Runfan Yang
In 2000, the Museum of Modern Art installed an exhibition titled Useless Science, showcasing how artists adopted and reinterpreted scientific imagery to explore alternative methods of inquiry. Unlike applied research, which aims to solve specific problems, artists such as Alexander Calder and Marcel Duchamp were drawn to an idealized form of “pure” research — driven not by concrete questions or anticipated outcomes, but by open-ended curiosity. They combined geometry and mechanics with contrasting materials like wood and textile to orchestrate oscillating movements and shifting optical illusions. Calder’s A Universe, for instance, features an arrangement of shapes made from metal pipe, plastic wire, and wood. Powered by a small electric motor, these elements rotate to evoke the dynamism of cosmic space. Rather than replicating the universe through scientific models, Calder challenged traditional notions of utility and purpose in scientific inquiry. In the context of Useless Science, the term useless takes on a layered meaning. By embracing exploration for its own sake, these artists invite us to reconsider the intrinsic value of curiosity — an inquiry unbound by practical outcomes or predetermined significance.
However, in research grants, scientists are typically required to include sections titled Significance and Innovation. These components are designed to highlight the importance of the proposed project and to articulate how it will advance scientific knowledge, technical capabilities, or clinical practice within one or more broad fields. While the primary goal of such structured proposals is to allocate available research funding toward improving human and environmental health, what happens when a project falls outside established guidelines? Are such proposals dismissed as unworthy of funding – or, worse, regarded as irrelevant or even useless by the academic community?
Within the realm of research grants and academic evaluation, projects that fall outside the established frameworks of Significance and Innovation often struggle to secure funding or gain recognition. The rigid structures and expectations imposed on scientific inquiry serve not only to guide research priorities, but also to quantify the success and value of scientists themselves. In the current academic system with established grant guidelines, certain explorations – unbound by immediate application or predictable outcomes – can be overlooked, despite their potential to reshape our understanding of the vast unknowns in unforeseeable ways.
Dr. Katalin Karikó is currently a researcher and adjunct professor of neurosurgery at the University of Pennsylvania. Long before her groundbreaking work on mRNA earned global recognition with the 2023 Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine, Karikó and her research faced persistent institutional resistance. She was demoted four times from her role as a research assistant professor and had her lab space revoked. Despite the university’s swift embrace of its affiliation with the newly minted Nobel laureate, it had, for years, significantly underfunded and deprioritized her research on mRNA.
From the university’s perspective, its hesitation may not have been entirely unfounded. Before the COVID-19 pandemic, the development of mRNA-based therapeutics was widely seen as unstable and expensive. Karikó’s efforts were often met with skepticism, even dismissal, from colleagues and supervisors alike. In her memoir, Breaking Through: My Life in Science, she recalls feeling ignored and undervalued, as the institution showed little faith in the future of her work. Nevertheless, Karikó persisted. In 2005, alongside her future co-Nobel laureate Drew Weissman, she answered what is now recognized as one of the most critical challenges in the field: how to bypass the innate immune response triggered by synthetic mRNA. Yet the significance of their discovery went largely unacknowledged. Prestigious journals like Nature rejected the manuscript, labeling it an “incremental contribution.” It was eventually published in Immunity, a respected but often underappreciated journal. The peer review process overlooked this significant breakthrough — as did the institution where it was made. The University of Pennsylvania referenced this lack of external recognition in its decision not to reinstate her to a faculty position, raising concerns about her “faculty quality.”
While it is understandable for venture capitalists to evaluate proposals through the lens of predictable returns – favoring projects that promise marketable outcomes or high visibility – should academic institutions be guided by the same principles? Is it fair to discourage researchers from pursuing slower, less conventional paths of inquiry simply because they may not yield immediate recognition through prestigious publications, major grants, or institutional prestige?
The institution’s hesitation to embrace the value of Karikó’s work offers an opportunity to reflect on how research is assessed within academic institutions. Many of the most transformative scientific breakthroughs stem from slow, methodical, and curiosity-driven inquiry — paths that often unfold outside the spotlight and do not lend themselves to quick recognition. In hindsight, the awarding of the Nobel Prize has affirmed the significance of Karikó’s contributions. Moving forward, papers bearing her name are unlikely to be overlooked, and grant funding will likely follow, regardless of the journal in which her work appears. This shift underscores a sobering reality: recognition and support often come after the fact, rather than when they are most needed.
Karikó’s experience highlights how formal academic systems, while designed to support scientific progress, can sometimes struggle to accommodate work that doesn’t follow familiar paths. In fields like biomedical research, where careers often hinge on publication records, grant cycles, and institutional affiliation, it can be difficult for unconventional ideas to find early support. Yet the pursuit of scientific understanding takes many forms, and not all discoveries emerge within the structure of academia. Katia and Maurice Krafft, two volcanologists who worked independently of universities and traditional research institutions, offer a different but equally compelling example.
