The Silent Poetry of Paint Drying

The painting has a life of its own. I just let it come through.

Jackson Pollock (1912 – 1956)

Over the last six weeks or so, I’ve had the immense pleasure of collaborating with local artist Lynda Jackson on a project for Creative Reactions — the arts-science offshoot of Pint of Science   I don’t quite know why I didn’t sign up for Creative Reactions long before now but after reading Mark Fromhold‘s wonderful blog post about last year’s event, I jumped at the chance to get involved with CR2019. The collaboration with Lynda culminated in us being interviewed together for yesterday’s Creative Reactions closing night, which was a heck of a lot of fun. The event, compered by PhD student researcher Paul Brett (Microbiology, University of Nottingham), was expertly live-tweeted by another UoN researcher (this time from the School of Chemistry), Lizzie Killalea

I’ve been fascinated by the physics (and metaphysics) of foam for a very long time, and was delighted that the collaboration with Lynda serendipitously ended up being focused on foam-like painting and patterns. When we met for the first time, Lynda told me that she had a burgeoning interest in what’s known as acrylic pouring, as described in this video…

…and here’s a great example of one of Lynda’s paintings, produced using a somewhat similar technique to that described in the video:

LyndaJackson_2.png

I love that painting, not only for its aesthetic value, but for its direct, and scientifically beautiful, connection to the foam patterns — or, to give them their slightly more technical name, cellular networks — that are prevalent right across nature, from the sub-microscopic to the (quite literally) astronomically large (via, as I discuss in the Sixty Symbols video below, the Giant’s Causeway and some stonkingly stoned spiders)…

Our research group spent a great deal of time (nearly a decade — see this paper for a review of some of that work) analysing the cellular networks that form when a droplet of a suspension of nanoparticles in a solvent is placed on a surface and subsequently left to its own devices (or alternatively spin-dried). Here’s a particularly striking example of the foams-within-foams-within-foams motif that is formed via the drying of a nanoparticle-laden droplet of toluene on silicon…

Nanoparticles-2.png

What you see in that atomic force microscope image above — which is approximately 0.02 of a millimetre, i.e. 20 micrometres, across — are not the individual 2 nanometre nanoparticles themselves, but the much larger (micron-scale) pattern that is formed during the drying of the droplet; the evaporation and dewetting of the solvent corrals the particles together into the patterns you see. It’s somewhat like what happens in the formation of a coffee stain: the particles are carried on the tide of the solvent (water for the coffee example; toluene in the case of the nanoparticles).

Lynda’s painting above is about 50 cm wide. That means that the scale of the foam created by acrylic pouring is ~ 25,000 times bigger than that of the nanoparticle pattern. Physicists get very excited when they see the same class of pattern cropping up in very different systems and/or on very different length scales — it often means that there’s an overarching mathematical framework; a very similar form of differential equation, for example, may well be underpinning the observations. And, indeed, there are similar physical processes at play in both the acrylic pouring and the nanoparticle systems: mixed phases separate under the influence of solvent flow. Here’s another striking example from Lynda’s work:

LyndaJackson_1.png

Phase separation and phase transitions are not only an exceptionally rich source of fascinating physics (and, indeed, chemistry and biology) but they almost invariably give rise to sets of intriguing and intricate patterns that have captivated both scientists and artists for centuries. In the not-too-distant future I’ll blog about Alan Turing’s remarkable insights into the pattern-forming processes that produce the spots, spirals, and stripes of animal hides (like those shown in the tweet below); his reaction-diffusion model is an exceptionally elegant example of truly original scientific thinking. I always hesitate to use the word “genius” — because science is so very much more complicated and collaborative than the tired cliche of the lone scientist “kicking against the odds” — but in Turing’s case the accolade is more than well-deserved.

I nicked the title of this post — well, almost nicked — from a quote generally attributed to Plutarch: “Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.” It’s very encouraging indeed that Creative Reactions followed hot on the heels of the Science Rhymes event organised by my UoN colleague Gerardo Adesso a couple of weeks ago (see Brigitte Nerlich‘s great review for the Making Science Public blog). Could we at last be breaking down the barriers between those two cultures that CP Snow famously identified so many years ago?

At the very least, I get the feeling that there’s a great deal more going on than just a superficial painting over the cracks…

Author: Philip Moriarty

Physicist. Metal fan. Father of three. Step-dad to be. Substantially worse half to my fiancée Lori, whose patience with my Spinal Tap obsession goes to far beyond 11...

5 thoughts on “The Silent Poetry of Paint Drying”

  1. I absolutely love this blog post and the collaboration that it talks about. And I absolutely love the images! I just do! They are fantastic. Creative reactions in a nutshell!

    Liked by 1 person

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