INGENIOUS ENCOUNTERS Book Excerpt

Peter Badge 路 Sandra Zarrinbal

INGENIOUS ENCOUNTERS

LE SAMP T RP EXCE

Wor l d T OU R t o N o b e l L au r e a t e s

Enc o unt e r s

P RE F A C E *

with the following

“So why do you want to take pictures of old men?”

The German-born American physicist Hans Georg Dehmelt was 82 years old when he asked me this question.

Dressed only in relatively short swim trunks, he looked up at me from his deckchair, squinting in the sunlight, and waited patiently for my answer.

Indeed—why exactly did I, then only in my late twenties, want to take pictures of old men?

The fact is that I did not—not at first.

When the directors of the Lemelson Center for the Study of Invention and Innovation at the National Museum of American History, the National Portrait Gallery of the Smithsonian, and the Deutsches Museum in Bonn asked me if I might be interested in shooting portraits of all living ­N obel Laureates, my first thoughts were indeed those formulated by Dehmelt: Take pictures of old men? I didn’t say this out loud, of course. That would have been rude. And my second thought was that writing Nobel Laureates off as “old men” was somehow especially disrespectful.

Dehmelt obviously didn’t think so, and for this I was very grateful, since his question to some extent excused my own train of thought at that time. I owed it to the man in the swim trunks to give him an honest answer, and told him how it all began.

I’d agreed to have a look at some of the “old men” at the upcoming Nobel Laureate Meeting in Lindau on Lake Constance. Plans were laid for this annual meeting in 1950 by two physicians from Lindau, and it came into being one year l­ ater thanks to the support of Count Lennart Bernadotte. The Count was related to the Swedish royal family and lived on the beautiful Mainau Island in Lake Constance.

N OBEL

L au r e at e s

Aung San Suu Kyi Bethe, Hans Albrecht Buck, Linda B. Carter, Jimmy Ciechanover, Aaron Cohen, Stanley Dehmelt, Hans G. Doherty, Peter C. Edelman, Gerald M. Fischer, Edmond H. Fo, Dario García Márquez, Gabriel Gorbachev, Mikhail S. Gordimer, Nadine Grass, Günter Guillemin, Roger Heckman, James J. Heeger, Alan J. Higgs, Peter Hoffmann, Roald Ignarro, Louis J. Kim Dae-jung Klerk, Frederik Willem de Klug, Aaron

Kohn, Walter Krebs, Edwin G. Kydland, Finn E. Lessing, Doris Levi-Montalcini, Rita Levitt, Michael Mandela, Nelson Markowitz, Harry M. Marshall, Barry J. McFadden, Daniel L. Nash, John F. Jr Obama, Barack H. Ôe, Kenzaburo Pérez Esquivel, Adolfo Ramos-Horta, José Rotblat, Joseph Sanger, Frederick Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr I. Soyinka, Wole Thomas, E. Donnall Tutu, Desmond Mpilo Warren, J. Robin Watson, James Dewey Wilkins, Maurice H. F.

C o v e r ( J o h n F. N a s h J r . ) a n d a l l o t h e r p h o t o g r a p h s :

© Peter Badge / Typos1—in cooperation with the Foundation Lindau Nobel Laureate Meetings, all rights reserved, 2015

* The preface and all following episodes have been shortened for this sample excerpt.

ingenious encounters

pr e face

When I traveled to Lindau for the first time in June 2000, I suspected that I would gain insight into a world that was utterly new to me, but not that this world would be so different from what I had expected. Cutting-edge science and me—not much love had been lost between us until now. I used to marvel at this or that “breakthrough”, or a scientist whose praises were being sung in the media, but I had convinced myself that I was not especially interested. Perhaps to some small extent this also stemmed from the gut feeling that Wilhelm Busch recognized as being an all-too-human trait:

When others are wiser than we are,

This rarely gives us only pleasure,

Yet knowing they are not as bright

Is nearly always a delight.

Thus, for me, there was little prospect of pleasure in Lindau.

And then came the initial spark for my “life’s work”: my first photo session with a Nobel Laureate. Within the very first few minutes, the Swiss-American biochemist ­Edmond Henri Fischer made it clear who the boss was—me! He made no attempt to jump into the driver’s seat, to bombard me with “good ideas,” to play the bored, stressed or graciously patient sitter who, at the critical moment of the shoot, would suddenly demand a glass of freshly pressed strawberry juice without any noticeable seeds. I had experienced this all too often in the past with prominent contemporaries who adhered to the erroneous belief that only those stars who put on airs and graces are real stars.

On the other hand …

Are Nobel Laureates “stars”?

Is Edmond Fischer a “star”?

The situation is best described by that native of Stockholm, Alfred Nobel himself, who, in his last will and testament, dated November 27, 1895, dictated that the interest from his estate should be dispensed annually as an award to “those who, during the preceding year, shall have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind.”

[…] Professor Edmond Fischer was “only” 80 years old when, as he sat in front of my camera waiting for my instructions, he insisted that I stop addressing him formally as “Professor” and politely requesting that he “please be so kind” as to do this or that; he asked me instead simply to call him “Eddy.” Thanks to him, I became fired up with enthusiasm. That’s what happens when you have expectations, prejudices, and opinions and then realize that you were completely and utterly mistaken. You become curious. It was no longer about “taking pictures of old men” but r­ ather learning something about those people who have been officially rewarded for being of the greatest benefit to mankind. Through my photographs, I wanted to try and pass on at least something of their unique personalities.

I could never have imagined what lay in store for me: I cooked roast lamb with Eddy Fischer; John F. Nash Jr. sent me via e-mail his calculation of the probability that we would sit opposite each other in the train we both intended to take; and I was given the opportunity of a potential photo session with Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn in M ­ oscow even though I had neither an appointment nor a valid visa. I helped the neurophysiologist Linda Buck choose a wedding gown; accompanied José Ramos-Horta, the President of ­Timor-Leste, on a state visit to Cuba; and traveled to the holy places of Israel with the biochemist Aaron ­C iechanover. Sometimes, even today, I am amazed that this incred­i ble wealth of experience belongs to me.

I started out as a boisterous young German photog­­ rapher and have ended up as a mature citizen of the world—a rather spoiled citizen of the world, at that. With a generous dose of humility, I have recognized that I am merely a very small part of this world, how small the part of the world is that I for so long called “my own,” how privileged my place is, how narrow my view, how presumptuous and egocentric my hopes and desires are. Have I gained an under­s tanding of my own insignificance compared to the

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ingenious encounters

magnitude of the whole? No, that’s not what I’m talking about here. What moves me to write about my encounters, about their unique, touching, curious, surprising, banal and even frightening moments, is the continual message that it’s always worth coaxing this world into disclosing its secrets. One characteristic of Nobel Laureates is that they strive to do just that. They don’t give up when faced by the magnitude of a task, the apparent futility of being unable to solve a problem, the impenetrability of a particular area.

Science is a matter of searching, erring, and trying, a question of chance, patience, and luck. The Nobel Prize honors success, but this is often made possible by a chronology of failure.

The accomplishments of Nobel Laureates are without a doubt exceptional. Yet this book is actually about something else. My focus lies on the people and their personal­ities, above and beyond the attributes that one, of course, asso­ ciates with the Laureates: talent, intelligence, ­i ngenuity.

After all, “reducing” Nobel Laureates to super-brains would make them one-dimensional, defined by their superlative achievement. This would do them no justice, since there is simply no such thing as “the scientist”. The image of the strange, eccentric genius working alone in an ivory tower and furthering humankind at the cost of losing his own c­ onnection to the world is completely false. After my many encounters with the Laureates, I am sure of one thing:

pr e face

At some point, I came to understand fully the aphorism of the Göttingen-based professor and polymath Georg Christoph Lichtenberg: “Those who know nothing but chemistry don’t know that very well, either.” Outstanding achievements demand individuals who are multitalented and have

eclectic interests, and who are at all times insatiable and enjoy the exchange of information and ideas with others. All scientists have a life outside of science, and by this I do not mean anything as banal as their day-to-day existence. I was amazed that I encountered time and again—almost without exception—Laureates who were interested, intensely and passionately, in things other than their “own” science. Very many, indeed most of them, have more than one string to their bow.

For the photographs, I made a real attempt to find out what was important to my sitters and distinctive about their personalities, how they saw themselves and wished to be seen by others. I met the Laureates in the most varied contexts: mostly in their own private surroundings, often in their places of research and spheres of activity, as well as on vacation, at the Lindau Meetings, or in Stockholm during the “Nobel Week.” Sometimes I had merely a few minutes to shoot a portrait, at other times several hours or even a couple of days. When the encounter was brief, I had to look very quickly for any clues that could tell me something s pecial about the “person behind the Nobel Laureate.” ­ What could I depict and convey through my photographs?

