts and that subtle sense, that spicy scent, in the air – this autumn is a truly golden one. It’s an autumn of quiet exuberance, uplifting exactly in its concealment; smiling, whimsical, even indulgent.
To go and look for this Roman autumn, to make the effort to track it down, to chase it – that is nothing short of a precious little treat.

Roma - Part IV: Spacial Analysis Archaeology and the Exploration of Eternal Time Travel

The danger of a constant supply of photographic evidence of vino, aperitivo, high heels and temporal denial, is that to the casual observer it may appear that one’s days in Rome are spent in a kind of Dolce Vita indulgence. Naturally, all the above is present and accounted for on a regular basis – but what the photographic evidence so far has neglected, is the main bulk of one’s time, namely all the lengthy hours spent musing over catalogues, maps, dig reports, tracing down ruins and obelisks out and about in the city, and so on and so forth. These affairs are less photographic in nature, to begin with, so it was somewhat of an occupational hazard. To set the record straight –and because it may, in fact, be interesting too- here follows a brief overview of one’s recent expedition in pursuit of Neronian spacial analysis.

While assisting professor Paul Meyboom of Leiden University with his new Domus Aurea project/article (of which the specific contents need to remain under wraps until publication in due course), a thorough masterclass in mapping, spolia-spotting and analysis of multi-temporal territories was well on its way. Or, differently put, we spent days climbing every hill, stairway and slope in sight on the Oppius, Caelius, Claudio and Palatine hills in blazing sunshine and 30 degrees heat, pursuing aqueduct ruins and hypothetical walls. Such a venture takes quite some Sherlock Holmesian audacity and deductive powers, at that. Take, for instance, the case of the Porta Caelimontana.


At close inspection, this piece of trans-temporal architecture turns out to consist of, in fact, three different portals at once. First, the Republican Arch of Dolabella - built from travertine limestone (A). Secondly, remaining supportive arches of the Neronian aqueduct, from brick (B) – which, in late Medieval/early Renaissance times, was incorporated into a renovated version of the Porta Caelimontana (C). Moreover, some remaining patches of tuff stone even suggest remains of the ancient Servian Wall. There is not quite enough evidence here to conclude right-out that this would indicate a fourth (Servian) layer to the portal; it may just be a case of re-used material taken from the Servian Wall elsewhere. But this does illustrate the complex nature of the vast majority of buildings in Rome.


Throughout time, material culture keeps shape-shifting, adapting, changing, relocating. And the Eternal City of Rome is the ultimate place for time travel. Every little church may harbour a wealth of ‘spolia’ (fragmentary ancient remains re-used in later buildings, partially or completely out of their original context), which, in turn, may lead to yet again altered drafts of hypothetical maps. For example, below my scribbles-from-the-field from the Basilica Santi Quattro Coronati – drawn in haste to map out possible spolia columns and capitals just a minute before Evening Mass banned Science from the Holy Grounds.

(I now have no more excuses to complain about 19th Century scribbles in dig reports, as mine are even worse!)

And then after the fieldwork, such spacial analysis results will converge into many (hypothetically) altered maps and preliminary schedules – which usually then again give cause to head back to the spot and make sure you really interpreted that particular sightline or anomaly correctly.


Finally, all this should lead to new theories and new insights into the shape and nature of ancient Rome, within that specific time period that you set out tracing ruins from. And then, when an all-new find actually gets dug out of the ground (such as the recent find of Nero’s fabled but never before seen rotating ‘rotonda’ dining room at the edge of the Palatine), the whole hypothetical map usually will start shape-shifting once again, and all-new spacial analysis will be leading to all-new hypotheses all over again.

(Repubblica: discovery of Nero’s rotating dining room)

No wonder they call Rome La Città Eterna: it really is a place of endless, eternal time travel. And this is not restricted to the more ancient pasts. As it turned out, while in search of Nero’s palace, we found ourselves on top of Mussolini’s facade along the Via dei Fori Imperiali (built in 1932, after major demolitions to clear the area). Quite strange, and even a little unnerving, to suddenly literally share Il Duce’s line of sight while scouting for Roman ruins.



(Above: current view of Via dei Fori Imperiali. Below: photos of the 1932 demolitions)

But not all Eternal Time Travel in Rome involves ancient Imperial palaces with rotating dining rooms or Fascist demolitions. There are countless hidden treasures of history –beautiful, strange, remarkable, unforgettable history– waiting in the bend of an alley, as long as you know where to look. So, I will end my jolt of space-time scribbles with this barely noticeable sign in a nondescript alley near Piazza del Popolo, which reads: “Here have lived Guilietta Masina and Federico Fellini”. No need to say any more. After all, some things are simply timeless – and Guilietta Masina’s Gelsomina with her trumpet from ‘La Strada’ is definitely among those.


Allora - in the end, isn’t that all that Rome really is? The unpredictable, often incomprehensible “Strada” that just keeps on going; like the beautiful, wistful, invisible and unnamed song of an old trumpet.

