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Wednesday, June 29th, 2016

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    12:00a
    Anne White: A passion for plasma

    Turbulence is an everyday phenomenon that we see in the curls of smoke rising from a fire or in the cream we stir into our morning coffee. But despite centuries of research, the details of how turbulent flows behave are still something of a mystery to scientists. Turbulence is also one of the most critical challenges remaining in the quest to make fusion, potentially a clean and almost limitless source of electricity, practical for generating power.

    Anne White, the Cecil and Ida Green Associate Professor in Nuclear Engineering in MIT’s Plasma Fusion and Science Center, has been fascinated by the complexities of turbulence, and its critical role in sapping power from fusion reactors, since she was an undergraduate. Since coming to MIT, where she earned tenure last year, she has made important progress toward unraveling aspects of that mystery.

    White grew up in the parched desert landscape of Yuma, Arizona, and completed her undergraduate work at the University of Arizona, in Tucson, and her doctorate at the University of California at Los Angeles. When she arrived in Cambridge to join the MIT faculty in 2010 it was quite a change, she recalls, to be in a place “where leafy green plants grow and water often falls from the sky!”

    “When I started in graduate school I knew already that I wanted to work on turbulence in tokamaks,” she says, referring to the primary type of fusion reactor used in research, including MIT’s Alcator C-Mod, which is soon to be retired. In the donut-shaped cavities in these reactors, a soup of electrically charged atoms is heated and compressed by an intense magnetic field as it swirls around. This intense heat and pressure is needed to make atoms fuse together, providing the source of energy for fusion reactors, but turbulence in the form of hard-to-predict swirls and eddies can drain the heat away.

    Understanding exactly how this turbulence develops, and how to reduce it, has been one of the thorniest challenges in the last few decades of fusion research.

    But there have been “really exciting developments over the last two years,” White says. Her team has made use of three different fusion reactors, including MIT’s Alcator C-Mod, to understand the nature of the turbulence and associated transport. The combination of data and insights from multiple machines has made the conclusions much clearer than a single device could have provided, White says. “Right now our group has active projects on four tokamaks,” she says.

    White became interested in fusion while studying nonlinear dynamics as a math major at the University of Arizona. She was doing a lot of reading about how to tackle the problems of climate change and quickly decided that nuclear sources, fission and fusion, were key technologies for addressing the issue. Her undergraduate advisor, who had been at Princeton University and was familiar with its tokamak fusion reactor, the TFTR, encouraged her to pursue that goal.

    While in graduate school at UCLA, White first built devices called Langmuir probes and magnetic probes and inserted them in the edge of the tokamak plasma to study how properties of the plasma turbulence varied from the inboard to the outboard side of the tokamak. “This was a great experience, to jump into a research group, with little to no plasma physics knowledge and just start building instruments.” Likewise, White says she now encourages freshman or grad students to “just jump into” their Undergraduate Research Opportunities Programs (UROPs), or first year of research.

    Later in grad school, White worked on another edge-plasma turbulence project at the NSTX tokamak at the Princeton Plasma Physics Lab. “I learned a great deal of plasma physics and also met a mentor and advocate, who has continued to be an inspiration to me,” she says. White encourages her own grad students to spend a summer away from the research group, perhaps doing an internship with another lab as a way to broaden their research and networking horizons.

    It was her third and final project in grad school that really defined her future research path in transport model validation, she says. White developed a radiometer-based instrument for measuring the turbulent fluctuations in the electron temperature in the core region — deep inside the plasma, very far from the edge and plasma boundary. White explains that fusion scientists had focused quite a bit on measuring turbulence in the density fluctuations, but less attention had been paid to temperature fluctuations: “It's a harder measurement to make.” She provided the data to a collaborating group that could run very sophisticated simulations of the experimental set-up, which kick-started the ongoing theme of “transport model validation” in her research.

    Even as a kid, White reflects, “I loved tinkering.” Over the years she would take apart and rebuild dirt bikes, motorcycles, and cars. Her parents, both lawyers, were “very encouraging” of her mechanical inclinations, she says. Their household was full of books, and any time she had a question, they encouraged her to search out the answers on her own, an early lesson in research skills. “Now, I just pull out my phone and find everything” she says with a smile. But even now, she says, her house is “full of books.”

    As she did while growing up in a family given to outdoor activities, White enjoys hiking and backpacking, and says she’s now learning fly-fishing, “but I don't catch a lot of fish yet.” She also enjoys amateur astrophotography, a hobby she picked up in Arizona, one of the country’s premier areas for astronomy. “Astrophotography is another way to remotely probe plasmas, since most of the objects we see up there are plasmas,” she says.

    Currently, she continues to push frontiers in her field, aiming to predict with high confidence the details of the turbulence in tokamaks, and to use these predictions to help winnow down the most promising possible new reactor system designs. A lot of past research in predictive models has involved “much trial and error,” she says, and finding formulas that can make truly useful predictions could be an important step on the long road toward practical, economical fusion power. White says she is excited about the ARC tokamak concept recently developed by MIT researchers, and how “theory-based predictive modeling can feed into new high magnetic field designs.”

    Though her work at MIT has expanded to include more theory and simulations, “I still like tinkering,” she says. “One of my favorite things is building instruments” to enable new or better measurements, “and analyzing experimental data.” And now, working with her graduate students and postdoc, she is developing systems to carry out measurements of turbulence and other factors at four different research reactors.

    White’s heavy emphasis on validation, and the synthesis of experiment and simulation work, continues to this day. “All my students get involved with transport model validation,” she says. She explains that validation is an ideal theme for the group, since it pushes more theory-minded students to learn about hardware, and more hands-on students to learn about the theory.

