The Standing Invitation

Posts Tagged ‘Vision

The Origin of Opacity

with 2 comments

A while back I wrote a post about vision and why it is that some things simply can not, even in principle, be described in visual terms. I focused (see how hard it is to avoid metaphors of sight?) on things smaller than atoms, but I didn’t need to go that far. Right now, you are reading these words through at least several inches of air – real-world, macroscale stuff that you are able to feel or hear when it moves, but are unable to see.

Transparency is something magical. As a child I was fascinated by glass: solid, hard, heavier than water – and yet invisible. I asked how this could be possible, and was never really satisfied with any answer I got. And it turns out this is because I was asking the wrong question. It turns out that glass’s seemingly magical transparency is not the phenomenon demanding an explanation. To gain the deep understanding I missed as a child, we must consider the origin of opacity.

Ranked in order of wavelength, the electromagnetic spectrum begins with radiowaves and continues (decreasing wavelength) with microwaves, the infrared, the ultraviolet, x-rays, and gamma rays. Note the omission: I have deliberately excluded visible light. Why?

The portion of the electromagnetic spectrum that we can actually see is vanishingly small. You could blink and miss it, though of course if you blink you do miss it. Visible light – colour – is an astoundingly narrow selection of the available wavelengths between infrared and ultraviolet. One might wonder why this particular chunk of real estate, between 390 and 750 nm, happens to be the one that we can see. And if you ask it in these terms, you are still asking the wrong question.

Recall that you “seeing” something corresponds to your brain detecting a chemical change in a substance called 11-cis-retinal in your eyeball. 11-cis-retinal only absorbs radiation with wavelengths between 390 nm and 750 nm; anything outside this range has no effect, and so is invisible. So this is why only some of the light gets “seen”. But this only pushes the question back one step further. Why do our eyes employ 11-cis-retinal, and not some other chemical with absorbance in another wavelength range?

We can narrow the possibilities using an understanding of chemistry. There are no known chemical compounds that undergo a chemical change on exposure to radiowaves. This means that no organism dependent on chemistry as we know it could ever treat radiowaves as its own personal “visible light”.  The same appears to go for microwaves, though this is contested. X-rays and gamma rays do cause chemical changes in molecules, but with wavelengths such as this it would be quite a challenge to evolve an eye that could handle them (an essay by Arthur C Clarke suggests an animal with a metal box for an eye and a microscopic pinhole to focus it, but only to illustrate the difficulties involved). So from the restrictions of photochemistry we’re limited to a window about 3500 nm wide available for seeing – and yet evolution has caused us to see only a fraction of that. Why? And why did it “choose” for us the wavelength range that it did?

Well, consider some possibilities. What if we saw in the range of about 100 to 200 nm? Chemically it’s possible. But no organism on Earth would evolve to see in that wavelength. Our atmosphere is 80% nitrogen, and nitrogen absorbs light at about 100 nm. If we saw in that range, air would not be transparent: it would be totally opaque. The ability to see in this wavelength range would be worthless, just as it would be worthless to see around 1450 nm, where water absorbs; we evolved from creatures that needed to see in water. Here is the answer to the problem of transparency, and the problem is revealed to be that the question was backwards. Air (or water, or glass) is not transparent by itself; it is transparent to us because eyes that don’t find air transparent would be of no use to us. The transparency of air is the result of the environment our genes have designed us to live in. Of course, a subterranean creature like a mole might welcome a design of eye that makes soil transparent – while simultaneously leaving worms opaque and visible. But the chemistry for that does not exist, and moles have to make do with being blind.

Practical considerations aside, it’s interesting to ask if X-ray vision might have been useful on evolutionary terms. If we saw in the X-ray region, most matter would be transparent to us, including our own bodies. This would be useful for some things, like spotting tumours or broken bones. But we would struggle to pick fruit, or detect approaching thunderclouds, or build tools out of wood. As a species, we are better off with the kind of eyes that can detect the chemical difference between an unripe fruit (green) and a ripe one (red). Evolution has selected for us a sense of vision that operates in the part of the spectrum that is richest in information relevant to our survival. Other animals make use of slightly different wavelength ranges, like bees, who prefer the shorter ultraviolet wavelengths rich in information about the availability of nectar in flowers.

In fact, it’s arresting to imagine an alien world, lit by sun that emits different wavelengths of light to our own – populated by aliens based on very different chemistry to our own, with strange eyes for detecting wavelengths we cannot ever hope to see. If ever they came to visit us, their children might well look at us in fascination, wondering why it is that we humans are as transparent to them as glass…


Daniel C Dennett: Consciousness Explained

Richard Dawkins: Unweaving the Rainbow

Arthur C Clarke: Report on Planet Three and Other Speculations

Written by The S I

May 6, 2012 at 1:10 am

Things That Don’t Look Like Anything

with 2 comments

When I talk about things like molecules, atoms and particles with nonscientists, a question I am often asked is what these things look like. And they never seem satisfied with my response: that, really, they don’t look like anything at all. It’s not that they’re invisible as such; it’s just that sentences involving what they look like don’t make any sense. You can’t describe their appearance because they don’t have an appearance to describe.

The thought makes people uncomfortable.

The idea of something not looking like anything is not a new one. Sounds do not look like anything. We know that sounds exist, but that physical appearance is not something we can ascribe to them. When we talk about sounds, we describe them in nonvisual terms.

