Steven J. Gortler
Robert I. Goldman Professor of Computer Science
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When we walk into Computer Science professor Steven J. Gortler’s office, it’s hard not to notice the wasp nests. Five of the brittle honeycomb structures dangle from the ceiling, swaying gently on lengths of twine.
But don’t worry, he assures us — there are no live bugs to be found.
“In the fall, after the freezes, they abandon the nest,” Gortler explains. “I wasn’t sure the first time I got one down, I was a little worried, but I’ve gotten less worried.” Even so, dead bugs do tend to fall out of his nests occasionally, he tells us.
Gortler began collecting the nests about three years ago after encountering one on a stroll.
“I take walks most days, and started noticing wasp nests, and they were kind of neat,” he recalls. “It kind of became a puzzle of, ‘how can I get these down?’” For his first find, he lassoed tree branches with a rope to pull the nest down. After obtaining one, he quickly took a liking to it, and his fascination grew.
Though he gets most of these specimens for free, Gortler’s latest acquisition did come with a cost — he paid a conveniently situated landscaping company $20 to clip it off a tree.
“Once you find two, there’s no stopping,” he says seriously.
Gortler teaches computer graphics as well as Applied Math 22A (a class that combines linear algebra and multivariate calculus). When we ask him if his office decorations apply to his teaching, he simply shrugs. “I do work with structures and geometry, but nothing specific. It's just a coincidence,” he says.
Unfortunately, few students have had the chance to observe the structures up close. Battling wind and rain, we — three helpless humanities concentrators — get lost not only in the Science Center (which we mistook for the Science and Engineering Complex) but also the SEAS Cruft Laboratory. Finally, we locate Gortler on the fifth floor of the near-deserted SEC in Allston (closed to all but authorized persons for Indigenous Peoples’ Day).
“Sometimes it’s too quiet,” Gortler admits. “It’d be nice to have more people around.”
***
David Damrosch
Ernest Bernbaum Professor of Comparative Literature
Chair, Executive Committee, Institute for World Literature
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In Professor David Damrosch’s ochre-painted office at Dana-Palmer House, books featuring themes of “fire” and “burning” hang from inside a decommissioned fireplace. Among the nine volumes include Ray Bradbury’s “Fahrenheit 451,” Dante’s “Inferno,” and David Sedaris’ “When You Are Engulfed in Flames.” From afar, the colorful titles seem to levitate upwards like licks of a fire.
“I put a couple of sticks inside the flue of the fireplace, and then just cords to bring them down to make a nice little arrangement,” Damrosch explains.
Damrosch is a Comparative Literature professor who specializes in world literature, and he teaches the intro class COMPLIT 110X: “What is a Novel?” In his office, Damrosch curates a curious spread of objects that visualize his transcontinental interests (he works in 12 languages).
Atop the mantlepiece sits an assortment of memorabilia from the some fifty countries Damrosch has lectured in. There’s a set of postcards depicting Ho Chi Minh — the former President of Vietnam — practicing sports and physical activities to inspire his subjects. There are a pair of ceramic feet from China with fortuitous insects perched atop the toes. Two small goat figures that were allegedly dug up from a field in Iran perch to the left of the pediment.
While visiting the Mexican state of Guerrero, Damrosch also collected masks from Aztec descendants who craft and don them for dance rites. Fixed above the fireplace, the masks point to Damrosch’s longtime engagement with classical Nahuatl literature. Damrosch started taking Nahuatl in graduate school and has since translated ancient Aztec texts into English for broader contexts and audiences.
He tells us that one of the masks depicts the Nahua woman La Malinche, who served as Hernán Cortés’ forced wife and interpreter during his conquest of the Aztec empire. The artisans painted La Malinche with European features, including glassy blue eyes and peach-colored skin, to reflect her betrayal of the Nahuatl people. As Damrosch relates, La Malinche is understood by locals as a kind of “gringa”— a figure parallel to Hollywood’s archetype of Marilyn Monroe.