    12:00a
    Groovy science, man!

    When science met the counterculture in the 1960s and 1970s, unusual things happened. The medical researcher John Lilly studied whether dolphins could learn human language. Would-be astronomer Immanuel Velikovsky made widely read claims that a comet had caused biblical disasters. But other projects have had lasting legacies: Artisanal food makers founded organic farms, designers built communes with sustainable housing, and materials scientists even revolutionized surfboard manufacturing. All this and more is featured in “Groovy Science,” a new book from the University of Chicago Press featuring essays from 17 scholars about science’s countercultural turn. The volume was co-edited by David Kaiser, head of MIT’s Program in Science, Technology, and Society, whose own 2011 book, “How the Hippies Saved Physics,” detailed the counterculture’s influence on once-marginal physics questions such as entanglement. (The other co-editor, W. Patrick McCray, is an historian at the University of California at Santa Barbara.) MIT News donned a wide-collar shirt and sat down with Kaiser to talk about “Groovy Science.”

    Q: What is the conventional wisdom about science you are trying to revise?

    A: We want to address a common stereotype that dates from the time period itself, which is that the American youth movement, the hippies or counterculture, was reacting strongly against science and technology, or even the entire Western intellectual tradition of reason, as a symbol of all that should be overturned. In fact, many of them were enamored of science and technology, some of them were working scientists, and some were patrons of science. This picture of fear and revulsion is wrong.

    We also see things that have a surprisingly psychedelic past. This includes certain strains of sustainability, design, and manufacture, notions of socially responsible engineering, and artisanal food. This stuff didn’t start from scratch in 1968 and didn’t end on a dime in 1982.

    Q: The post-war era is known for industrial-scale “Big Science,” in defense research, particle physics, space exploration, and more. But this book features a lot of “small” science, from labs, early start-ups, farms, and communes. How consciously were scientists reacting against “Big Science”?

    A: It was almost an ideological shift. These folks were rejecting not science itself but what many had come to consider a depersonalized, militarized approach to the control of nature. Yet even the most colorful examples of groovy science had specific debts to the High Cold War, the first quarter-century after World War II, the era of “Big Science.” John Lilly was famous for woolly-sounding experiments on interspecies communication [with dolphins] and sensory deprivation and LSD. It’s easy to see why that fits in a book called “Groovy Science,” but Lilly was coming directly out of military-industrial research, from Korean War-era worries about brainwashing and the Soviet Menace. The chapter on the surfboard revolution takes us far away from Dr. Strangelove — we’re not talking about nuclear strategy or bombers — but this happened in Southern California for a reason, because there were a lot of people in defense and aerospace with experience in materials science, which shaped even a leisure/counterculture activity such as surfing.

    Q: Surfing is largely a middle-class activity. And the U.S. had a postwar, middle-class economic boom into the late 1960s or early 1970s. How much “groovy science” was middle-class science, serving middle-class pursuits, among people who could afford to drop out?

    A: The affluence question was on the minds of many of these people. But the era of so-called stagflation [starting in the early 1970s] was highly disruptive. And that did inspire efforts for what we now call sustainability. What would it take to avoid the trap of consumerism and planned obsolescence? Energy and the environment were getting a huge reboot of attention among tuned-in young people in this time period.

    Many of these people really thought the revolution was nigh. They thought the basic structure of society was about to come in for enormous change, and could imagine new roles for themselves and the work they loved doing. Their horizons seemed broader, in a very hopeful way.

    Q: You’ve written about the counterculture and physics before, so what new things did you learn from your colleagues here?

    A: You start seeing commonalities across fields that seem distinct, from psychology to engineering, public health, medical practices, and ecology. There is a common theme of a “conversion narrative,” a personal quest for authenticity [among scientists]. You might call it a kind of secular spiritualism.

    You also start seeing the role of the guru or charismatic figure. Some of them were iconic countercultural figures. Psychologist Timothy Leary [who advocated using psychedelic drugs in therapy] was enamored of everything from quantum physics to aerospace engineering. He got plenty of things wrong and said outlandish things, but he wasn’t rejecting the legacy of science. He was trying to push it toward broader horizons. A lot of people associated with health and medicine had earnest questions about the nature of consciousness. They might make us chuckle today, but it was driven by a desire to know.

    Q: One chapter of this book is about the psychologist Abraham Maslow, whose work on “self-actualization” was massively popular, but even as he visited the Esalen Institute in Big Sur, California, he seemed wary of the counterculture. Timothy Leary aside, doesn’t it seem like a lot of famous 1960s figures were not really into 1960s culture?  

    A: I agree. Maslow was fascinated enough to try to engage directly with students, at Brandeis, in California, and across the country. But he maintained a strong ambivalence, even as much of his writing was adopted and celebrated by younger people. Immanuel Velikovsky was temperamentally a polar opposite from many people who considered themselves his acolytes. He was a very bookish Eastern European émigré who pursued unusual ideas, but with a 19th century European scholar’s identity in mind, even as he became an unintentional pied piper for college kids from across the country.

    Q: It’s great reading about the 1960s and 1970s, but does this book tell us anything we can apply to science and culture today?

    A: I would like the book to inspire discussion about broader cultural attitudes toward science and technology. We’re living through a remarkably challenging period today about the place of scientific expertise in policy debates. It’s easy for us to dismiss entire swaths of the population as antiscience. In some instances that might be accurate, but we can move away from a simple binary [division] of “us” and “them.” The ways scientific expertise can take shape within our culture can be messy, and can change.

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