Gazing into creation’s light

Gazing into creation’s light

Orion Nebula • ESA/Hubble

Originally published 29 June 1992

On a night that is per­fect­ly dark and clear, the naked eye can just dis­cern the Great Ori­on Neb­u­la as a patch of fuzzy white light in the sword of Ori­on. It might eas­i­ly be mis­tak­en for a star, but the light we see is the light of many stars, new­ly born, embed­ded in a cloud of glow­ing gas.

The Ori­on neb­u­la is 1,500 light-years from Earth. It is the clos­est and bright­est of the neb­u­las that pop­u­late the arms of the Milky Way galaxy. It is rough­ly spher­i­cal in shape, and big enough to hold 20,000 solar sys­tems. There is enough hydro­gen, heli­um, and oth­er mate­ri­als in the cloud to form 10,000 stars like our sun. The light from the neb­u­la comes most­ly from the radi­a­tion of dou­bly ion­ized oxy­gen (green) and the alpha radi­a­tion of ion­ized hydro­gen (red). The gas is made to glow by the ener­gy of hot young stars embed­ded in the neb­u­la, stars only recent­ly born of the stuff of the neb­u­la itself.

In a mod­er­ate-sized tele­scope, the neb­u­la shines with an eerie green light, and the eye sees hints of shape — like a curled, lumi­nous hand. Four jew­el-like stars, the Trapez­i­um, glit­ter in the palm. This is a show­piece object for pro­fes­sion­al and ama­teur astronomers, and nev­er fails to elic­it “ooohs” and “ahhhs” from first-time viewers.

Long-expo­sure pho­tographs of the Ori­on neb­u­la reveal a stun­ning com­plex of stars in the trau­ma of birth, swad­dled in vor­tices and stream­ers of lumi­nous gas, knot­ted by grav­i­ty — a star-cra­dle mea­sured by light-years and charged with the ener­gy of creation.

The col­ors of the neb­u­la are as var­i­ous as the pho­tographs. On Koda­col­or 400 film, Ori­on’s great cloud is plum and lilac, cerulean blue and milky white. On Ektachrome 400 the neb­u­la is apri­cot and red, tint­ed with deep ochers and browns. On Koda­col­or 1000 film Ori­on’s neb­u­la is mauve and amethyst, blushed with rose.

All of these col­ors seem to reveal some aspect of the neb­u­la’s beau­ty, but most of the col­ors are arti­facts of the film; they are not what the eye would see if we could approach the neb­u­la and stand in its awe­some light.

No one has tak­en more spec­tac­u­lar pho­tographs of the Ori­on neb­u­la than David Malin, a British-born astropho­tog­ra­ph­er at the Anglo-Aus­tralian Obser­va­to­ry in New South Wales. Malin is quite sim­ply the world’s best pro­fes­sion­al pho­tog­ra­ph­er of the heav­ens. For his finest shot of the Ori­on neb­u­la, he used the 1.2 meter UK Schmidt tele­scope at Sid­ing Spring, Aus­tralia, to make three sin­gle-col­or pho­tographs on 14-inch-square glass plates, each with a dif­fer­ent col­or fil­ter, which were com­bined into one col­or image. Fil­ters and emul­sions were cho­sen to give a uni­form col­or response across the spec­trum. Spe­cial mask­ing tech­niques were used to bring out detail.

Mal­in’s por­trait of the Ori­on Neb­u­la reminds me of noth­ing so much as an etch­ing by the mystic/artist William Blake — a por­tal to eter­ni­ty flanked by angels with diaphanous wings. And indeed, this is a kind of por­tal. The hot young stars at the core of the neb­u­la have burned away the side of their cocoon, allow­ing us to look deep into the fur­nace of cre­ation. These stars are prob­a­bly no more than 100,000 years old. We are wit­ness to the inte­ri­or of a furi­ous work­shop where grav­i­ty and fusion bring stars and plan­ets into being.

In Mal­in’s pho­to­graph, the green glow that we see in a small tele­scope com­bines with the reds and blues of the typ­i­cal Koda­col­or print to brown and yel­low the light. The image reveals peach, rose, olive, and orange — and grays banked against the black of space like ash. These are pre­sum­ably the col­ors we would see if we approached the nebula.

Mal­in’s pho­to­graph of the Ori­on neb­u­la appears in the June [1992] issue of Sci­en­tif­ic Amer­i­can, as a small inset next to a full-page image of a tiny cor­ner of the neb­u­la pro­vid­ed by the Hub­ble Space Tele­scope. The col­ors are less real­is­tic than in Mal­in’s pho­to­graph, but we see details nev­er achieved before — new­born stars float­ing in a gaudy matrix of seething gas.

The Hub­ble’s Wide Field and Plan­e­tary Cam­era took three 10-minute expo­sures of the neb­u­la, in three col­ors of light, and this data was assem­bled on Earth into one com­put­er-gen­er­at­ed image. The result is spec­tac­u­lar, but for sheer dra­mat­ic beau­ty com­put­er images do not yet com­pete with the exquis­ite beau­ty of a glass-plate emulsion.

Each new image of the Ori­on neb­u­la reveals pre­vi­ous­ly unseen details of this mag­nif­i­cent star-spawn­ing cloud. Togeth­er, these images shake us to the soles of our feet. The human eye is a poor explor­er of the night. The col­or recep­tors in the reti­na of the human eye do not work well in faint light. That’s why the uni­verse we see at night is black and white. And that’s why the Ori­on neb­u­la appears to the eye as a fuzzy white dot.

As explor­ers of the uni­verse, we are no longer pris­on­ers of our bio­log­i­cal sens­es. The sci­ence of astropho­tog­ra­phy has thrown open a win­dow on eter­ni­ty. It comes as a huge sur­prise that the fuzzy white dot is a seething whirlpool of col­or, stirred by angels, spawn­ing stars.

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