We can be grateful that the Nobel Laureates have placed themselves and their capabilities in the service of h ­ umanity; but we cannot deny our own responsibility, merely because we lack their ingenuity. It is a truism that inventions, discoveries, skills, and capabilities can be used for either good­ or evil. Albert Einstein is not the only one to have speculated that Alfred Nobel was motivated to create the category of “Peace” because of the ambivalent nature of his invention of dynamite. In the final analysis, the “greatest benefit” (also) lies in our own hands, not (only) in those of the creators and discoverers. We all bear this responsibility to­gether, and it cannot be delegated to those who burden us with the responsibility-feasibility dilemma. My worldview has been greatly enhanced by the fact that I have been given the

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Outstanding accomplishments w ­ ithin a specific field are not achieved by “nerds.”

ingenious encounters

pr e face

­ pportunity to meet people—be they scientists or heads of o state—who have borne the immediate and personal weight of momentous decisions that we often airily claim during bar talk.

For us “normal people,” the accomplishments of the Nobel­­­ Laureates are, of course, nearly impossible to emu­late, but we can recognize in these figures or other “distinguished” people something that we can use in our own lives, something that can motivate us—I find this fascinating and, for me, it is one of the main reasons for writing this book. On my travels to meet the Laureates, I have casually—along the way, so to speak—learned a great deal about “­ humanity,” on which the Nobel Laureates have conferred the greatest benefit. As the title of my book suggests, the “ingenious encounters” refer to my travel adventures, my experiences in so many different parts of the world, and my contacts with its most varied cultures and inhabitants. I am still in touch with many of those who have crossed my path over the years; we visit each other, exchange ideas and experiences, network with each other. I have developed valuable relationships and friendships worldwide, and I do not shy away from using this network occasionally to make “my own contribution.” When I can help someone somewhere with my “connections,” when I can make a difference, or help bring about a change for the better, then I try to do so.

When, in 2011, I was asked by José Ramos-Horta, the Nobel Peace Laureate and at the time President of Timor-­ Leste, if I would consider becoming Honorary Consul of his country in Germany, I felt greatly honored. I am pleased to be able to serve this courageous man and his wonderful compatriots.

I was once asked in an interview if one becomes smarter by meeting so many Nobel Laureates. Although the question was certainly not meant to be taken seriously, I would say I have become smarter in the sense that I’ve learned something. Something about people in general. And when

you have a great deal to do with extraordinary people, you certainly learn something very special.

The most important thing I learned from the “Nobel Laureate Project,” about myself and about all of us, is that one’s contribution does count. We can all make a difference wherever we are and with the means available to us. You only have to take a closer look, and you’ll discover what it is that you can do. There is no greater satisfaction than accepting this challenge.

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The most important thing I’ve learned about the Nobel Laureates is that they are much more than “merely” ingeni­ous.

To be able, as a young person, to learn something about our world from “old men” and ageless ladies who have spent their lives in research, improving this world with such great passion—how lucky can you get?

The answer I gave Hans Georg Dehmelt, whom I photographed while he was sunbathing by the pool, proved at least convincing enough that he saw no need to make any further preparations for his portrait. Someone whose passion it was to take pictures of “old men” wasn’t likely to flinch at seeing an 82-year-old physicist in his swim trunks.

The Nobel Laureate got up out of the deckchair and sat down on a garden chair: “Well then, take your photo!”

I pressed the shutter release.

Another ingenious encounter.

Peter Badge, January 2015

prologue

P r o l o gu e Buzz, clack. Buzz, clack. Buzz, clack. Buzz… What the hell…? I race back to the office from the kitchen. The printer is spitting out page after page. [...] Did I set it to print 100 copies of the mail attachment? Buzz, clack. Buzz, clack. I pick sheets of paper up off the floor. No, they are not copies. Just one document, with 54 pages of text annotations, 320 in total, and all containing the exact same information: “DELETED—Edmond Fischer—03.25.2014”.

It’s a few days since I emailed my 94-year-old friend Eddy a draft of the preface to this book to read. [...] I suspect he will be resistant to an elevated role, and so I factor in enough time to persuade him that there is no ­o ption: I have to tell it the way it is, and he was, after all, “my first time”—my first photo shoot with a Nobel Laureate and the reason for the best decision of my life.

And now Eddy has proofread the whole preface, or rather pulverized it.

Every paragraph has red, blue, and green comments.

“This is a pain in the ass”, Eddy puts it succinctly, though he means the computer’s change tracking function rather than the preface text per se, despite all his deletions. Eddy sends version after version, and eventually what is allegedly a ­“final version in red and blue.” [...] If it was about an enzyme, rather than switching the change tracking function on and off, Eddy would definitely have worked out how to 10

activate and deactivate it. Computers, however, don’t conduct reversible protein phosphorylation. [...]

Although I have known “my first Nobel Laureate” for over a decade now, he leaves me gobsmacked yet again.

I ex­p ected him to read carefully through what I sent him, but not to take such great pains with the text. [...] What do I do now?

I did not send another line from the book in advance to Eddy Fischer, “computer expert” from Seattle. Eddy cooked for me, Eddy played Wagner on the piano for me, Eddy showed me the best swimming coves on Lopez Island, Eddy picked me up from the airport in the middle of the night, chauffeured me all round Seattle, set up contacts for me, and arranged photo shoots. But the door is now firmly shut on editing any text.

Edmond Fischer, Nobel Laureate in Physiology Edmond Fischer is simply or Medicine 1992, and Peter Badge too good for this world.

In every sense.

We will both have to live with my story about a photo­g­ rapher and his “­ Nobel Laureates Project.” I had set forth into an unknown world full of mysteries that can never be revealed to me, and for which I’m unable to convey to others. Yet, for me, Eddy represents what I would like to convey. Like no other. It all began with him. Under his wing, I had dared to enter this small circle of great men and women. And they themselves had emphasized, time and again, what Isaac Newton described using a metaphor borrowed from Ovid: “If I have seen further, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

My first chapter takes us to two beginnings: the start of 11

prologue

my global journey and my introduction to the giants of the “early Nobel Prize years.” Present-day Laureates are surely right in saying that they stand on their shoulders. But that’s not the whole story. What can be said for certain is:

Giants who stand on the shoulders of giants can see especially far.

Journey int o th e P a s t

Even if they are barely 5 feet 7 inches tall, like Eddy.

***

EPISODES Grass’s Shadow / Ciechanover’s Giants / Rotblat’s Paradise Bethe’s Purple Clouds / Hoffmann’s Poetry / Ôe’s Light

“I

t held no further interest for us from a scientific point of view. All the physics side was figured out. But we had worked hard and wanted to see if we had done everything right.”

“It” being the first atomic bomb test. In his own words, Hans Bethe describes his and Enrico Fermi’s thoughts during the countdown in the desert of New Mexico on July 16, 1945, as these two physicists and friends await what happens twelve and a half miles away. On the morning after the first nuclear weapons test, as the head of the Theoretical Physics Division of the Manhattan Project watches the desert blaze brightly and the dark clouds turn purple, his first thought is: “It works.”

His next: “What have we done?”

In preparation for my meeting with the 1967 Nobel Laureate, I have a look at a recent short documentary about Hans Bethe, A Life in Physics. The scientist, already well Hans Bethe, 1906–2005, The Nobel Prize in Physics 1967

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b e t h e ’s p u r p l e c l o u d s

By this I mean I just act as if something that is really still up in the air is already a done deal. Then fate has no o ­ ther choice but to intervene in whatever I have so confidently prepared. So I drive around Ithaca looking for a florist open on Sundays, to equip myself in advance with a floral gift for Mrs. Bethe. […]

Hans Bethe and his wife Rose, ten years his junior, have lived in Ithaca for seventy years. After the war, Arnold Sommerfeld tried to induce Bethe to return to Germany.

However, the offer to take over Sommerfeld’s professorial

chair in Munich had a sting in the tail: Sommerfeld made no secret of the fact that Werner Heisenberg was his first choice. Heisenberg of all people—the guy who lost the atomic bomb race. Bethe graciously declined. […]

The most significant interruption to their time in Ithaca for Hans and Rose Bethe is Los Alamos. Bethe becomes head of the Theoretical Division in the nuclear research labs and the couple live in the stand-alone, purpose-built town. […]

In 1938, when the young physicist Hans Bethe is explaining to people “why the sun always shines,” he does not anticipate that the lethal application of scientific research will one day become the subject that occupies him for the rest of his life. That year before the outbreak of World War II marked the beginning of the work which would lead to his Nobel Prize in 1967; it demonstrates that the sun and all other fixed stars release their energy through the nuclear fusion of hydrogen atoms, thus radiating light and heat. The explanation is based, once again, on Einstein’s E = mc² principle. […]

At almost exactly high noon, with the pretty bouquet on the passenger seat beside me, I risk a second call to the Bethes. Rose Bethe immediately begins the call with the good news that her husband does indeed feel much better, and would be happy to meet me. Twenty minutes later, I park the car on Savage Farm Drive in front of a spacious residential complex for the elderly with attractive gabled-roofed bungalows. Rose Bethe is pleased when I ­p resent the flowers, and takes me into the open-plan ­l iving-dining room with a hatch into the kitchen, and goes to fetch her husband. I almost feel I would recognize Hans Bethe, even without having seen the Tschira Foundation video, purely on the basis of photos of him as a young man. He has very expressive eyes that seem to have a life of their own and take no notice of the facial expression around them. His eyes flash bold and bright, regardless of

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over 90 years old at the time it was made, appears in person in the film.

