The image on the cover of this issue of EcoHealth is, to put it simply, unnatural. It has no context, no substrate, no place. It appears to be biological, but its metallic exterior shines starkly in a way that disregards our presence. It’s ominous form is at once beautiful, but unlike most previous covers of EcoHealth, apparently bereft of spirit or meaning. But, for those of us acquainted with infectious disease ecology, or who have had the misfortune to personally meet this organism, its strange shape is known. It is, of course, Giardia intestinalis, the flagellated protozoan responsible for giardiasis and its horrific symptoms: bloody diarrhea, sulfurous belching, and a tenacious hold as our bodies weaken. Strictly speaking, this isn’t just Giardia, it’s a celebration of Giardia’s beauty—a pin made of pure rose gold in the form of this fantastic creature, and part of a series of ‘‘Infectious Art’’ designed by M.C. Ginsberg, with input from the University of Iowa’s College of Public Health (http://mcginsberg.com/product-category/m-c-gins berg-infectious-art/). Here we have an encephalitis cufflink, an HIV necklace, and a Lyme disease ring all waiting to adorn our wrists, necks, and fingers as post-modern talking points with a twist. Seeing beauty in a parasite is nothing new to those of us who work at a microscopic scale with these organisms. Their morphology is beautiful—evolved to intricately loop around our cell surface receptors, lock on, and kill us, or in this case, to nestle within our ciliated cells, and suck away our life blood—a stark, cold beauty indeed. But, to celebrate this is surely odd? And doesn’t this show disrespect for the pathogen’s victims? What about the 40 million who have died of HIV/AIDS—what flippant arrogance it is to use that virus’ image in anything but a negative light, let alone a necklace? But let us think a bit deeper. Many of us are profoundly in awe of the beauty of the natural world. We stand in wonder on a solid sheet of ice frozen on the side of a mountain, last year’s cranberry encapsulated like living ruby. We marvel at the power of a white shark, a gazelle’s balletic leap, the perfection of a swift’s wing. Our spirits are lifted by bronze beech leaves, smooth gray bark, the outrageous pale white of a ghost orchid standing proud in the dark. These are the stock-in-trade of leading photographers, painters, and poets across the world—the beauty of nature. But where does beauty end, and horror begin? If we find a lioness’s musculature, or the stoop of a peregrine beautiful, why don’t we likewise do a parasite devouring its host? And what if that host is us? This is the dilemma that M.C. Ginsberg sets out for us in his pathogen art. The answer, perhaps, (to quote Hannibal Lecter) lies within yourself. Our perception of beauty can be considered a simple side-effect of the evolutionary arms race— quite sordid actually. Like just about every other human emotion, it’s a trick to make us feel like we belong. We see beauty in a pouncing lion because we feel the excitement of escaping its pounce. We feel the thrill of the chase as we watch, transfixed, when a peregrine blasts through its prey. I’m reminded of the ultimate arbiter of Nature’s ‘‘blind, pitiless indifference’’ (Dawkins 1995)—Richard Dawkins who in 1991 had the honor of giving the Royal Institution Christmas Lectures (being ironical itself, in its religious underpinnings). As I remember it, to an audience of children, Dawkins described a child who stood in a meadow, EcoHealth 11, 277–278, 2014 DOI: 10.1007/s10393-014-0936-9
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Mar 28, 2022
Ana Margarida Sardo + 2