Now orienting ourselves to the left of the fireplace, a row of finger puppets populate the drawers of a metal file cabinet. Damrosch accumulated these magnets from teaching GENED1030: “The Philosopher and the Tyrant.” He invites students to nominate memes or historical characters related to the week’s readings and after a round of voting, the prevailing figure (be it Plato, Heidegger, Shakespeare, or Queen Elizabeth) receives a puppet created by the Unemployed Philosophers’ Guild. The Guild’s proceeds go to a variety of social causes such as Amnesty International, The Episcopal Actors’ Guild, and the Brooklyn Public Library.
Finally, Damrosch draws our attention to a more obscure but enduring feature of the space — on the window between the fireplace and the cabinet, the words “Theodore Lyman” are etched in glass. They reference the name of a student who stayed in the room from 1851 to 1857.
Before housing Harvard’s Comparative Literature department, the Dana-Palmer House once served as the college’s observatory, a faculty residence, and an abode for guests of the University. Upon arriving at Harvard and moving into his office fifteen years ago, Professor Damrosch noticed the text inscribed into the glass and now points it out to his visitors.
“There’s a certain history of the building,” Damrosch acknowledges with a small smile.“I like to feel at home when I'm there.”
“I’m kind of a homebody myself,” he says.
***
Matt Reichert
Preceptor on Social Studies
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“I’m not actually really a plant person,” says Matt Reichert, raising his mug. Behind him, strains of pothos twine across his bookshelf, and pillars of inch plant cascade down either side of the writing table. An army of succulents share windowsill space with Lego flowers; on the rug or atop a shelf, pots of orchids and Ficus audrey sit at different corners and elevations.
Before Reichert became a Preceptor in Social Studies and settled into William James Hall, he worked from a cubicle in CGIS Knafel as a Ph.D. Candidate in the Government Department. Back then, Reichert didn’t keep any plants around the workspace, but with William James’ large and south-facing windows, he figured that life could thrive without much maintenance. Reichert’s hunch panned out—his collection persists and teems without much intervention.
It helps that Reichert’s partner is really good with plants. Once a month, she drops by and inspects for harmful bugs like mealy worms, thrips, or spider mites. Between these intervals, Reichert also recruits other helpers to keep the pests at bay.
“If you can see,” Reichert gently lifts up a tangle of pothos, “there’s little paper satchels here and there.”
Scattered underneath the dense growth are pockets that carry beneficial mites. To the human eye, these tiny beings appear more like loose powder than any recognizable insect, but they diffuse through the paper to prey on parasites that harm the plants.
“I buy them from a company called Good Bugs. When they send you all the packets, they also send you a mesh bag of 1000 ladybugs that help control the aphid population,” Reichert explains.
The rest of Reichert’s office is an elaborate melange of books, artworks, tchotchkes, and various memorabilia.
A son of a woodworker, much of Reichert’s furniture bears his, or his father’s touch. He proudly shows us his side table, a small shaker-style table he crafted. Sheepishly, Reichert adds that “They’re actually also for sale on my Etsy store.”
His Etsy Store, named “MattReichertDesigns,” has two five-star reviews and currently displays two handmade shaker-style end tables painted green and white. They’re selling for around $300 dollars each.
Other notable features of his office:
- A little steam engine that his grandfather made.
- Microfilm from historian Terry Martin.
- A vast collection of mugs (including one from the Art Institute of Chicago featuring Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks).
- A “picture of my old barber when I was a kid.”
- A pen and ink illustration of a rat in a Chinese food container.
- A little Soviet Red cavalry hat.
- A painting by a Ukrainian artist of a bagel with three-dimensional cream cheese protruding from the canvas.
- A cardboard slab that parodies Clifford Geertz’s essay “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight.” Reichert explained that the slab was the former Social Studies Director of Undergraduate Studies’ Halloween costume (she dressed up as Clifford Geertz’s concept of Thick Description). Reichert salvaged it from its fate of being thrown out.
Reichert has a sentimental connection to much of his collection, but he also admits, “I’m always browsing Facebook marketplace for junk to buy.”
Curiously, despite Reichert’s hunter-gathering, his office appeared quite neat. We asked if he always kept his office so organized.
With a conspiratorial grin, Reichert admits, “No, I did tidy it for you guys.”
