There we were: Three women — a neuroscientist, a mycologist, and me — talking about the perplexities of love when a cloud in the perfect shape of a broken heart appeared in the gloaming sky backlit by the sun setting over the Andes. Suddenly, we found ourselves wondering about the origin of the heart icon as the universal symbol of love. It doesn’t figure into the hieroglyphics of the Egyptians or the Aztecs’ elaborate pictogram language of embodied emoji, and yet by the time of the Romantics, it had become a fixture of love letters and lockets, Queen Victoria’s favorite jewelry shape, recognized today by every culture in every language, dominating tattoo parlors and text threads, drawn into the wet sand by our children, traced on our backs by our lovers, emblazoned on the tombstones of our dead.
The answer, drawn out by the tenuous thread of selective collective memory we mistake for history, is a story of empire and ecology, of love and ruin and more love.
Coins from Cyrene circa 510–470 B.C.E.
In 1990, Expedition magazine published an image of a coin excavated almost a decade earlier at the Sanctuary of Demeter and Persephone in Cyrene, present-day Libya. Emblazoned on the silver drachm circa 500 B.C.E. is a small heart so familiar it feels strangely modern — a depiction not of the human organ but of the seed of a mysterious plant, whose stem and bloom appear on the back of another Cyrenean coin.
The ancients called it silphium. Its fate may be the first case of extinction in the common record. Its legacy is the most enduring graphic symbol of the modern world.
With its golden pom-pom blossoms and neatly fractal branches, silphium didn’t just look magical — it was heralded as a panacea. But none among its panoply of medicinal properties was more revered than its dual potency as aphrodisiac and contraceptive, which earned it the moniker “the lovers’ plant.” In a society where women had no political power and no civil rights, here was a path to empowered embodiment, here was a plant that put their pleasure and their reproductive rights into their own hands.
But despite how meticulously the ancients tended to their silphium, it resisted cultivation. Hippocrates himself reported two failed attempts to transplant it from Cyrene to Athens. Long before Erasmus Darwin sensationalized the sexual reproduction of plants, before Gregor Mendel seeded the modern science of genetics, the Greeks had no way of understanding how silphium’s peculiar evolutionary adaptation crippled it, made them all the more responsible for its survival.
Silphium seed from La vérité sur le prétendu Silphion de la Cyrénaïque, 1876.
A monoecious shrub, silphium grows both male and female flowers on the same plant, the male ones fruitless and the female ones giving the heart-shaped seeds. But unlike the androgynous plants known as “perfect flowers” — which contain both the male pollen-producing stamen and the female ovule-producing pistils, and can therefore self-pollinate — silphium’s female flowers grow under the leaves and the male ones above, so that they need the help of an insect or a human gardener to pollinate.
For seven centuries, the Greeks meticulously tended to it, passing down the lore of its vulnerable secret from generation to generation. By the time of the Roman Empire, silphium had become so precious that it was traded at the price of silver and accepted as tax payment to be held at the public treasury.
But as the Romans began their brutal conquest and cultural assimilation, they did what all colonizers do, discounting the indigenous knowledge that had ensured silphium’s survival. By the first century of the modern era, Pliny the Elder lamented in his Natural History that only “a single stem was found.” In a cruel twist of irony, the last of this ancient symbol of female empowerment was given to the troubled tyrant Nero, who famously murdered his mother and all of his wives, then played his lyre while Rome was burning before committing suicide.
Nero by Auguste Rodin, 1900-1910.
Considered extinct for two thousand years, silphium grew so remote in our collective memory that some began to doubt it ever existed.
But then came a bright testament to how the love of life and of truth is always more powerful than the lust for power: In the early 2020s, Turkish botanist Mahmut Miski, leading a group of researchers and farmers in Anatolia, discovered a rare endemic shrub — Ferula drudeana — whose morphology and chemical properties closely match the ancients’ descriptions of silphium.
Ferula drudeana (Royal Botanic Garden Edinburgh)
Two civilizations after the Greeks failed to cultivate the precious plant, Miski and his team found that it could be grown in a greenhouse using cold stratification — a process of breaking seed dormancy by mimicking winter conditions: cold, moist, and dark. This means that, with proper tending, silphium can go the way of the black robin, the way of the ginkgo, and come back from extinction, its tiny hearts once again growing roots and shoots into Earth’s soil — a lovely reminder that even after all the depredations of time and terror, the heart can come back to life.