Katia and Maurice Krafft were French volcanologists of the late 20th century renowned for their unwavering passion for volcanoes. They dedicated their lives to documenting eruptions up close, often within feet of the lava flows. The documentary Fire of Love explored their careers, highlighting their collection of gas samples from volcanic explosions. Braving pyroclastic surges – searing gas and rock – pummeling them through the thin armor of hand-made heat suits, they ventured deep into active eruptions. To collect crucial samples, they even crossed acidic lakes in dormant volcanic craters. The Kraffts never held formal academic positions or sought grant funding for their research, setting them apart from the conventional scientific community. Despite lacking support from any established academic department or institution, the Kraffts continued to publish books and scientific papers on volcanic activities. They documented their knowledge through photography and videos, sharing it with the public to inspire interest and build support for their work. They even gave talks in nursing homes, seeking out anyone who might be interested in their passion for volcanoes.
At the time, the scientific community had not observed a major explosive eruption in decades. This historical gap in eruption events meant that the Kraffts’ research was seen as speculative by many. The gas and rock samples they collected, along with their records of volcanic activity, were often viewed as having limited practical value. Volcanoes, at the time, posed no immediate threat, and their work was considered more about understanding volcanic ecosystems than addressing pressing, real-world issues. The broader questions that drove the Kraffts – about the formation of Earth’s crust and the movement of tectonic plates – were considered to be more philosophical than practical.
In 1980, 14 years after Katia and Maurice Krafft began documenting volcanic activity, Mount St. Helens in Washington erupted. The explosion lasted nine hours, sending a towering plume of super-heated ash, volcanic particles, and magmatic gases into the stratosphere, while unleashing pyroclastic flows filled with pieces of lava and eruption ash to tore through the landscape. It triggered the largest landslide in recorded history and became one of the most devastating volcanic events in U.S. history. Until then, the Kraffts had primarily focused their cameras on effusive eruptions — those with slower, more predictable lava flows. But the sheer scale and violence of Mount St. Helens marked a turning point. Their extensive experience documenting volcanic behavior, along with their technical expertise in capturing high-risk phenomena, made them uniquely equipped to study explosive eruptions. They shifted their attention to these far more violent eruptions to understand the rapid release of pressure and the dynamics of gas-charged magma upon eruption.
This transition gained even more urgency after the 1985 eruption of Nevado del Ruiz in Colombia, where a volcanic mudflow killed 25,000 people. Despite warnings from local volcanologists, the threat was tragically underestimated. Limited scientific reports and technical data failed to convey the immediacy and severity of the danger. What was thought to be some harmless running mud became a fast-moving wall of debris, rock, and water. In the wake of the disaster, the Kraffts recognized that raw data alone was not enough to move people to action. They turned instead to the persuasive power of visual evidence. With their cameras, the Kraffts captured footage of explosive eruptions and transformed it into educational videos that illustrated the nature of volcanic hazards: their speed, reach, and destructive force. These films had a profound impact, helping to bridge the gap between scientific knowledge and public understanding. What was once dismissed as reckless and unconventional fieldwork was now seen as essential. Their daring documentation became a powerful tool for awareness and preparedness, turning skeptics into believers and saving lives in the process.
Katia and Maurice Krafft dedicated their entire lives to deepening their understanding of volcanology. Fittingly – and tragically – their lives ended on a volcano in 1991 when they were caught in a pyroclastic flow. The last known footage from the Kraffts was discovered on an abandoned camera, capturing their final moments as they stood on Mount Unzen, still doing what they loved: exploring the unknowns of volcanoes. One week after their deaths, Mount Pinatubo erupted in the Philippines — one of the most catastrophic eruptions of the 20th century. Yet this time, 58,000 people were evacuated in time. Many credited the Kraffts’ visual materials for helping to communicate the seriousness of the threat. Their legacy endures not only in the scientific insights they captured but in the lives their work helped to protect.
Katalin Karikó, Katia Krafft, and Maurice Krafft – once seen as misfits or outliers in their respective fields – challenged conventional norms, expanded the boundaries of scientific inquiry, and pursued questions that often lay beyond immediate practicality. While their work may have once seemed esoteric or outside the mainstream, their contributions invite a broader reflection on the intrinsic purpose and value of scientific inquiry. The question of whether science should always serve a direct, practical purpose is not easily resolved — especially when navigating constraints around funding, training, and career development. Yet, time and again, we see that simply committing to “doing good work,” even in the face of adversity, can lead to profound breakthroughs. As a graduate student still finding my way in academia, I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But many of the mentors and role models I’ve encountered have shown me that good science begins with rigor, integrity, and genuine curiosity. It means asking meaningful questions, designing careful experiments, analyzing data thoughtfully, and remaining open to uncertainty and feedback. Most importantly, it means having the patience to grow, the humility to keep learning, and the courage to stay committed to one’s work.
Still, it’s clear that the broader system plays a significant role in shaping the direction of scientific research. The traditional funding process, while designed to ensure rigor and accountability, can sometimes make it challenging for unconventional or early-stage ideas to gain momentum. Many have observed that these processes often emphasize feasibility and measurable outcomes, which can unintentionally sideline more exploratory work. Encouragingly, some institutions are working to create space for different approaches. The National Science Foundation’s Early-concept Grants for Exploratory Research, for example, are specifically designed to support high-risk, high-reward projects with transformative potential. Similarly, the John Templeton Foundation is providing resources for contrarian thinkers and ambitious proposals that challenge dominant narratives. While these efforts are not yet the norm, they hint at what a more open and imaginative research culture might look like — one where the curiosity and courage to pursue meaningful questions are not only valued, but strongly supported.
Peer Editor: Elizabeth Abrash