Articles from the Institute Letter

Additional articles from new and past issues of the Institute Letter will continue to be posted over time and as they become available.

By Laurence Ralph

Kehinde Wiley, The Chancellor Seguier on Horseback (2005), oil on canvas, 108 x 144 in.

The following text is excerpted from Renegade Dreams: Living Through Injury in Gangland Chicago (University of Chicago Press, 2014). Written by Laurence Ralph while a Member (2012–13) in the School of Social Science, the book combines African American studies, the scholarship on disability, and the field of critical medical anthropology to show how injury plays a central, though underexamined, role in the daily lives of poor urban blacks. Ralph is Assistant Professor in the departments of African and African American Studies and Anthropology at Harvard University.

Anyone hoping to find quick references to Chicago’s notorious gangs and infamous neighborhoods in this ethnography will be disappointed—as will anyone skimming the pages to find glossy snapshots of gang members. What is real about this ethnography—what hasn’t been altered or rendered anonymous—are the events that I describe and the voices of my collaborators. Their voices bring to life the activities that take place on Chicago’s street corners. Their voices bring dimension to people’s identities and life struggles. Their voices paint a portrait of the variegated desires that stem from imagining life anew.

It’s fitting in this regard that the painting that begins this book—Kehinde Wiley’s work The Chancellor Seguier on Horseback (2005)—accurately captures the spirit of what it means to have a renegade dream. Wiley, a critically acclaimed portrait painter, is renowned for his heroic portraits that capture the status of young urban blacks in contemporary culture through reference to Old Master paintings. Adapted from a seventeenth-century Charles Le Brun painting Chancellor Séguier at the Entry of Louis XIV into Paris in 1660, Wiley’s rendition blurs the boundaries between traditional and contemporary modes of representation by restaging the figures, and thus creating a fusion of period styles. Dressed in modern army fatigues and sweatpants, bandannas and baseball caps, T-shirts with airbrushed rappers and Air Force One sneakers, the figures in Wiley’s composition are beautifully anachronistic. Yet the genius in Wiley’s work is that it leads us to question: Why can’t urban African Americans assume the delicate harmony and militant posture reminiscent of a Renaissance master? This book seeks to similarly restage urban blacks within societal institu­tions and fields of power from which they are often presumed to be excluded. Despite the statistical odds against their dreams coming to fruition in such a context, I foreground the resilience it takes for black Chicagoans to keep dreaming anyway.

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By Cédric Villani

Cédric Villani in the Institute woods in 2009 (Photo: Claire Calmet)

Five months at IAS, two-hundred-fifty pages, and a Fields Medal

Cédric Villani, Member in the School of Mathematics in the spring of 2009 and currently Professor at Université Lyon I and Director of the Institut Henri Poincaré, has called his stay at the Institute one of his most productive periods, during which more than 250 pages were written. In his Member report to then-Director Peter Goddard at the end of his stay, Villani wrote of his collaboration with Clément Mouhot from Paris, “Writing up the paper on Landau damping was one of the most intense experiences of my professional life: for three months in a row, we kept unlocking seemingly untractable obstacles on a weekly basis. Our 180-page-long paper solves a fifty-year-old open problem.” A year after his IAS visit, Villani was awarded the 2010 Fields Medal, in part for the work that he did at the Institute on his proof of nonlinear Landau damping. Following are excerpts from Birth of a Theorem, translated by Malcom DeBevoise (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015), originally published in 2012 as Théorème Vivant (Éditions Grasset & Fasquelle), which describe his fervent, halting, and very human experience in trying to obtain the proof.

 

Princeton, January 1, 2009

Finally, the Institute for Advanced Study—the IAS, as everyone calls it—comes into view. A little like a castle rising up in the middle of a forest. We had to go around a large golf course in order to find it. . . .

It is here that Einstein spent the last twenty years of his life. True, by the time he came to America he was no longer the dashing young man who had revolutionized physics in 1905. Nevertheless, his influence on this place was deep and long-lasting, more so even than that of John von Neumann, Kurt Gödel, Hermann Weyl, Robert Oppenheimer, Ernst Kantorowicz, or John Nash—great thinkers all, whose very names send a shiver down the spine.

 

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By Suzannah Clark

How a lone theorist’s pursuit of symmetry shaped music history

On the second Sunday after Trinity in 1724, the congregation at the Thomaskirche in Leipzig heard Johann Sebastian Bach’s new cantata that began with the words Ach Gott. Bach set the word Gott to the most dissonant triad known at the time: the augmented triad. Bach’s own son, Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach, wrote in the second volume of his treatise of 1762 that the offending augmented fifth of this harmony requires careful preparation. His father did not prepare it at all. Acclimatized as we are today to all kinds of dissonances, this harmony might pass the modern listener by. But it would have disconcerted the ears of the eighteenth-century congregation, giving them a God-fearing shudder, while setting the scene for the biblical message of the day. Bach, after all, was setting the tune and words, Ach Gott, vom Himmel sieh darein, that Martin Luther had penned exactly two hundred years earlier, in 1524. Based on Psalm 12, Luther tells of a perilous world filled with those who shun God.