Bethe’s “life in physics” begins on July 2, 1906 in Strasbourg, where he is born to a Jewish mother and Protestant father. The family moves to Frankfurt. Bethe studies physics there, then continues his studies in Munich and obtains a doctorate under Arnold Sommerfeld. […]

In the years following 1933, when all the best minds leave Germany, Sommerfeld makes sure that Hans Bethe can carry out his research in safety: He arranges for him to go to Cornell University in Ithaca, over 200 miles from New York City, where he becomes a professor in 1935. […]

After driving up through the magnificent landscape of lakes and mountains in Upstate New York, I spend the night in Ithaca, and get a call very early in the morning from Rose Bethe. She tells me her husband had a fall getting out of bed, so unfortunately he has to call off the planned photo shoot in an hour’s time. […] I ask Mrs. Bethe t­ entatively if I might call again in a couple of hours to see if her husband feels better by then. We leave it at that.

I am a firm believer in influencing the future by perseverance and carrying on regardless.

j o u r n e y i n to t h e pa s t

whether his face is serious or laughing. For a man approaching his centenary, I think he looks fantastic. […]

Hans Bethe greets me in English. It is rare for Germans of this generation, who A life together: Rose and Hans Bethe have not had as much contact with English as young Germans do today, to lose their strong accent.

Not even after so many years in America. Time and again, it strikes me as rather odd whenever I talk with German emigrants in English. They seem to find it easier and more pleasant to speak English, yet their pronunciation seems to suggest quite the contrary. Bethe’s rendition of “­ theory” as “sssieory” takes me back to English lessons with my wonderful teacher Dr. J­ oachim (Joe) Weiss: With the patience of a saint, he showed us how to vocalize “th” by extending the tongue—thus helping pupils who were developing a deep hatred of everything ­Anglo-American purely on account of this sound.

I start off the conversation by mentioning the recent bio­g raphical documentary. […]

I remember my visit to Joseph Rotblat in London. “You feature in Professor Rotblat’s Nobel Prize speech …”

Bethe nods. When Rotblat, the man who quit the Manhattan Project, quotes the man who stayed, Hans Bethe, in his Nobel Prize speech in 1995—citing his call for a commemoration of the 50th anniversary of the atomic bomb being dropped on Hiroshima—these former colleagues have long since been fighting on the same side for peace and ­n uclear disarmament.

“Do you think it is possible to abolish all the nuclear weapons in the world?”

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b e t h e ’s p u r p l e c l o u d s

“The atomic bomb will always exist. In books.”

I think I understand what Hans Bethe means. Even if the world were to be free of atomic weapons tomorrow, know­ ledge of it is ineradicable. The competition (the Manhattan Project versus the German nuclear weapons project) can be rekindled between any opposing sides at any time. Still, in the “Bethe Bible,” as the standard work on modern physics

by Professor Bethe is called by his colleagues,

there is no construction manual for “the Bomb.” […] Hans Bethe and I are now ready for a few photos.

“Do what you have to do first,” Rose Bethe gives me a nod, “but then maybe could I ask you a favor?” I promise that she certainly could, and decide at the same time that I won’t attempt a change of location for Hans Bethe, even though I would like to photograph him outside. As ­e xpected, the Nobel Laureate is relieved he can remain seated at the table. I shoot a few photos, then turn to his wife: “So, what can I do for you?”

“We always have these Christmas cards with our portraits on them. This year it will probably be too much for Hans to go to the photographer’s… it would be very nice if you could…?”

“I’d be very happy to.”

Rose Bethe positions herself next to her husband, who is sitting on a dining room chair, and I give minor stage directions: “If you could bend down toward him slightly, and look at each other, it will be even nicer…”

It produces a photo of something very rare: a lifetime of love in a single glance. If there is ever a moment to be emotional, this is it. No Hollywood production can capture so poignantly a life shared together. As I find out, Rose 17

j o u r n e y i n to t h e pa s t

Ewald was still a child upon first meeting Hans Bethe, who was assisting her father, the German crystallographer and physicist Paul Ewald. Professor Ewald would ask Bethe to look after his daughter now and again. Since falling in love years later, Hans Bethe happily made this his life’s mission.

It’s only in his 99th year, in March of the Einstein Year (2005), that he has to leave his Rose behind.

v a c a ti o n

T r ip s

EPISODES Dehmelt “Clothed with the Sun” / Eddy Fischer in a Washington T-shirt Ed Krebs in Pajamas and a Tie / Buck in Error Don Thomas in Fred Hutch / Kydland in Full Gear, Linda All in White

T

he early 1930s in Berlin: Although the subject is not yet on the curriculum, the schoolboy Hans Georg desperately wants to borrow the book The Revolution in Physics from the library.

Autumn 1947 in Göttingen: Together with his fellow ­s tudents, Dehmelt is chosen as a pallbearer for one of the revolutionizers of physics: Max Planck.

The years between these two events have been enough for the “Thousand Year Reich” to turn Europe into an expanse of ruins with millions of deaths. They have also transformed the talented physics student into a survivor of Stalin­g rad, and the brilliant Nobel Laureate in Physics, Max Planck, into the father of a man sentenced to death. […]

Hans G. Dehmelt becomes a U.S. citizen and professor in Seattle, where he begins conducting research at the University of Washington in 1952. This makes my reunion with Eddy Fischer in 2004 possible—the first after our momenHans G. Dehmelt, *1922, The Nobel Prize in Physics 1989

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v a c a t i o n t r i ps

D e h m e lt “ C l o t h e d w i t h t h e S u n ”

tous photo session at Lake Constance at the beginning of my Nobel Laureate project.

When it becomes clear that I will be flying to Seattle, I immediately establish contact with my “first sitter.” Since he still has no way of knowing how important that meeting with him has become for me, I assume that he must have forgotten me.

Far from it! In response to my politely reserved email, with its request, addressed to the highly esteemed Professor Fischer, asking whether he might possibly have time for (and interest in) a meeting, and perhaps even a further photo session, I receive a four-page answer. It begins with a kindly rebuke: He insists that I now call him by his long-­established nickname, “Eddy.” Of course he would be ­happy to meet me, except that he and his wife Beverly are not in Seattle, but at their house on Lopez Island, a small idyllic spot high up in the northwest that borders Canada and is part of the San Juan Island archipelago surrounded by picturesque bays. One and a half hours by car, then a good hour with the ferry, then I’ll be able to have a few days’ break in his house. Since he needs to cut down a few trees, and just happens to have two chainsaws there, it all seems pretty convenient. […]

He and his wife are already looking forward to seeing me. Attached to his email I’ll find the schedule of the Washington State Ferries with the times for the ferry from Anacortes to the San Juans, with Lopez Island as the first stop; he’ll pick me up from the jetty and, just in case I no longer remember what he looks like, he’ll be the elderly gentleman wearing a Washington T-shirt, accompanied by two dogs.

I am invited to spend a short vacation with Eddy F ­ ischer on Lopez Island. Short vacations interest me. Eddy interests me. Lopez Island interests me. So I’m looking forward to my photo session with Professor Dehmelt and afterwards taking a short break.

The day of the trip: When I land in Seattle, I’m ambitiously planning on first completing the photo session with ­Dehmelt and then driving up to the island on the same day.

I laboriously make my way through the stop-start traffic in the humid heat and am astonished to arrive bang on time for my appointment with the Nobel Laureate. With my photo bag under my arm, I stand outside the apartment block at the address given to me and ring the doorbell. A minute goes by, then another. It’s obviously taking a while for the elderly gentleman to come to the door. I wait patiently. ­After two and a half minutes, I nonchalantly ring the doorbell yet again. When it’s been three minutes since I last rang, I try once more. Eight minutes have now elapsed, so I no longer waste any time waiting between my various attempts, but push the buzzer several times in a row, at one-second intervals. Still nothing. I can’t believe it! I need to catch the ferry to Lopez Island! I need Dehmelt’s photo!

Otherwise, the whole trip to Seattle is just a vacation ­rather than a job—and this isn’t good, neither for the project itself nor for my expense account, not to mention my state of mind. Not good? My God, maybe something has happened to the professor!? It’s an uncomfortably hot day. I thus start ringing the doorbell like crazy. Then I pull out my cell phone. It rings and rings at the other end. I give up both trying to call him on the phone and ringing his doorbell.

This is all going wrong. […]

I don’t want to give up yet, so I take a walk around the block. For what seems like an eternity, I don’t encounter a single soul. Then I finally run into the superintendent.

Dehmelt? No, he hasn’t seen him for quite some time now. [...]

Nothing doing. Operation Dehmelt has failed. The man who catches electrons and locks them up in a cage has given me the slip.

