In the beginning, Arts and Science were united, in some paradisiacal Ur-state: there is Daedalus the artisan, who combines knowledge about engineering with a sense for artistic perfection. Even much later, there is Leonardo whose mind would have found the distinction odd, even reprehensive. This blissful, lost state reminds us of the Greek myth according to which men and women both sprang from a happy ambigendrous creature that was split into two unequal parts either by an unfortunate accident, or by the wrath of one of the wrathful gods. To this day, those parts are obsessed by the urge to reunite, if only transiently, and spare no effort to go back to the original, wholesome state.

Scientists in our technologically driven world possess their share of the yearning for reunion: in their inner hearts (and I can speak from mine) there is the feeling of guilt, about being richly awarded for their quest while their poor cousins go empty-handed. Yet beyond this, there is also the sense of missing out on something profound in their work, in their lives: something imponderable, non-quantifiable, unpredictable, elusive. Artists, on the other hand, are often drawn to the exactitude of expression achieved in science, the sheer beauty of phenomena in both animated and non-animated worlds. They are also fascinated by the breathtaking jumps of intuition that come into play in the interpretation of data and the development of hypotheses. But this attraction goes hand-in-hand with a critical attitude toward the claim of authority science makes, its dominating position in our society.

In trying to re-occupy the common ground with science, the artist is the forerunner – though perhaps the only runner, considering that the goals and protocols of science are by now narrowly set. Because, in the pursuit of scientific discovery, there may be moments of Eureka, and moments of esthetic insight, yet the impression these moments make on the mind of the scientist go largely unrecorded. Tainted with the stigma of subjectivity, they are barred from the canon of acceptable discourse.

What we see in this exhibit are the works of artists who venture into a wider territory than traditionally apportioned to them. The approach of some of the artists is satiric, directed at Science’s worst traits, its narrowness and ponderousness. This effect is achieved by creating objects and apparati of mystifying complexity, as far removed from the comprehension of the layman as the real thing. These artists are in illustrious company; there is Marcel Duchamp, whose whimsical concept of the bachelor as a mechanical automaton filled the salons early in this century with laughter and consternation, and there is Jean Tinguely, who created nonsense machines that mock the narrow pursuits in all fields of human endeavor, especially in Science and Engineering. And many of Saul Steinberg’s drawings can be read as satiric versions of scientific illustrations.

But skin-deep below the level of satire (thinking of the human response as something multi-layered, like an onion) is also the fear about the widespread blind acceptance of science’s authority, and about decisions, made in the ensuing moral vacuum, on how the world around us should be shaped. Artists searching for a common metaphysical root that underlies the quests in arts and science are the true heirs of Leonardo. To see them search gives us hope.

Joachim Frank, Ph.D., a physicist by training, is Director of the Structural and Cell Biology Program and Chief of the Laboratory for Computational Biology at the Wadsworth Center, New York State Department of Health. He is Professor of the Department of Biomedical Sciences at SUNY Albany and was recently awarded the Howard Hughes Medical Institute Investigatorship supporting his work on the structure of the ribosome. Frank has also written fiction; among his writings are over 20 short stories, some published, and two unpublished novels.