It is the sunset of the 1600s. Milton has just pioneered the use of the word space to connote outer space. Kepler has just pioneered science fiction by imagining space travel, but going only as far as the Moon. Gravity is a brand new concept and the notion of a galaxy is still more than two centuries away. The universe is as big as our Solar System, which has six planets orbiting a sun we have only just conceded, after burning the seers at the stake, does not revolve around us.
Against this backdrop, having set the Scientific Revolution into motion with his landmark contributions to optics, mechanics, and astronomy, the Dutch polymath Christiaan Huygens has just finished his most daring work: Cosmotheoros: or, Conjectures Concerning the Inhabitants of the Planets — our world’s first treatise speculating on the existence of life on other worlds not from a theological but from a scientific standpoint.
Although Huygens outlived his era’s life expectancy twofold, he never lived to see its publication — published in Latin and English by his brother at his own expense, Cosmotheoros entered the world like a shockwave three years after Huygens’s death, changing not only the course of science but of art. It was the spark that led Shelley to scandalize Georgian England with the “plurality of worlds” he augured in his philosophical poem Queen Mab. It was the seed for the marvelously multifaceted field of astrobiology, at the beating heart of which is the question not of where life is but what life is.
More than three centuries later, Chilean artist Alejandra Acosta conjures up the visionary spirit of Cosmotheoros in a gorgeous Spanish edition illustrated with her intricate embroideries of the life-forms Huygens imagined inhabiting other worlds, radiating a lovely strangeness partway between Borges’s imaginary beings and the creatures of Indian folk mythology, yet entirely original, as daring artistically as the book was scientifically.
Without the concept at the center of Cosmotheoros, we wouldn’t have one of the finest metaphors in all of literature: “There is nothing new under the sun,” Octavia Butler wrote, “but there are new suns.”
A self is a story we tell to bridge who we are and who we have been, turning the fluidity of personhood into a resin of narrative that hardens with each retelling. “If we are creatures of time, then we had better know it,” Ursula K. Le Guin wrote, “to act responsibly.” And yet we don’t. We encounter each other at points, as points, and promise each other timelines, denying our temporality, denying that time is the measure of change. In reality, the self making the choices at a point in time and the self living with their consequences across the timeline of life, the self avowing the promises and the self keeping or breaking them, are never the same person. To know this about oneself is the beginning of mercy. To embrace it in each other is one of the kindest, most loving things we can do.
Simone de Beauvoir (January 9, 1908–April 14, 1986) was only nineteen when she took up this question with uncommon lucidity in her diary, later published as the endlessly satisfying Diary of a Philosophy Student (public library).
Simone de Beauvoir
In between laying out her resolutions for a life worth living and contemplating how two souls can interact with one another in friendship and love, she observes that “the true self” is discovered through an interplay between the freedom of choice and the constraints of circumstance. But because circumstances are always changing and choices are dynamic processes rather than static products of the will, the self is a moving target. She writes:
A choice is never made, but constantly in the making; it is repeated every time that I become conscious of it.
With an eye to “the great hatreds of love, the irremediable pride, the passionate ruptures, the mutual tortures” that would bedevil every love if we didn’t counter them with “a lot of tenderness and pity,” she considers the tenderness for change — in oneself and in the other — essential to love yet unaccounted for in the fundamental premise of marriage:
The horror of the definitive choice is that we engage not only the self of today but also that of tomorrow. And this is why marriage is fundamentally immoral. Thus, we must try to determine which one repeats our changing self the most often. One must create a sort of abstract self and say to oneself: this is the state in which I find myself the most often; this is what I want the most often; thus, this is what suits me.
Already familiar with the singular suffering of regret — that punishing wish that the past self had made choices better suited to the values and needs of the present — she resolves:
No, no pity for my vanished past. Live in the present. It is beautiful enough if I know how to make it so.
Couple with Adam Phillips on the art of self-revision and the courage to change your mind, then revisit Simone de Beauvoir on how chance and choice conspire to make us who we are.
Card from An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days
Join me and a small clan of artists, scientists, and scholars for the 58th installment in Paola Antonelli’s inimitable MoMA R&D salons — we will be exploring birds: ecology and mythology, classification and creativity, evolutionary history and auguries of the future.
Available as a print and more. Find the original deck of 100 bird divinations, along with my process and the story behind them, here.
Hello Blog! This is the weekly email digest of 
Nema komentara:
Objavi komentar