Dehmelt received the Nobel Prize in 1989 for trapping a helpless electron all alone in an ion cage. Prior to this, his fellow laureate Wolfgang Paul had shown him how to

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do the same thing with ions, i. e. electrically charged atoms or molecules. In the specially constructed cage, you can capture charged particles on freely “floating” threads, as it were, with the help of electric or magnetic fields, and more closely observe their individual behavior in isolation. In terms of our relationship to elementary particles, ion traps represent an advance which can be compared to a couple moving in together. When this happens, you get to study your partner on a oneto-one basis. What are their characteristics? And (a question that is always crucial to women): Under what conditions do they change?

Because of the obvious lack of Nobel Laureates, even a “Nobel Laureate trap” wouldn’t help me much right now. Where on earth is electron-­ Dehmelt, “clothed with the sun” catcher Dehmelt?

I go back out on to the street. Lost in my thoughts, I nearly run into and knock down an elderly lady as she steps out of her apartment. […]

“Oh, could you help me? I’m looking for Professor ­Dehmelt. You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him? He doesn’t seem to be in his apartment.” Despite my question, I’m already turning back to the street, since I’ve given up hope.

“Oh, isn’t he still sunbathing by the pool in the garden?

The pool… That’s where you need to look, young man.”

With that, I turn round. The lady is pointing round the corner of the house. At the pool? I run to the garden. The pool is there and… next to it, there’s a man lying in a deckchair. It’s Professor Dehmelt, wearing only a beige sun cap and tight-fitting swim trunks. […]

“I’m so glad that I’ve finally found you... I thought some­ 22

D e h m e lt “ C l o t h e d w i t h t h e S u n ”

thing might have happened to you... You know... what with the heat and all... Anyway, what a pleasure... How marvelous here by the pool... Did you forget our appointment?”

I stutter confusedly, out of breath and relieved that I still have an opportunity to stick to my tight schedule. Dehmelt barely shifts from his relaxed position. He squints up at me in the sunlight:

“So why do you want to take pictures of old men?”

This question completely threw me off-guard. I shift down a gear. Time to give up any idea of catching that ferry, I reflect. The man sunbathing in his deck chair has every reason to be relaxed. He just asked me an honest question—I need to give him an honest answer! I end up by saying that I want to photograph the laureates in a way they’ll be absolutely comfortable with. Whereupon, ­Dehmelt orders me, without any hesitation whatsoever: “Well then, take your photo!”

Like this?—flashes through my mind, as the professor moves to a garden chair. I hesitate briefly and then press the shutter release. There is no reason not to. Dehmelt’s wish, my time schedule, and the philosophy behind the project all tell me it’s OK. At the end of his Nobel lecture, Professor Hans G. Deh­ melt revealed where the new worldview in physics could be found after the old one had been overthrown. In a reinterpretation of the first line of a poem by the English artist and writer William Blake about seeing a “world in a grain of sand,” Dehmelt recognized the “world in an electron.”

And, in a reinterpretation of William Blake’s famous painting The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed with the Sun, my portrait of Hans G. Dehmelt, who escaped from the snows of Stalingrad and ended up lying next to a pool in ­Seat­tle, represents: The Nobel Laureate Clothed with the Sun. 23

c o h e n —M y D e s e r t S e r e n a d e

T h e

E l vi s

Nobe l

R o ut e

EPISODES Dr. NO—I Got a Woman / Cohen—My Desert Serenade Heeger—Almost / Guillemin—Jailhouse Rock / Markowitz— King of the Whole Wide World / Edelman—Suspicious Minds Soyinka—Viva Las Vegas / Doherty—Heartbreak Hotel

E

lvis Presley and Nobel Laureates? In 2002, this fits perfectly for me: there are Nobel Laureates all over the world.

During my preparations for the Nobel Project, I b ­ egin working on a series of portraits of Elvis impersonators—the ­project was given the catchy title of “Elviswho”—and I found myself searching for the best possible Elvis-Nobel route. […] I re-read the e-mail with Stanley Cohen’s address in Tucson / Arizona: “…House number 52, not visible from the street, a short distance on foot.”

On the day of my flight to Tucson, I leave much too e­ arly to drive to LAX, the airport in Los Angeles. How could I know that there would be absolutely no traffic on Interstate 405? Normally, I’m right to expect to take several hours to get from downtown L. A. to the airport but on this occasion I am almost alone on the road with the rising sun, so I have three hours to kill at the airport. I buy a book.

Stanley Cohen, *1922, The Nobel Prize in Chemistry 1986

24

The Black Box: All-New Cockpit Voice Recorder Accounts of In-flight Accidents—highly recommended reading material before a flight for anyone who complains that they no longer get any real thrill from high altitudes because they have absolutely no fear of flying. For me at least, this book was more worth reading than the many gun magazines on sale in the same section of the bookshop. We Germans have a somewhat different understanding of “travel literature.” Anyway…

When my flight is finally called, I can almost recite the black box transcripts by heart.

How appropriate, by the way, that the 309th Aerospace Mainte“…House number 52, not visible from the street…” nance and Regeneration Group (AMARG), the U. S. Air Force’s central storage and preservation facility for aircraft and missiles, is located in Tucson. An airplane cemetery, so to speak. Having safely landed in Tucson, I am pleased that we haven’t provided the author of the black box book with any new material. I walk out of the air-conditioned airport building.

Damn, it is hot here! Suddenly sweating like crazy, I rush into a taxi and give the driver the address. He looks surprised, but doesn’t say anything and drives me out into the desert.

Further and further. I look out of the car window into a cloud of dust. Did Elvis really perform here? Not a single soul seems to live here. Eventually, I am clearly at the place mentioned in the email: “…not visible from the street”; in any event, the taxi finally comes to a halt in the middle of nowhere.

“It’s back there.” The cab driver emphatically signals with his hand, pointing towards the broad expanse of nowhere, as if to indicate “it’s way, way back there”. He is also clearly adamant about getting me out of his car.

25

T h e E lv i s N o b e l R o u t e

c o h e n —M y D e s e r t S e r e n a d e

“You’ll have to go the rest of the way on foot; I’m not driving there,” he says, to justify throwing me out. I open the car door. It is as hot as an oven. I hear animal sounds that I can’t attribute to any species known to me. The taxi driver apparently feels a flicker of pity for me: “Stamp hard when you walk! It keeps the snakes away,” he advises me, before covering me in a small cloud of dust as he swings the car round and drives off.

The world around me shimmers and flickers. I imagine myself in a remake of the film North by Northwest: I can already hear the roar of the airplane engine. How was Cary Grant able to run in this heat wearing a suit? I try to press my sunglasses into place on the sweaty bridge of my nose, adjust my photo bag on my shoulder, and begin stamping my feet. Grass, dust, sand, a few cactuses and the scorching sun—that’s all I can see. Fortunately, I can’t see any snakes either. At one point, a house emerges in front of me. It looks completely crooked, but this is just an optical illusion caused by the heat, as I discover on closer inspection. No name on the door. I knock cautiously, and then a bit harder.

Nothing. I turn round: Back there, on the horizon—isn’t that the cloud of dust left by the taxi…?

“Hello!”

The door opens. An elderly man with a bandaged knee looks me up and down.

“Professor Cohen?”

The man nods.

“Peter Badge. We… We have an appointment… I’m the photographer…”

“You’re in luck. Good thing I’m at home. I’d completely forgotten you.”

Indeed. Good thing he is at home. Just imagine me

standing there outside an empty house. Professor C ­ ohen invites me inside. I think the house is truly fantastic, especially since an air conditioner is blow-drying the wet hairs on the nape of my neck. We drink coffee while being scrutinized by the professor’s two housemates. Two plump, very relaxed cats are sitting on the sofa.

Then the professor asks me where I would like to shoot my photo. “In the cactus garden,” I answer without ­h esi­tation. The larger-than-life cactuses outside are really impressive.

Cohen smiles approvingly: “With pleasure.” The desert dweller walks ahead and I follow. “Please close the door ­b ehind you so the cats don’t get out,” he calls over his shoulder. “It’s swarming with birds of prey here!”

I glance back at the two well-fed animals on the sofa and they look back at me as if they know that I’m thinking they’d make a tasty meal for a hungry buzzard. The photo session goes well; my model smiles into the camera between the spines of the cactus. We are soon able to refresh ourselves indoors with a glass of iced tea, and Cohen digs out a few memories of the Nobel Prize award ceremony.

He willingly admits his beautiful fellow laureate, Rita Levi-Montalcini, completely outshone him. I know her ­a lready: Rita, “the only man in Italy without balls.” This was no sign of disrespect on my part, but rather a term of endearment from her fellow Italian countrymen. At any rate, I can certainly vouch for her undeniable charisma. […]

The pitcher of iced tea is empty. I need to get back to the airport, so I ask Professor Cohen to call a cab for me. He is on to it immediately, and advises me to start walking back toward the street—otherwise the driver will take off again if he doesn’t see anyone. He asks me to excuse him for not being able to see me out; his leg is hurting quite a bit after our short walk. We say goodbye to each other.

“And remember to close the door behind you,” the cat lover cautions me once again.

