not only can data be wrong in science, it can be
misleading.
There isn’t such a thing as a hard fact when you’re
trying to discover something. It’s only afterwards that the facts become hard.
Francis Crick
The evidence that p53 had been miscast as an oncogene and was in fact a tumour
suppressor
had been accumulating in parallel with the work on the retinoblastoma gene.
At the forefront of this challenge to received wisdom was Bert Vogelstein, a legendary figure in the p53 story, whose lab has been involved in many of the most important discoveries relating to the
gene. On a stunningly hot afternoon in July 2012, I travelled to Baltimore to meet him, climbing the stairs of an elegant office block, all glass and sunlight and potted greenery, overlooking the
original old hospital of Johns Hopkins.
Vogelstein’s lab is famed almost as much for its fun as for its hard work. For years he headed a rock band, a bunch of musicians from his lab who called themselves Wild Type and who played
at scientific conferences and other venues. The band broke up when the drummer’s wife died of leukaemia and, with children to care for alone, he had to drop out.
‘We started the band mainly to develop
esprit de corps
in the lab. Everybody liked it, scientists liked it – we used toplay for scientists. And it
was fun!’ Vogelstein told me later. ‘I think it’s important to have outside activities. I certainly encourage everyone who works here to do so. Most people who have looked at
creativity have recognised that inspiration often comes in the off moments when you’re not focusing on exactly what you’re doing.’
Arriving a little early for our meeting, I waited in the lobby and leafed through a photo album I found lying on a low coffee table – pictures of Vogelstein’s lab
‘family’ at conferences and social gatherings, and of Wild Type in their heyday playing gigs. Beside the albums on the coffee table was a copy of
Grant Making for Dummies.
When
he emerged from his office, hand outstretched, I was struck by how slight a figure Vogelstein is and by the expression of impish fun on his face as he led the way into his large, cool office and
motioned towards a swivel chair. Against the back wall I noticed the keyboard which, he told me, he likes to tinkle on from time to time during the day.
Now in his sixties, Vogelstein has an air of restless energy and as he talked about his life in science his conversation was punctuated by an extraordinary high-pitched laugh that sounded like a
cross between mirth and tears. He comes from a long line of rabbis – 13, he believes – but he defied his apparent destiny to study science. He came into cancer research in 1978, at the
height of the oncogene craze, setting up his own lab at Johns Hopkins, where he had qualified as a medical doctor and spent a few years on the wards. In his spare time at medical school he had
worked in the molecular biology lab of Howard Dintzis and loved it. ‘I started doing research with Howard just to learn what research was, and I did it every summer and every chance I could
get during the school year – when I had an elective, or at nights and weekends. And then I also learnt how to take care of patients. I found both of them very satisfying, but I found the
research more intellectually stimulating. It was a tough choice, because the gratification you get fromtreating patients is often immediate, whereas the gratification you
get from doing research can sometimes take years – and sometimes never comes. But probably the defining moments were when I started taking care of cancer patients.’
Vogelstein’s first paediatric case was a little girl named Melissa, just three years old, whose parents brought her to hospital because she was pale and had suddenly become prone to
bruising. Vogelstein diagnosed leukaemia. ‘It’s still scary when I think about it, because my own granddaughter is two and a half.’ He broke off for a
misleading.
There isn’t such a thing as a hard fact when you’re
trying to discover something. It’s only afterwards that the facts become hard.
Francis Crick
The evidence that p53 had been miscast as an oncogene and was in fact a tumour
suppressor
had been accumulating in parallel with the work on the retinoblastoma gene.
At the forefront of this challenge to received wisdom was Bert Vogelstein, a legendary figure in the p53 story, whose lab has been involved in many of the most important discoveries relating to the
gene. On a stunningly hot afternoon in July 2012, I travelled to Baltimore to meet him, climbing the stairs of an elegant office block, all glass and sunlight and potted greenery, overlooking the
original old hospital of Johns Hopkins.
Vogelstein’s lab is famed almost as much for its fun as for its hard work. For years he headed a rock band, a bunch of musicians from his lab who called themselves Wild Type and who played
at scientific conferences and other venues. The band broke up when the drummer’s wife died of leukaemia and, with children to care for alone, he had to drop out.
‘We started the band mainly to develop
esprit de corps
in the lab. Everybody liked it, scientists liked it – we used toplay for scientists. And it
was fun!’ Vogelstein told me later. ‘I think it’s important to have outside activities. I certainly encourage everyone who works here to do so. Most people who have looked at
creativity have recognised that inspiration often comes in the off moments when you’re not focusing on exactly what you’re doing.’
Arriving a little early for our meeting, I waited in the lobby and leafed through a photo album I found lying on a low coffee table – pictures of Vogelstein’s lab
‘family’ at conferences and social gatherings, and of Wild Type in their heyday playing gigs. Beside the albums on the coffee table was a copy of
Grant Making for Dummies.
When
he emerged from his office, hand outstretched, I was struck by how slight a figure Vogelstein is and by the expression of impish fun on his face as he led the way into his large, cool office and
motioned towards a swivel chair. Against the back wall I noticed the keyboard which, he told me, he likes to tinkle on from time to time during the day.
Now in his sixties, Vogelstein has an air of restless energy and as he talked about his life in science his conversation was punctuated by an extraordinary high-pitched laugh that sounded like a
cross between mirth and tears. He comes from a long line of rabbis – 13, he believes – but he defied his apparent destiny to study science. He came into cancer research in 1978, at the
height of the oncogene craze, setting up his own lab at Johns Hopkins, where he had qualified as a medical doctor and spent a few years on the wards. In his spare time at medical school he had
worked in the molecular biology lab of Howard Dintzis and loved it. ‘I started doing research with Howard just to learn what research was, and I did it every summer and every chance I could
get during the school year – when I had an elective, or at nights and weekends. And then I also learnt how to take care of patients. I found both of them very satisfying, but I found the
research more intellectually stimulating. It was a tough choice, because the gratification you get fromtreating patients is often immediate, whereas the gratification you
get from doing research can sometimes take years – and sometimes never comes. But probably the defining moments were when I started taking care of cancer patients.’
Vogelstein’s first paediatric case was a little girl named Melissa, just three years old, whose parents brought her to hospital because she was pale and had suddenly become prone to
bruising. Vogelstein diagnosed leukaemia. ‘It’s still scary when I think about it, because my own granddaughter is two and a half.’ He broke off for a
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