A Museum for Math

There are those who identify as math people and those who do not. But Glen Whitney, a math person, believes that the distinction is a fallacy. He studied math at Harvard, went on to U.C.L.A. for a doctorate in mathematical logic, and, a few weeks ago, he opened the doors to the Museum of Math, or MoMath, across from Madison Square Park, on 26th Street—the only place in the world that has an L.E.D. foot-touch “Math Square” as a permanent exhibit. We were standing beside it, watching a young boy run in circles around it, while Whitney dismissed the idea that studying algebra is any different from learning to drive. It’s not as though some people just shrug and say, “I’m not a car person,” and then they have to take the bus. Whitney went on, “Our society portrays mathematics as this forbidden territory, where only initiates can go.”

For me, math was kept behind the locked door to my older brother’s bedroom, where he did his advanced-calculus homework. I understood very little of what transpired on the other side—he and his friends tossing around their T.I.-83s and telling logarithm jokes, perhaps—but from the strange smell I could imagine only that math was a potion with consciousness-expanding powers. Whitney, in glasses and a buttoned-up shirt, opened his palms to the “Wall of Fire”—a plane of laser light that cuts a cross-section through his hands—and said, “Our goals are primarily about affect, about people’s attitude toward things.” He observed the boy, who was still busy jogging. “We inspire lots of different kinds of behavior.”

The Museum of Math occupies two floors. More than two dozen exhibits are on view, and several more are scheduled to open later this year. It is the only math museum in the country. (There had been one, the Goudreau Museum, not far from Whitney’s home, on Long Island, but it closed several years ago.) MoMath is for children. There’s a contraption called “Coaster Rollers,” with a track that glides across acorn-shaped objects with the same diameter as a circle; the “Enigma Café,” where a boy named Wyatt attempted to fit T-shaped wooden blocks into a square board; and a square-wheeled trike, the highlight of the upper floor. A collection of first graders tinkered with architectural toys in the “Structure Studio,” while a couple of their classmates spun around plastic disks with moiré patterns. (One such pair of seemingly random grids contained a secret code; when overlaid at the proper angle, it read, “Happy Birthday William,” for a party to be held at the museum that afternoon.) There was so much leaping, chasing, and shrieking that a mother called out, “You’re in a museum—behave!”

Whitney walked me over to another colorful attraction. “This is the Harmony of the Spheres,” he began. Each ball represents a musical triad, and, with a touch of the hand, they glow and play corresponding chords. “This is major, minor, the diminished triad,” he said, with a slow and calculated tap on each. Suddenly, a flood of students rushed toward us. Three girls launched into an experimental concert, banging together an unmelodious cacophony. Whitney turned away from them, explaining, “And that’s musical chaos.”

The tour was rich with insights into the mathematical principles behind each of the interactive exhibits: “And that’s why they’re called conic sections!” Before MoMath found its home, Whitney gave mathematical tours of New York City. As he escorted me through the museum, I began to notice that the older visitors had crept up behind us to listen in on his commentary. While MoMath has an array of touch-and-feel immersive math activities, there is little to guide visitors through the meaning and application of the concepts that are illustrated. The museum’s large rooms are lined with screens that correspond to each of the scattered displays, with brief descriptions of the mathematical ideas at work, but these provide limited explanations—certainly not as extensive as Whitney’s—and go largely unnoticed in the shadow of the vibrant exhibits themselves. Though it’s hard to fault this museum for a lack of words, true initiates will have to go home and Google their way to a fuller understanding of their mathematical experience. Students don’t get tours; rather, they have a forty-five-minute classroom lesson followed by free rein in the museum. Still, that may be enough. If a kid leaves with the impression “That was really cool!” Whitney said, “that’s not the end of our mission, but it is the beginning.”

As I crossed the floor, a ring of sixth graders gathered for a turn at riding a bike in the middle of the museum, with the elated anticipation that is usually reserved for an amusement park. The volunteer in the center of the circular track solicited patrons like a circus ringmaster: “Line up! Who’s next?” The children clapped and cheered as the first two got their square wheels turning. I asked a boy, waiting in line for his turn, if he knew about the math behind this exercise. “You pedal,” he said. What else had he learned that morning? He kept his eyes on the tricycle he was waiting for, and said, “Lines do not end.”

Photograph: Courtesy MoMath

  • Betsy Morais, who was previously on The New Yorker’s editorial staff, is the managing editor of Columbia Journalism Review.

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