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27

Here I stand with my photo bag, I can do no other.

T h e E lv i s N o b e l R o u t e

As I open the front door, I think about asking Cohen to pour the remaining ice cubes from the pitcher down the back of my neck. This heat is just not my thing! How I’d love to be in L.A. right now. At that very moment I imagine myself sitting next to my hotel pool and hope that this refreshing thought will make my walk to the street somehow more bearable. Little do I know that what lies ahead will be much worse. There is no taxi in sight. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, forty minutes go by: still nothing. After waiting for an hour, I realize that I have no choice but to walk—or ­rather stamp—back to Cohen’s house. Sweating profusely, completely and utterly exhausted, I knock on the door. ­C ohen opens the door and I stare at him, just as shocked at seeing him as he is at seeing me. Compared with him, my condition was fresh and vibrant.

“You didn’t close the door properly…” he sighs. Oh no!

I look past him into the house. The two fat cats are sitting on the sofa, just as relaxed and contented as before.

“I had to go outside to catch them. It took a while because of my bad knee…” Now I feel even more miserable. I’ve barely survived the walk to the street, and a man in his 80s with a bandaged leg had to run after his cats in 140 degrees Fahren­h eit in the shade. All because of my carelessness.

I barely feel able to bring up my own logistical problem.

“Uhm… The taxi never came… My flight back to L.A.…”

“There’s only one thing to do: I’ll drive you there.”

“Oh no. That’s really not necessary… That’s too much to ask of you…”

“As I said, there’s only one solution for it. So come on.”

When a Nobel Laureate thinks there’s only one solution, you better take his word for it. Two minutes later, sitting in the passenger seat and clutching my photo bag, I find myself racing at top speed through the Sonora ­Desert with P ­ rofessor Stanley Cohen. I turn the conversation away from the cats toward Cohen’s Nobel Prize-winning research ­t opic. It involves the isolation and characterization of nerve 28

c o h e n —M y D e s e r t S e r e n a d e

growth factor (NGF), a polypeptide discovered by Rita Levi­-Montalcini. Cohen isolated and analyzed the substance and discovered that it is a protein comprised of 118 amino acids, a chemical signaling substance with growth effects on synaptic connections. Since this discovery, the complex interrelationships had been analyzed by scientists around the world. Cohen tries to explain the significance of this research to me, with examples from brain, nerve and spinal cord disorders.

We arrive at the airport—on time—and I am eternally grateful to Cohen.

“Well then,” the biochemist jokes in response to my fulsome gratitude, “it looks like you were in fact doubly lucky”:

“You got a private lecture from me and, on top of that: accident-free!”

In the plane, I immediately fall asleep and have wild dreams about a Nobel Laureate running through the desert t­ ogether with Cary Grant and a buzzard circling over them menacingly with two fat cats in its claws. As the buzzard drops the cats and they threaten to land in the middle of the cactus garden, I am awakened by the announcement: “Cabin crew, prepare for landing.”

29

W i t h “A r c h ” i n B e e r H e l L

L o ng

wa l k s

EPISODES Mandela’s Long Walk to Retirement / De Klerk’s “Presidential Blend” With “Arch” in Beer Hell / Marshall and Warren Greet Monty Python Doherty’s Beginner’s Guide for Emerging Laureates Two Nancys and One Jimmy Carter / Tutu’s Sinful Blessing Gordimer’s Castle Without a Fairytale

W

hen the Archbishop enters the room, it isn’t as if the sun were rising—more like the office were taking off. The sacred purple of his cassock is so strikingly vivid. It reminds me strongly of the magenta color of T-Mobile, making me believe he has a direct calling line to God. You’ll never get lost on your way to Heaven if Desmond Mpilo Tutu is ­blazing a trail in front of you. The portraits of “my Nobels” are black-and-white photographs. For the first time ever, I wonder whether to change this.

Tutu, Archbishop emeritus of Cape Town, holds a chair as Visiting Professor at King’s College during the summer semester of 2004. […] The Nobel Peace Prize Laureate for 1984, whose T-shirt “Just call me Arch” hangs in the closet, is much more than a good-humored clergyman; he is God’s eternal “Employee of the Month.” I will personally make

Desmond Mpilo Tutu, *1931, The Nobel Peace Prize 1984

30

sure that he gets the very best lawyers should Telekom ever try to sue him for appropriating their “Telekom Magenta” for heavenly ­purposes.

“Testimonial Tutu” greets Lorie and me and a first flood of words ­gushes out of him. His speech, one is tempted to say, is in the same vibrant ­colors as his robes: exuberant and touching. The priest is small only in the physical sense—otherwise most everything about Desmond ­ Mpilo Desmond Tutu is “made for goodness.”

Tutu is big: the importance of his role in the a­ bolition of the apartheid regime, the love he feels for South Africa, his humor, his tolerance towards people with different opinions, and his support for minorities. But the most amazing thing about him is that such a big heart can fit into such a small body.

Made for Goodness is the title of his autobiography. […]

But suddenly he does something terrible to me. The Archbishop has asked what we want to drink, but without waiting for an answer, he himself decides: ginger beer!

“It’s quite fantastic. Tasty, refreshing, and alcohol-free!”

Tutu smiles from ear to ear and his pointy nose appears just a bit pointier. Ginger? Anything but that! When I was a kid, I once pilfered a tempting candy with an unknown ­filling, …and as God promptly punishes little sins… the ginger immediately set my palate on fire. It was hell. It put me off the idea of ever stealing food again. What should I do now? The Archbishop serves our drinks, takes Lorie’s and my hands in his and says a short prayer. Does he suspect that I’ll need God’s help for this trial? As the first drops run down my tremulous throat, I want to beg for mercy. I bravely continue to drink. Yes, I know: What a horrible fuss to make over a drink! But doesn’t everyone have something 31

long walks

that gives them the creeps? I can eat fish that looks up at me endearingly from the plate, I can sink my fork curiously into indefinable blubber—but the taste of ginger is something I simply cannot bear. Tutu smiles at me.

“Tastes good, doesn’t it?”

I am trying to twist my facial expression of disgust into a smile of agreement, but I fail. […] I pretend to follow the entertaining conversation, but I’m actually distracted by the thought of where to do the photo shoot and whether I’m ­g oing to have to take another sip of the horrid brew. ­Flooded with adrenaline, as though I were fleeing from hungry sharks, I figure out how I can escape from this situ­ a­tion. Of course! We’ll just shoot the photo outside! Far away from the ginger beer.

Just at this moment, Tutu asks where he should pose.

“Oh, please, outside in the corridor, Mr. Archbishop,” I respond hastily.

Relieved, I follow the beam of light radiating from the magenta idol of peace, who since his childhood has striven to transform South Africa into a joyous Rainbow Nation.

We finish the photo shoot and have already begun shaking hands when the Archbishop suddenly looks at me as though he has just been overcome by an extremely important thought. Opening his large glittering eyes as wide as he can, he says: “Come, Mr. Badge; let’s go back into the office. We must finish our wonderful ginger beer.”

No one can do good all of the time, not even Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Desmond Mpilo Tutu.

And so, with this man of God, I go back to my ginger beer hell.

F r o m Di l i vi a H a v a n a t o th e W hit e H o u s e EPISODES Ramos-Horta’s Island of the Sleeping Crocodile / García Márquez’s Magic Parrot McFadden and Heckman on the Green Cayman / ¿Pérez Esquivel? ¡Sí, sí!

Fotógrafo Internacionale do Presidente Ramos-Horta Post from Obama: Yes, We Can Do It! / Ramos-Horta’s Oktoberfest with Bismarck

F

[…] our months after handing over office in Dili, the former president finally enjoyes an unofficial trip to ­Berlin.

On the agenda is a concert by Marius M ­ üller-Westernhagen.

Lastly, one great wish of the private citizen José Ramos-­ Horta still has to be fulfilled: To finally experience G ­ ermany as a normal tourist and do what all tourists in Germany do— visit the Oktoberfest in Munich! We plan to drive by car to the Bavarian capital, with a brief detour to ­Göttingen, including a visit to my parents’ house.

What actually happens is like something from a sitcom.

With the announcement that I would be visiting them in the company of the former Timorse President ­Ramos-Horta, I put my parents in a state of moderate turmoil—more than anything else because of the culinary preparations. The plan is that we—Ramos-Horta, Timor-Leste’s ­Ambassador José Ramos-Horta, *1949, The Nobel Peace Prize 1996

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fro m d i li v i a h ava n a to th e wh ite hous e

to the E.U., H. E. Nelson Santos, the chauffeur and I— will arrive in Göttingen at around suppertime. I know that Ramos-­Horta loves Emmental cheese as well as our local mettwurst and weisswurst sausages; I almost always take him a small selection of these when I travel to Dili. He would be able to eat more than enough weisswurst at the Oktoberfest in Munich, but he would certainly enjoy a hearty mettwurst sandwich during his stay in Göttingen, I tell my mother on the phone. There was thus no need for an e­ xtravagant menu—a simple plate of cold cuts would be enough.