Sounds, or ideas or desires or smells, have a certain abstract quality that seems to excuse this. But particles are stuff. They are physical objects whose masses are known to remarkable degrees of accuracy, and since everything we can see is made up of aggregates of them, it seems impossible that they cannot be described visually.

Let’s consider what happens when you see something, step by step.

An object is illuminated by a bombardment of photons. These photons interact with the surface of the object. Some are absorbed by the object – it is this absorption that gives the object its colour. The photons that are not absorbed are scattered around in all directions, and many of them enter through the pupil of your eye. These photons reach the retina, where they cause chemical changes in molecules like 11-cis-retinal; electrical reports of these changes are transmitted to the brain, where they are interpreted as ‘seeing’ those photons.

So to ‘see’ something means that photons bouncing off the thing cause chemical changes in your eye. This is fine for large objects like apples and oranges, but what if the object is smaller? Most people can’t see objects smaller than 0.1 mm, because there aren’t enough photons reflecting off them to react with our eyes. We get around this problem by using stronger illumination and magnifying lenses, allowing us to see things like blood cells.

But what about objects that are even smaller?

Well, here we start to have a problem. For objects smaller than 0.002 mm, photons of visible light start to be too big to see things clearly. In order to resolve details at this size level, smaller, higher-energy particles than photons need to be used. This is how electron microscopy works: instead of using reflected photons, you use reflected electrons, which are much smaller and better able to probe the surface of what you’re examining.

Is this really ‘seeing’ the object? The microscopic object under examination is not being studied with light, remember. This is why electron microscope images are monochrome. Light isn’t involved in the process at any point until a computer screen shows you, with light, the pattern of reflected electrons. Still, we are presented with pictures of the object’s surface, so it’s certainly like seeing, and the object certainly has an appearance that can be discovered, even if only indirectly.

What if the object is smaller?

Eventually an object can be so small that not even electrons can give you good enough resolution, and even more indirect means of gathering information must be used. One of them, atomic force microscopy, is more analogous to touch than sight: it drags a tiny needle across a surface to register bumps in the surface where the individual atoms are. But apart from the atoms’ location in space, there’s no information here about their appearance. Atoms do not interact with light in a way that gives meaning to the word ‘looks like’. They do absorb light and so might be said to have colour in a technical sense, but no picture of an atom could ever be drawn based on their interaction with light. And smaller particles than atoms don’t interact with light at all. You can’t see them, ever, because there is nothing there to see.

But still, some picture of a very tiny object might be drawn. Questions about its shape, for example, are not meaningless – but on a small enough scale, questions of shape become questions about properties rather than appearance. The question ‘is x round?’ becomes ‘are all the points on x’s surface the same distance from one central point?’. This is a question that can be answered, but only because it is a mathematical question about the properties of a certain type of object. And it turns out that the equations describing these objects reveal the them to be strange and wonderful things – things that behave in ways that make absolutely no sense to people used to objects the size of apples and oranges. They cannot be seen, but they can be described, and this description is better than seeing them. A mathematical description of a particle is more precise and less fallible than the clumsy tool of vision that evolution gave us to survive in a world full of large-scale objects. And we can reach this level of acquaintance with these particles that no one has ever seen because even though we can’t see them, we can imagine them.

Written by The S I

March 26, 2012 at 3:00 am

A Few Comments On Your Wallpaper

leave a comment »

Here’s another one drawn from Dennett’s Consciousness Explained. Before reading on, find yourself a pack of cards. Go ahead, I’ll wait.

Got the cards? Obviously you found them using your eyes. Human vision is pretty good for mammals. Reflect for a moment on how much detail you can see right now: you see a whole page of words, on your computer screen, in full colour. Probably you are aware of what objects are behind your monitor, colour the wallpaper is, what its texture is. It’s pretty impressive.

Now take your pack of cards, shuffle them and select one at random without looking. Keep your eyes focused on one point directly in front of you. Without turning your eyes to look at it, hold the card at arm’s length to one side, with the picture-side turned towards you. It’s in your peripheral vision. You probably can’t see it very clearly, and have no idea what card it is.

Now move your arm a few degrees closer to the centre of your field of vision. Can you identify the card now? Can you even see what colour it is? Move it a little closer. Black or red? Face card or number? Keep moving it closer, without looking directly at it. It really is surprising how close it has to get to the centre of your field of vision before you can confidently identify it; up till then, it’s a blur.

The clear patch in the centre of your vision corresponds with your fovea, the densest concentration of rods and cones in your retina. This is the only part of your eye that can see in detail and colour. The rest is devoted to picking up motion, change; it is the early warning system that tells you where to point your fovea.

You don’t see the world. You see a description of the world that is provided by your eyes. Your fovea flicks from one point of interest to another, gathering information with which to update your brain’s virtual-reality reconstruction of your surroundings. The brain’s editing process is seamless: it’s only when you deliberately prevent your eyes from moving that you realise just how patchy your vision really is.

Dennett goes further: imagine you have some really garish wallpaper, in the style of Andy Warhol, that consists of thousands of identical pictures of Marilyn Monroe. When you look at the wallpaper, how much of it do you really see? Every Marilyn in detail? Or does your brain just ‘fill in’ the rest, based on inspection of one or two. Either way, you can’t tell the difference.

The unsettling conclusion of all this is that you actually perceive the world in more detail than your eyes are providing. The sense of vision is not a window on the world: it is a cobbled-together bag of cheats, tricks and shortcuts. Fortunately, this seems to be enough.

Written by The S I

July 18, 2011 at 8:05 pm

Posted in Science

Tagged with , , ,