Roma - Part III: Balance Acts of Haute Couture Heels and Appunti degli Scavi

It’s all about balance, of course. A daily dose of nineteenth century dig reports simply asks for some nightly parading on Piazza Navona in a pair of outrageous new heels. Obviously.

The thing is, dim-lit alleys near Piazza Mattei plead to be photographed at a mere glance, whereas a continuously expanding pile of dense dig reports calls for a few deep breaths instead. One certainly gets a share of both. And, indeed, it’s all about balance. It must be said that the library at the Dutch Institute is a delightful spot for academic exploits. As it is, somehow more work gets done in a day here, while it all feels far more tranquilla e calma. Perhaps that is the sole reason: the lack of stress that seems innate to the Italian climate (which, for a great part, is literally climate-induced), automatically leads to greater productiveness alongside the above mentioned (already a personal favourite) ‘tranquilla-attitude’.

As for the work itself – initially it comes down to a lot of schedules and catalogue-organizing; in short, OCD ratings happily soaring. But there is excitement, certamente. Whereas I am ploughing through my current catalogue in order to trace depot locations (and hopefully soon arrange in situ viewings), at the top of the pile the Great Unknown awaits. At this point, it is still pretty much a mystery into how many (if any) new finds these three months of research will result. A large part of my ‘detective work’ here comes down to lots of reading and scouting for just a few lines of new clues – but the excitement of actually finding something, of suddenly spotting an unexpected familiarity (‘Augustan’/‘Egyptian’/‘excavated in Rome’), is more than enough for a shot of sudden adrenaline. Sometimes, this is easy: a nice and clear paragraph in one of the appunti degli scavi.

But, especially in regard to the 18th and 19th century excavations (which were more like treasure hunts to begin with), it can also come down to one barely decipherable hand-drawn map that may just hold a clue to the origin of, let’s say, one mysterious Egyptian-style Roman figurine tucked away deep down the British Museum depots. (Which, of course, would be good for a week-worth of adrenaline dosage, and would require more than one cigarette to keep the tranquilla-balance intact.) Allora, in summary of the above, I think it’s safe to say: watch this space…

But, grazie al cielo, after all this daily archaeological excitement, la Città Eterna offers plenty of opportunity for regaining one’s state-of-tranquilla as soon as the sun starts setting, and we head off (with our wonderfully eccentric mish-mash of current KNIR-locals, who have already become great friends to share in the fun) across the Roman cobblestones.

(Puck and Coen with some gelati from Giolitti, Rome's oldest -in 1900 established- ice cream salon)

Show-off shoes, vino bianco di Lazio, Parisian ciggies, piazze, fontane, the orange glow of lampade di strada… It’s right back to the indulgence of temporal denial. And well, I daresay my brand new -brilliantly discounted- haute couture heels along with one’s subsequent 1.90m assembly of sauntering limbs appear to raise the male Italian adrenaline-levels rather more efficiently than any dig reports will ever manage. And cause quite some scowls from the local ladies, at that. Who’d have thought that the simple pastime of crossing a square could be so much wicked fun? ; )

(Temporal denial at its best in this tiny alley near Piazza Mattei)

Allora, what else is there to conclude than that the -sometimes literal- balance act of outrageous shoes and the academic (dare I say it, ‘geek-revealing’) excitement of dig reports, makes for an altogether satisfying state of existence in the Eternal City.

Davvero, tranquilla.

Roma - Part II: The Indulgence of Temporal Denial

How fantastic would it be, to stroll around Rome in the 1950s? That is, the imaginative 1950s; Fellini's Rome, with Marcello Mastroianni sauntering through the alleys of Campo Marzio, or with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck driving around on a Vespa near the Tiber. A Rome where people wear hats, where they smoke cigarettes down in small basement jazz bars during brilliant jam sessions, where there are only 'local cafes' and no tourist menus, or screamingly bright advertisement billboards.

It is still easy to imagine when you stroll around the Eternal City; it is easy to let your mind's eye transform the present into that wonderful fantasy of imagined past. But it is also easy to notice the difference - to wince at all those tacky tourist stands along the Via Imperiali, or cluttering the steps of the Pantheon. A far cry from la Dolce Vita, certamente.

And yet, there is almost something Fellini-esque about all that bright-coloured, tasteless, global tourist absurdity. And after all, wouldn't ancient Rome have been quite a mess of bright-coloured chaos and shouting street vendors at every corner? After a while, it all becomes like a strange (somewhat migraine-inducing) half-dream that drifts along through a far more solid, undisturbed Rome - a Rome that, when closely observed, in fact is not all that different from this historical fantasy of sidewalk cafes.

When looked for, this Rome is never really that far away - as I've tried to capture with the following photographs. All the same, I can't help thinking that especially to look for it -deliberately- may just be the worst kind of temporal denial. But, without doubt, it is also the most indulgent, enjoyable kind of denial...

Either way -above ramblings notwithstanding- I hope you will enjoy the following impressions of some of Rome's hidden streets and alleys, from Campo Marzio and Trastevere. (Click on the photos to see them in high-res).

Tanti saluti! Marike