My mother is satisfied with the information, but now ­m y father has a few questions concerning the drinks. “Red wine,” I suggest. “Red wine, very good,” my ­ f ather responds, obviously pleased.

“Your mother and I like that too.” So far, so good. Then the last-­ minute change of plan.

We would be staying one night longer in Berlin and travel­i ng on to Munich ­e arly A tais for the hostess: Nobel Peace Prize Laureate the next morning. “But we’ll José Ramos-Horta with my mother be dropping by your parents’ house anyway?!” Ramos-Horta wants to confirm, and I inform my parents accordingly.

Finally, at ten o’clock in the morning on the following day, the six of us are sitting at the lovingly laid table in the small dining room of my parents’ house. The furnishing of my ­parents’ house has held its own over the decades; it is neither worthy of a design award nor characterized by the functional robustness of “Gelsenkirchen Baroque,” but rather by the handsome German bourgeois culture of the pre-IKEA age, when a “typically German” living room could still do without Billy and Karlstad. It is, quite simply, comfortable.

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R a m o s - H o r ta’ s O k t o b e r f e s t w i t h B i s m a r c k

The mettwurst worthy of a president, which my mother purchased the day before, hasn’t gone bad overnight and still tastes just as good at breakfast. The same goes for the cheese. Suddenly my father is standing next to Ramos-­ Horta with a bottle of red wine in his hand.

“May I, Mr. President?”

I want to dive in quickly, since I immediately recognize what is happening here: In all the excitement, my parents, touchingly intent on making a good impression in front of their distinguished breakfast guest, have worked out a small ceremony. But the spontaneous switch from dinner to breakfast is difficult for them to manage. Red wine at breakfast? Before I can intervene by offering caffeinated instead of alcoholic beverages, Ramos-Horta finds the unusual suggestion to be an enticing idea and willingly allows his glass to be filled. With his wonderful feel for people and his talent for doing just the right thing at just the right moment, the man did world peace a favor—so minor irritations at breakfast tables are a piece of cake for him.

The president gives me a laid-back nod and Nelson ­Santos also extends his glass to my father to be filled. Both raise their glasses to me in a toast.

“Peter, holy cow, the Oktoberfest is already starting in Göttingen,” is the ambassador’s cheerful comment. Strange, but when I think about it, I can come up with a ­dozen reputedly very nice people who, in a similar situation, would definitely have enjoyed seeing my father stumble over such a faux pas. Somewhat later, as the host is getting ready to top up the glasses, he is luckily overtaken at the last minute by my mother bearing a pot of coffee. Finally, we have all been well fed and are ready to travel on to Munich. As we say good-bye, Ramos-Horta presents my mother with a traditional Timorese robe as a sign of his gratitude.

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fro m d i li v i a h ava n a to th e wh ite hous e

My mother is delighted. As I now know, she would not dare to wear Timorese national costume in public in Göttingen, but she does put it on every now and then at home, while reading the newspaper in front of the fireplace, “because your father loves seeing me in it.”

As my mother lovingly caresses the fabric of her present, Ramos-Horta turns to my father and looks him pensively in the eye for a moment. I suspect that my father is, in all likelihood, asking himself anxiously whether he has perhaps forgotten some aspect or another of one of his ceremonies.

Then Ramos-Horta breaks his brief moment of silence:

“You know, Mr. Badge, you look just like the German Chancellor, Count Bismarck.”

My father is delighted. In the future, the president would never forget to ask me to send his regards to “your dear mother and Count Bismarck.”

We are sitting in the car, ready to drive off, when my mother comes charging out of the front door again, carrying four sandwiches in small paper bags. She starts handing them out: one for Mr. President, one for the chauffeur, one for Ambassador Santos, and one for me. “Travel provisions,” she explains as she hands us the paper bags, “with some delicious mettwurst!” The president is delighted.

Later we’re munching on my mother’s sandwiches on one of the picnic benches at a highway rest area. When the chauffeur admits he’s a vegetarian, we fraternally divide his ration among us. There’s no red wine. But later that evening, we enjoy plenty of gigantic liter mugs filled with Oktoberfest beer. Other than the fact that it was a wonderful evening at the invitation of my Bavarian friend Helmut Morent, I can’t remember much about that Oktoberfest.

No, this has nothing to do with my father’s breakfast wine— the Bavarians alone are to blame here!

36

C r o s s ing

Bor der s

EPISODES Solzhenitsyn’s “Hello” / Gorby and Eyjafjallajökull / Kim Dae-jung’s Vibrant Colors / Aung San Suu Kyi—Mission Impossible Aung San Suu Kyi—Mission Completed / Doris Lessing and Ulli’s Friends Waiting for Dario Fo / Doris Lessing and Yum Yum’s Friends

W

[…] e head off to the Solzhenitsyn Library. No one seems to really want to understand the question as to the whereabouts of its namesake, not even the ­English-speaking lady who has kindly been brought in to help. She acts as though she is completely and utterly surprised that A ­ leksandr Solzhenitsyn is still alive at all, not to mention still living in Russia. I look at her in disbelief: how odd. In America, I’ve come across passers-by who merely shrug their shoulders when they are asked for directions to the university (when it is less than a mile away), and in France I’ve known French people who refuse to stop for even a minute when addressed in a language other than French; but the manner in which people tiptoe round and round a q ­ uestion so evasively here in Russia—this is something I have n ­ ever experienced before. After nearly two hours of friendly but futile beating about the bush, we have to accept the fact that this is not Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn, 1918–2008, The Nobel Prize in Literature 1970

37

c r o ss i n g b o r d e r s

going to work. Finally, another woman walks by and hands us a piece of paper with a telephone number, saying in explanation: dom (the house).

S o l z h e n i t s y n ’s “Hello”

We ask if we can use the telephone briefly for a local call within Moscow. They allow us to do so, but the telephone call is in vain. No reply. Then we try the private number we’ve brought with us from Germany. A friendly sounding man answers and suggests that we meet for an early d ­ inner.

He asks where we are staying so that he can pick us up.

Around seven o’clock, we find a young man waiting for us in the hotel lobby. […] As it turns out, our contact man works for the Heinrich Böll Foundation in Moscow. We walk through the center of the city, looking romantic now that all the lights have come on, to a restaurant. The gentleman from the foundation tells us about Solzhy—this is apparently what Solzhenitsyn is called within his inner circle.

He explains the background of his work, describes how he is regarded in contemporary Russia, and finally tells us that he would love to meet him one day, but that this is as good as impossible. Aha. Yes, recently, the author even turned down a meeting with Putin. So our contact turns out to be just as keen on finding a way to meet Solzhenitsyn as we are. Completely frustrated, Lorie jumps up from her chair and asks for my cell phone. She wants to try the number of the library again and disappears out of the restaurant.

When she comes back after about a quarter of an hour, the look on her face gives her away: she’s found another piece of the jigsaw. As she sits down in her chair, I look at her expectantly, whereupon she indulges in a small pause for dramatic effect. Finally, she announces t­riumphantly: “I got through to Mrs. Solzhenitsyn; she’ll talk to her husband and let us know tomorrow morning at around ten o’clock if he’ll see us the day after tomorrow.”

I’m just savoring the moment when I suddenly realize what the expression “day after tomorrow” actually means: Our visas expire the next day. I can still clearly remember the urgent advice given to me when I picked it up: “Not forget…

Good only two days… otherwise have big problem—you in Russia at airport when time to leave country…”

Our flight is scheduled to take off the following morning at exactly quarter after ten, around the same time that we hope to hear from Mrs. Solzhenitsyn whether the meeting with her husband will take place or not. And in only four days, I have to fly on to South Africa to see Frederik de Klerk and Nelson Mandela.

What should we do? Run through the probabilities? So, what did Mrs. Solzhenitsyn sound like on the phone? More discouraging and negative, or perhaps more upbeat? Lorie shakes her head: “It’s hard to say… but she likes the project and the Smithsonian Institution.”

“Hard to say” is a very poor basis for reliable calculations. In all my years of travel, I have learned that keeping calm is vital in every situation, even if you don’t have the slightest idea what to do next. So this is how I make up my mind. Once I’ve calmed down, I ask myself: Is this the right time to stick to my personal credo of solving problems by taking my own initiative, or is this one of those situations that can resolve itself if I just patiently sit tight? Anyway, we finish our meal without any further ado […] and go back to our hotel.

In the hotel bar, Lorie and I have another drink and discuss the situation. […] We go over the possibilities left to us, in light of the fact that our visas will soon expire.

Waiting for an answer from Mrs. Solzhenitsyn and, if the answer is negative, taking a later flight isn’t really an option, since such a later flight doesn’t exist. No matter how we look at it, we need to extend our visas. Is it possible to extend a visa at short notice at the local consulate’s office in Moscow, or not?

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It feels like a paper chase.

c r o ss i n g b o r d e r s

S o l z h e n i t s y n ’s “Hello”

We ask at all four of the hotel receptions but nobody will give us a clear answer. A Russian businessman, overhearing our problem, states with utter conviction: “You not having problem! Whyyyyy?? Visa goooood!

