C O S M I C T R A V E L S
T H E C O S M O L O G Y O F J O S E P H C O R N E L L
One of the pleasures of science comes from the discovery of subtle connections among events that we experience in our daily lives. At first glance, these events often seem unrelated, but scientists can guide us through an underground of abstract and often beautiful connections and meanings. The pleasure of art is not entirely different. The artist gives us allusions and hints; a piece of art makes its point indirectly, by implication. Much of the pleasure of art comes from our ability to see beneath the surface and discover these connections.
When an artist such as Joseph Cornell takes images and ideas from the realm of science, we are tempted to look for the concepts that may have tied them together in his mind. By examining Cornell's selection of materials and the way he has put them together, one can infer--that is, reconstruct--his cosmology.
To an astronomer, Cornell's boxed constructions are quite remarkable. Their interior walls are peppered with stars and constellation outlines, overlaid with a tracing of mythological figures. His concept of a universe in a box echoes that of astronomers throughout history who have attempted, through constructions of three-dimensional spherical models, to encapsulate that which is infinite. Certainly, though, Cornell's work emphatically denies Giordano Bruno's terrifying proclamation three hundred years ago that the universe in fact extends without limit in all directions.
By boxing the universe, Cornell has taken us back to the times of the ancient Greeks--even back to the mythology of the starry constellations. Ancient science was a study of appearances and mathematical patterns. Modern science, on the other hand, takes us beyond appearances; it invents abstract explanations, such as General Relativity and Quantum Theory. These modern theories are nonsensical by lay standards and are not applied in daily life. Instead, we live by a more comfortable, old-fashioned cosmology that is based on appearances. For example, despite the images of the earth and our moon sent back from space telescopes, we still say that the sun "rises" at dawn. We do hot think of our home as a sphere spinning in Space, dipping our horizon down toward the sun. The flat earth conforms to our expectations and provides a more comfortable perch.
The mythological figures in Cornell's constructions suggest that the ancient understanding of the universe--though rich in Symbolism--is limited and limiting. The appearance of these robed, godlike figures floating through the galaxies only serves to remind us of the differences between ancient cosmology and modern science.
Classical astronomers saw the sky as a world of perfection, far above our earthly life. Stars were little more than glints of light marking the paths of a divine sun and moon. The stars were not so much actors as they were the stage sets for mythological dramas. The ancients relied on these dramas to give meaning to the lives of mere mortals on earth.
Modern astronomers, by contrast, see the stars as players in a drama which has brought life to earth. The mythological characters are no longer needed. We mortals, too, are actors in the cosmic drama. Our blood and flesh were born from the chemical elements that were created in the stars, so we ourselves form a link between the celestial and the earthly.
If the constellation maps Cornell used seem ancient and even outdated, the objects inside the boxes are somewhat more modern. Although we see balls and rods, we see nothing of the ancient Greek wheels and epicycles holding the planets in their orbits. Instead, Cornell's planets roll freely on pairs of horizontal rods. We can imagine picking up a box and tilting it to watch the balls roll back and forth. This motion would imitate some of Galileo's experiments in the seventeenth century, which laid the groundwork for the development of modern physics. He studied the motions of balls by rolling them downhill on smooth runways, and discovered a mathematical description of acceleration by gravity. Cornell's rods would have suited his experiments very nicely. Galileo would have thought Cornell's constructions thoroughly modern, and we can enjoy them today as a sort of homage to Galileo.
However, the balls and rods Cornell used do not merely suggest the movements of earthly bodies. The artist set himself the difficult task of evoking the mobility of the planets, and his solution is ingenious. He rests planets on parallel metal rods. However, despite its ingenuity, the modern astronomer would fault it for failing to convey the freedom of motion allowed the members of our solar system. As described by Isaac Newton, the planets float freely through space, deflected by the gentle pull of gravity from the sun, other planets, and their moons. No rods restrict the motions of the real planets.
Cornell uses several devices to remind us of Isaac Newton's theory of gravity. The transparent crystalline goblets holding the balls aloft recall that the earth's gravity pulls us toward its center, and we imagine the balanced forces of the ball on the glass and the glass on the ball. These balls carry our mind's eye beyond appearance, to the invisible force of gravity that binds the planets and their satellites to each other and to the sun. An occasional ring suspended from a rod provides a crude analogy to the nearly circular orbit of planets about the sun.
Together, Cornell's paradoxical juxtaposition of ancient constellations and the steel rods and balls of more modern scientific study allude to our universal tendency to retain ancient modes of thought while conceding that science continues to advance our understanding of the workings of our universe. Cornell's constructions bring into focus the difference between the ancient worlds of appearance and the abstract and often strange world of modern scientific theory. Cornell playfully reminds us that there is more to the universe than meets the eye.
Charles A. Whitney Professor Emeritus of Astronomy Harvard
University