Tiny beauty: how I make scientific art from behind the microscope
Steve Gschmeissner images tiny creatures and viruses to show the public an unseen world
Cheese fungus, head lice, human sperm, a bee eye, a microplastic bobble: scientific photographer Steve Gschmeissner has imaged them all under the probing lens of a scanning electron microscope (SEM). In his colourized electron micrographs, faecal bacteria resemble thin spaghetti, silica-walled diatoms look like cubes of breakfast cereal and a segmented tardigrade resembles a curled-up, tubby piglet.
Gschmeissner, who has been imaging microbes, cancer cells and invertebrates for about 50 years, has crafted an extraordinary array of more than 10,000 SEM images, some of which have been featured in Nature.
He spoke to Nature about the importance of scientific images, looking at imploding cancer cells and the miniature world he found on a rotten raspberry.
This image of a rind of Camembert cheese shows Penicillium camemberti fungus (green) and bacteria (blue). The mix of bacteria and fungi contributes to the cheese's final flavour.
How did you begin creating your collection of electron-microscope shots?
My undergraduate degree is in zoology, and I first started doing electron microscopy in the department of anatomy at the Royal College of Surgeons of England in London. I then moved to Cancer Research UK (CRUK), also in London, where I was head of electron-microscopy services until 2006. When I was 57, I met Rose Taylor, the creative director at the Science Photo Library in London, and she helped me to realize that there is commercial demand for photographic imagery. For a few years, I continued to work at CRUK until I felt confident enough to pursue commercial image production, and then started doing that as a part-time business.
Pictured: A head louse (Pediculus humanus capitis) clinging to a strand of human hair.
Pictured: A head louse (Pediculus humanus capitis) clinging to a strand of human hair.
Pictured: The Delta variant of SARS-CoV-2 (red) buds from a human gut epithelial cell (blue).
Pictured: The Delta variant of SARS-CoV-2 (red) buds from a human gut epithelial cell (blue).
Pictured: The Delta variant of SARS-CoV-2 (red) buds from a human gut epithelial cell (blue).
What are some of the projects you’ve worked on recently?
For the past six years, I’ve been collaborating with Greg Towers, a molecular virologist at University College London, who supplies me with samples to photograph. We’ve looked at a variety of viruses, including SARS-CoV-2, which causes COVID-19.
The latest work I’ve done with Towers is a project on cancer-cell death. It’s the sort of work I love doing: science that tells a story with images. It’s been one of my most enjoyable and successful recent projects, because there’s very little else out there that shows what happens to cancer cells during chemotherapy.
What kinds of story are you telling with these images of cancer-cell death?
We show that chemotherapy isn’t a simple process, and it causes cell death in several ways. Basically, you want a chemotherapy drug — in this case, doxorubicin — to cause programmed cell death, called apoptosis, in which the cell implodes. This is ideal from a medical perspective, because the nucleus shrinks and fragments, minimizing damage to surrounding tissues. But chemotherapy can also cause necrosis, an uncontrolled destructive process, which is a less favourable outcome. Necrosis causes inflammation and other cell damage. Our SEM images show both apoptosis and necrosis.
How important is it in the fields of science and medicine to see human cells and bacteria in fine detail?
It’s absolutely essential. One of my most important roles is to help make science more accessible to the general public. In general, scientists often don’t appreciate how powerful images can be. But we live in a visual world, and many people can relate to images. What surprises me is that there is massive demand for high-resolution images. Not only are they used during research, but they’re almost like an art form. A lot of my images are sold as stand-alone art. My work has inspired fashion designers and even been used by the artist Damien Hirst.
Bacteria found in a human faecal sample.
Bacteria found in a human faecal sample.
A Triceratium formosum diatom, a single-celled alga with a glass-like cell wall.
A Triceratium formosum diatom, a single-celled alga with a glass-like cell wall.
This microscopic animal is called a tardigrade. In this dessicated form shown, it can survive in extreme environments and tolerate high radiation levels.
This microscopic animal is called a tardigrade. In this dessicated form shown, it can survive in extreme environments and tolerate high radiation levels.
A cultured cancer cell in the process of chemotherapy-induced apoptosis, or cell death.
A cultured cancer cell in the process of chemotherapy-induced apoptosis, or cell death.
What sorts of reaction do you get from the public?
Children love anything that’s a bit gross or a bit scary. People say to me, “You’re looking at horrible things — cancer cells, viruses, bacteria — but you make them look attractive and beautiful. Is that a contradiction?” It sounds odd, but a cancer cell can produce a beautiful image. People who have cancer have said to me, “Seeing the image helps me relate to my cancer.” Or, “I know what I’m up against.”
Can you tell me about the process of creating these images?
When you use an electron microscope, you’re looking at the specimen in a vacuum. It has to be prepared so that it can survive in that vacuum, under bombardment by electrons. You preserve it and dehydrate and carefully dry it so that it doesn’t become distorted. Then, you coat it in a very fine layer of gold or another metal, to reflect the electrons from its surface. Only black-and-white images are formed in this way, so you have to colour them.
All my colouring is done in Photoshop. The amount of time it takes to colour an image depends on its complexity; it can range from half an hour to several hours, and often takes several sessions.
Pictured: The SARS-CoV-2 Delta variant (blue dots) buds from a human gut epithelial cell that is displaying protrusions (pink) of its plasma membrane.
For a few years, I’ve worked at the School of Pharmacy at University College London. I pay to rent time on its SEM. Costs vary from institute to institute, but rental fees of £100–200 (US$125–250) for an hour in front of the microscope are not unusual.
From start to finish, the process of creating an image that I’m proud of can take several days; cells might need to be cultured, preserved, dried, coated, photographed, coloured and captioned. It took me a few years to hone my colouring skill, and the colouring process is constantly improving as my technique and the software improve.
What’s your favourite thing you’ve photographed using the SEM?
I think viruses, because you can’t visualize them in any other way. But I will look at anything. I love looking at insects because of their complex anatomical details. I don’t know what I’m going to see under the microscope, so I often find things that are unexpected or visually interesting.
For example, some raspberries that I was growing in a garden plot last year were infected by fungus. I thought, “That’d make a nice image.” When I got a sample into the microscope, I found a couple of little creatures grazing on the fungus on the leaf. Not only did I image the fungus, but I imaged a mite and a hoverfly larva that was eating the fungus.
In the past ten years, people have realized how crucial our biomes are. We have millions and millions of symbiotic bacteria. We would die without them — they play an essential part in food digestion, and help to train the immune system. The microscopic world, the bacterial world, the fungal world: the world wouldn’t exist as we know it without them.
Pictured: A midge larva on raspberry rust, a disease on the berries' foliage that is caused by a fungus.
Pictured: A midge larva on raspberry rust, a disease on the berries' foliage that is caused by a fungus.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
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