Visa goooood!”—but the information doesn’t seem very reliable to us. It’s late; we’re tired and just want to sleep.

We need to decide now. Should we risk it or play it safe, be adventurous or be predictable, take our chances or just give up? I am forced to think about my last trip to New York: Fifth Avenue, I get into a taxi late at night and the cab driver turns around briefly and says, “Hey man, this is not a cab ride, this is an adventure!” He then drove at 80 miles an hour down Fifth Avenue. I survived. Lorie reads my thoughts, or at least their general tenor; one last exchange of glances, and we make our decision: We’ll risk it! First thing: Have a good sleep. Second thing: Hope for a positive phone call from Mrs. Solzhenitsyn. And third thing: Extend our visas.

The next morning begins without breakfast: When I see the breakfast room, I lose my appetite; Lorie feels the same way. We still have another hour until our phone call with the Solzhenitsyns. If the meeting comes off, we will in any event need rooms for another night. We ask at the reception desk if it is possible to extend our stay for one night. The answer before we show our passports is: “No problem.” The answer after we show our passports: “You have problem.”

back to the reception desk to make the call to Mrs. Solzhe­ nitsyn. After what feels like two hours—it’s ­a ctually only ten past ten—she comes over to me with a promising expression on her face. We’ve got it, we’ve got it—the appointment with Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn: the following morning at 7.30.

This is terrific!

The Russian Nobel Laureate in Literature at his desk

Just before ten o’clock, we’re standing in the lobby with our luggage. Sometimes, real life is more cynical than any piece of fiction—the radio is actually playing “Wind of Change.”

It’s one of those moments that transform you into a spectator of your own life. Shaking your head, you stand there helplessly. Then things get serious. Ten o’clock. Lorie goes

But… ah yes, right: the visa and hotel problem… I ask at the German embassy, but they say it isn’t their responsibility. What now? Maybe the Moscow partner of our travel agency in Berlin will have an idea. There, however, they seem more concerned that we might want compensation for the prepaid airport transfer, which we will obviously not be making use of. With regard to our question about the visa, they advise us curtly to leave the country immediately.

But it’s already far too late for the scheduled flight back to Germany. One last tip: “Try your luck with the consulate at Sheremetyevo airport.” This airport is over 19 miles from the city center. On a taxi odyssey through the streets of Moscow, we drive off in the direction of Sheremetyevo. Just before noon, we arrive at our destination and actually find the airport consulate. Closed. On a sign, the opening times

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No room without a valid visa.

No discussion.

c r o ss i n g b o r d e r s

are indicated: “CONSULTATION HOURS from 12 noon.”

Next to this there is an intercom with a call button. As a German, I am, of course, very experienced when it comes to dealing with government authorities and their opening hours. We wait a bit and, at twelve o’clock on the dot, I push the call button. The intercom crackles; we hear the slightly distorted voice of a man and explain our situation to him in English. The voice responds in broken English, but in no uncertain terms, explaining that the problem of an expired visa can only be dealt with when the problem actually exists, i.e. when the visa has indeed expired. In our case: after midnight. I don’t waste much time thinking about the question of whether this is German bureaucracy for Russian beginners, pettifogging pedantry, or simply complete nonsense.

After midnight…?

Reacting quickly, I ask if anyone will be there after midnight.

“No!” the voice blasts out of the intercom and then tops it off with a curt: “Not my problem—yours!”

The intercom crackles one last time and then—silence. […]

G oa l s EPISODES Double Shot for Sanger / The Three Men of the Double Helix—Watson, Wilkins, Crick / The Diversity of the Game of Life—John F. Nash Jr. Last But Not Least—Rita Levi-Montalcini

T

[…] hese somewhat melancholy thoughts are still going through my mind, but Frederick Sanger and I are now at the point where we definitely need to get on with the photo shoot. Outside, it has slowly but surely been getting darker and darker and I can still hear Sanger’s words about the diminishing agility of his brain. This is compounded by the almost palpable modesty of the double laureate. I can now clearly see before me the face that I wish to depict: sunk in contemplation, looking inward. While we’re shooting the photos, I ask Professor Sanger a few times to close his eyes. […]

Then Professor Sanger and I are done with the shoot.

I thank him and, as we say good-bye, I promise to send him in advance the image that I select. Sanger smiles softly and accompanies me to the door. I am still somewhat shaken up by my visit. […] For quite some time after the meeting, my state of mind continues to oscillate between melancholy and anxiety.

Frederick Sanger, 1918–2013, The Nobel Prize in Chemistry 1958 and 1980

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goals

double shot for sanger

Back in Berlin a few days later, I have a look at the contact sheets in the lab, and one image again triggers this peculiar state of mind. A photo shot with a flash, showing Sanger with his eyes closed and without his glasses. This is it! This photo has vividly reawakened that afternoon in my ­m emory—it’s exactly the right image. I have a print made and send it off to Cambridge.

One morning I pull a letter from England out of my P. O. Box. My name and address are handwritten, but there is no return address. I leaf through my mental index of all the handwritings known to me. Normally I am quite good at this and hit on the sender straightaway. But whose handwriting is this? […]

As soon as I get into my car parked in front of the post office, I open the ominous anonymous letter. I now recognize the sender by the address printed in bold at the top of the letter, even before I read his name: Frederick Sanger.

Delight. For a second or so. But then I grasp the contents.

Not even a letter from the tax authorities has ever made my stomach churn the way this letter did.

The first sentence hits me like a slap in the face. Sanger finds his picture, my picture, simply dreadful. No cautious paraphrasing, no wasting time with courtesies, no “it could be better” or “not quite right.” No: The photo is hideous and I am a bungler who should go back to photo school.

I gulp. It’s a triple whammy. First, in terms of my ­a rtistic ego, but this I can cope with. Then, as someone who is pathologically addicted to harmony, I have obviously made someone unhappy and even angry—the exact opposite of my intentions. This I find agonizing. And third, it hits me in the heart, since the photo is one of those with which I associate something personal, something profound. I’d ­t aken a photo that was anything but the deliberate act of

defacement of which Sanger is now accusing me. I’d neither played around like an amateur with the flash nor tried to depict the sitter as being blind and suffering from arthritis, as he maintains in his letter. I’d wanted to convey the atmosphere of the encounter—Sanger’s essence, so to speak—to the viewer and I hadn’t been trying to put my own interpretation into it. Frederick Sanger with closed eyes—that was simply the picture I’d taken that afternoon. […]

I’m neither peeved nor angry; I’m sad.

After a few hours, my mood improves a bit. Actually, the letter is, in a certain sense, the answer to the question that I’d kept to myself at the time. Did Sanger really turn from being a chemist to being a gardener without any regrets, as he’d wanted to make me believe during our conversation? Obviously not. Old age, the dwindling of mental and physical faculties, prompted him at some point, from one day to the next, to simply close the door of his lab for the last time, resolutely and completely switching over to a science-free “retirement.” This step was, however, perhaps more difficult for him than he had wanted to admit to me. […] In my portrait of him, Sanger does not recognize the contemplative thinker, but rather a failing old man. At the end of the day, I am almost grateful for his clear words. […] ­U ltimately, this sharp criticism of my work reveals less harshness towards me than towards himself. The double Laureate, who once described himself in a biographical ­a rticle as “not academically brilliant,” is once again failing to live up to the high demands he places on himself. […]

I want a photo that Sanger can live with and I hope that he will understand me a little better. I call him in Cambridge. The victim of my botched portrait listens to me ­a ttentively and I tell him that I would like to visit him again.

I say that I won’t be able to make it to photo school before then, but am absolutely determined to bring along the ­m anual “How to Take a Good Portrait Photo.” He accepts both my joke and my proposal.

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45

“What a dreadful photo.”

goals

One and a half weeks later, I am once again in a taxi from Cambridge train station to Sanger’s house. Next to me sits Monica: It’s always a good idea to present men with a beautiful woman when they are disgruntled. At the same time, Monica is also my mental support, since I really need a ­little encouragement if I am again to ring the doorbell of the house from where an abusive letter to me has ema­ nated. […]

When Monica and I step out Brilliant model, acceptable photo—­ double laureate Frederick Sanger of the taxi, we get a whiff of the s ummery scent of the meadow. ­ Professor Sanger is already waiting for us in the garden wearing a casual, red-and-white plaid, short-sleeved shirt.

I explain apologetically with a wink that the p ­ hotography handbook was too cumbersome to bring after all, so I brought along a lovely walking manual to guide me instead.

I introduce Monica as a member of the team of the brilliant photographer Anton Corbijn. Sanger smiles and gives us a tour of his garden, which lies there, m ­ agical and romantic in the sunshine, enclosed by a wall made of natural stones.

Amongst his plants, Sanger himself ­b lossoms. Monica takes some snapshots of us as we stroll through his greenery.

Finally, I venture the question: “Professor, you must have a favorite place here in the garden…?”