The augmented triad has long been a headache for music theorists, only partially on the basis of its harsh sound. Mostly they are perturbed by its construction and their inability to pinpoint a convincing origin for it. It would be no exaggeration to say that, just two years before Bach composed his cantata, the harmonic theory of Jean-Philippe Rameau, a towering figure in the history of music theory, brought about a paradigm shift in how chords were categorized and understood to have been constructed. Although much of Rameau’s theory still holds sway today, a now defunct aspect of his Traité de l’harmonie led him to deem the augmented triad “worthless.” It belonged to the rubbish heap of potential chords because it did not contain the right kind of fifth, and therefore it must be an incomplete chord. According to Rameau’s newly minted theory, all valid, complete chords must contain a perfect fifth; the augmented triad gets its name from the fact that its fifth is “augmented” (it is a semitone larger than the perfect fifth).

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By Gerda Panofsky

Situating Michelangelo within a long philosophical and religious tradition, extraneous to nation or race

In the Spring 2013 Institute Letter, Uta Nitschke-Joseph wrote “A Fortuitous Discovery: An Early Manuscript by Erwin Panofsky Reappears in Munich,” in which she reconstructed the convoluted fate of the lost, and in 2012 re-found, Habilitation thesis of Erwin Panofsky (1892–1968), one of the founding members of the School of Historical Studies and an eminent art historian of the twentieth century. After two years of transcribing, editing, and proofreading the manuscript, I am happy to report that the volume has been published by De Gruyter in October 2014. The release coincides with the centennial of Panofsky’s doctoral dissertation at Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg in 1914, printed by a predecessor of the same publishing house, and the eightieth anniversary of his forced emigration from Germany in 1934, after which point in time there had been no trace of the some 340 pages anymore (presumably left behind in the off-limits university office). Moreover, 2014 happened to be the 450th anniversary of Michelangelo’s death. An English translation of the book is being prepared by Princeton University Press.

The unfinished text of 1920, modified and enlarged over the following years, is a stylistic analysis of Michelangelo’s (1475–1564) paintings and sculptures, first in comparison with those of his peer Raphael, who, however, was not a sculptor and whom Michelangelo survived by more than four decades, thereby reaching into the periods of the so-called Mannerism and the Early Baroque, which Raphael did not live to see. According to Panofsky, Michelangelo found himself in an artistic conflict between cubic confinement and the dynamic movements of his figures. As his stylistic principles were idiosyncratic and outside the contemporary trends, his œuvre has to be defined against the art of Egypt, antiquity, the Middle Ages, and the Renaissance, as well as the later Baroque. Universal or macro history characterizes also other publications by Panofsky from the 1920s. It is important to note that he never doubted the continuity of Western civilization. While Oswald Spengler, in Der Untergang des Abendlandes (Decline of the West) of 1918, at the end of World War I, proclaimed the downfall of the Occident, Panofsky after his demobilization from the military service in January 1919 devoted himself to the epoch of the Renaissance (the “rebirth” of antiquity), from which lastly Michelangelo could not be extracted. 

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by Oscar "Wally" Greenberg

Analogous to the way primary colors red, green, and blue light blend to create a perception of white light to the human eye, Greenberg’s concept of color in quarks provides a means by which a ­combination of red, green, and blue “color charges” yield a color-neutral proton or neutron. Quarks and color were experimentally verified in 1973 and led to the standard model of particle physics that explains what the world is and what holds it together. (Image courtesy of Carole Kliger, Department of Physics, University of Maryland)

Visits with Einstein and the Discovery of Color

The Institute played an important role in my life on two occasions—as a graduate student at Princeton University in the 1950s, and as a visiting Member in 1964. 

1952–54: Five encounters with Einstein 

As a graduate student in Princeton from 1952 to 1956, I went to the Institute to attend seminars. I visited Einstein in his office and in his home, and introduced Einstein at the last seminar he gave. 

I saw Einstein three times to learn about the theory with a non-symmetric metric he was considering in order to unify gravity and electromagnetism. Meeting with Einstein was exhilarating and I felt awed in his presence; however, the meetings were not helpful for my understanding of his unified theory. If something was not clear, I was too much in awe of Einstein to press him for further explanation. As an example of my diffidence, one visit to Einstein was just before lunch. As it was winter, Einstein started to put on his heavy grey cloth coat before going out to walk home. I had an impulse to help him on with his coat, but did not because I felt this would be too intimate. I found it more helpful to meet with Bruria Kaufmann, Einstein’s scientific assistant; I felt at ease with her and was able to press her when I did not understand her explanations. 

Years later, I heard that Robert Oppenheimer had told postdocs at the Institute not to bother Einstein. I don’t think that was doing Einstein a favor, because Oppenheimer’s admonition isolated Einstein even more than he was already because of his refusal to accept quantum mechanics. 

My most memorable meeting with Einstein was in 1953. John Wheeler took his general relativity class to ask questions of Einstein and to have tea with him in his home on Mercer Street. We walked across Princeton as if we were going to a museum. We asked Einstein questions ranging from Mach’s principle and the expanding universe to his attitude toward quantum theory. He appeared very humble. He took our questions seriously and answered our questions fully, including a question about the future of his house. He answered straightforwardly: “This house will never become a place of pilgrimage where people come to see the bones of the saint.” I felt that Einstein had not accomplished all he had hoped to do and was ready to pass the torch to us. When Wheeler asked Einstein what advice he would give to these young men who aspire to become physicists, Einstein simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Who am I to say.” The poem “Mercer Street” recalls this visit to Einstein in his home. 

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