The keen gardener points to a tree under which there is a small wooden bench: a plank on top of two sawn-off tree trunks. Close by, a spade is stuck in the ground next to a zinc tub. Sanger sits down on the bench and looks at me. I can detect a certain skepticism in his gaze. He is probably wondering whether this German photo student will finally be able to shoot an acceptable portrait. As a brief smile 46

double shot for sanger

spreads across his lips, without the skepticism altogether leaving his eyes, I capture the moment with my camera.

Several weeks later, and some time after the print I selected has been sent to Cambridge, I once again find a ­handwritten letter from England in my mailbox. I open the envelope immediately. The photo of the smiling man on the garden bench has found favor with the double Nobel Laureate… ­“acceptable, though not brilliant” is how it is described in the letter. I remember his own self-assessment: “not aca­demically brilliant.” Perhaps “acceptable” is the greatest possible compliment someone like Frederick Sanger can make.

When I start to work on this chapter, the ten-year-old letters from Sanger are lying on my desk along with an ­a rticle from Der Spiegel magazine, dated November 25, 2013.

The article is about a recently deceased “true hero of ­British research in the 20th century.” The hero described himself during his lifetime as a “chap who messed about in his lab.” Of course, I mean it quite tongue-in-cheek when I say that Sanger apparently had the wrong image of himself. The “chap” who turned down a knighthood did not see himself as a “Sir.”

Now, there is not only an empty lab in Cambridge, but also an empty wooden bench.

There is one thing that I would like to make clear to the “chap” who was actually a “Sir.” In spite of our ­remarkable differences with regard to the art of photography, there is one thing I am absolutely sure of: I would not have been able to damage your reputation, Professor Sanger, as the “Father of genome research,” not even with the worst portrait of all time.

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T h e d i v e r s i t y o f t h e G a m e o f L i f e —J o h n F . N a s h J r .

A

m Waldrand No. 15–17. Before John F. Nash Jr. […] walks into the Einstein House in the small village of Caputh near Potsdam on this icy day in January, he pulls the knitted cap off his head as though he were approaching a sacred building.

This romantic wooden house has a truly turbulent history, which began in 1929 on the 50th birthday of Albert Einstein. […]

Now, on this winter day in 2010, a completely frozen little gathering is warming itself up in the genius’s former summerhouse. In addition to the Nash family, there are also other friends, including Eki and the owner of Café Einstein, Gerald U ­ hlig-Romero. The latter pours a round of hot c­ offee from the thermos jug he has brought with him into paper cups with the Café Einstein logo. With that taken care of, we begin having a look around. […] In the cast-iron bathtub a great mind once washed himself—the permanent fixtures are all original, though the interior decoration is not. Only Einstein’s workspace was reconstructed with ­copies of his furniture. John is attracted by this. He goes to the window of the wood-paneled room and finally takes a seat at “Einstein’s desk”, untangles a few strands of hair that had fallen out of place when he took off his cap. […]

The rest of the group disperses throughout the house.

I go outside into the garden to shoot some photographs.

A little later, we all come back together in the cold of this winter day.

All but John, that is.

I walk a few steps toward the house and then I d ­ iscover him behind the glass entrance door. The snow-­ c overed landscape is reflected in the glass, but in such a way that I can still easily recognize John’s face—as well as the Café Einstein coffee cup he holds firmly in his right hand. An almost reverent pose. Motionless. Like a film still. And there John F. Nash Jr., 1928–2015, The Sveriges Riksbank Prize in Economic Sciences in Memory of Alfred Nobel 1994; Abel Prize 2015

48

John F. Nash Jr. in front of Albert Einstein’s summerhouse in the winter of 2010

is something else: Normally, John tilted his head slightly downward, his gaze directed toward the floor. Yet the man in the Einstein House is standing with his head held high— he is obviously in “high spirits” in the most literal sense of the term.

I have been standing here for some time and catch myself observing John. He is the only person I know who can, in his own special way, be in both the inner and the outer worlds simultaneously. […] This is especially clear today: One eye looks past me into the snow; the other sees mental images. Are these the images of an ingenious encounter?

One day, at the Institute for Advanced Study (IAS) at Princeton University, under the directorship of J. Robert Oppen­heimer, a very young mathematician visits Albert Einstein. John Nash Jr. is here to present an idea on g­ ravitation, friction, and radiation to the theoretical physicist. […] John Nash scribbles equations all over Einstein’s blackboard.

He is obviously talented at physics, the professor declares.

But whatever the field of research, a topic can be seriously ­tackled only if one is truly—truly!—prepared to dig deeper.

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“At this meeting it was... It wasn’t about photos, Peter.”

John is still standing motionless behind the door. I would give everything I own to be able to see the film playing in his head right now. I cannot make this visible. But I can at least capture the moment.

I whip out my camera.

That the photo of John in Einstein’s house will one day ­become the cover image for this book is something I cannot imagine on this cold day in Caputh in the w ­ inter of 2010.

Peter Badge was born in 1974 and studied Art History in Berlin. He initially worked as a freelance photographer for various magazines and soon began developing his own projects. Choosing portraiture as his primary focus, Badge concentrated on famous artist personalities, scientists, and politicians and created, among others, photographic series such as Men on the Moon – From Armstrong to Aldrin, Icons of Economy and Philanthropists.

He also shot series on the pioneer of electronic music Oskar Sala, as well as Elvis impersonators (Elviswho) and a photographic documentation on Marius Müller-Westernhagen (in cooperation with the Art Cologne and the National Music Center in Washington, D.C.).

In 2000, Badge embarked on a long-term photographic project on Nobel Laureates, commissioned by the Deutsches Museum Bonn, the Smithsonian Institution, the National Museum of American History and the National Portrait Gallery in Washington, D.C., in cooperation with the Council for the Lindau Nobel Laureate Meetings and the Foundation Lindau ­N obel Laureate Meetings. Since then, this project has taken him all across the globe in order to shoot portraits of all living Nobel Laureates.

In 2012, Badge was then commissioned by the Klaus Tschira Foundation in Heidelberg (in cooperation with the awarding institutions) to create portraits of all living recipients of the Turing Award, the Abel Prize, the Fields Medal and the Nevanlinna Prize.

Peter Badge is Honorary Consul of the Democratic Republic of Timor-Leste in Germany.

Dr. Sandra Zarrinbal

Shortly before the English-language publication of this book, John and his wife Alicia tragically passed away in a car accident. My sincere thoughts and profound sympathy remain with their family.

Peter Badge, May 26, 2015

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Photo: Peter Badge

***

is a legal expert, bestselling author, poet and ghost writer.­ After studying law, the Münster native worked as a judge, lawyer and specialist author in Berlin and ­M unich. She conceives and authors texts in various ­g enres (non-fiction, biographies, speeches, lectures, screenplays etc.) and also writes poems, aphorisms and flash stories.

The historical biography, Der letzte Zeuge (Pendo/Piper 2008), which she co-authored, became a non-fiction bestseller. Her creative repertoire also includes the art­istic performance of her own and other texts (readings and performances, e. g. “Lazy Lyric”).

Sandra Zarrinbal lives and works in Berlin.

Photo: Jim Rakete

John told me about his meeting with Professor Einstein, as he always calls him. It still means a lot to him. But the professor was not at all impressed by the ideas he had put forward to him, John says in retrospect. However, the exchange had enormous influence on the course of his ­c areer.

He took to heart Einstein’s advice to get right down to the root of things. […] When we speak for the first time about his meeting with Einstein, one question immediately springs to my mind—perhaps revealing myself as professionally ­obsessed: “Are there any photos of it?”

I get a slightly pitying glance.

Nobel Laureates in Portraits—for this project, the young German photographer Peter Badge has been traveling around the world since 2000. More than 400 encounters have provided him with unique insight into the world of those who “have conferred the greatest benefit on mankind” (Alfred Nobel). This book is, however, much more than a mere “making of” of a long-term photographic project.

Ingenious Encounters reflects on the personalities, achievements, and lives of the laureates from a unique perspective that is both u ­ nusual and fascinating. Peter Badge’s impressive accounts of his experi­ences have been compiled and penned by Sandra Zarrinbal to create a ­c aptivating book that defies categorization: as authentic as a diary, as informative as a work of popular science, as thrilling as an adventure documentary, as touching as a coming-of-age-novel, as amusing as a celebrity biography, and as poetic as Nobel himself preferred to approach the world.

“In this one-of-a-kind collection, Peter Badge shows us the wonderful gifts that make Nobel Laureates unique—and how they help us connect our interesting differences to our common humanity.”

President Bill Clinton

ingenious encounters World Tour to Nobel Laureates English translation: First Edition Translations; Gérard Goodrow Cover & Design: Meiré und Meiré 14 × 21 cm, 5 ½ × 8 ½ inches 576 pages, hardcover with dust jacket ISBN 978-3-942597-30-2 EUR 29.95 | US$ 39.95 | £ 24.95 Fall 2015 www.ingeniousencounters.com German edition available: Geniale Begegnungen ISBN 978-3-942597-27-2

DAAB MEDIA, Cologne, Germany www.daab-media.com