My PhD supervisor, Professor Chris Abell, passed away, too soon, last year. The awful news brought back a flood of memories of my time with him, which in turn made me try to figure out why I felt a rush of gratitude. Gratitude that it is now too late to express to him. I am a PhD supervisor. I often wonder about the nature of the impact I have had, or not, on my students as they leave the lab and go out into the wider world. Such departures between mentor and student are hugely emotional, and I probably ought to show it much more than I do. Sometimes students express their feelings directly, years later. This always means a huge amount to me. I spent a fun evening with Chris and Katherine in Madrid in 2015 and I wish I'd taken the opportunity to say Thank You. I think about all this particularly keenly as my own boys are growing up. The creative, slow-burn impact one might have on how people grow.
It's difficult to frame coherent thoughts on the mentor-student relationship, and complicated to write them down, but chemists are supposed to be good at distillation, so:
1) Chris was generous in spirit. He wanted the best for his students. He would give, intellectually, without thought of reward.
2) He loved ideas. And he loved talking about ideas. He just loved that part of life. He would frequently accompany his research group to the tea room (ah, the old tea room) during breaks and engage with whatever nonsense we were talking about. I remember once describing some theory I had about aluminium metal causing Alzheimer's, and lightheartedly suggested I would not be scrubbing my pans too hard any more. Chris listened and kind of nodded, like he thought this was plausible, which at the time really freaked me out.
This picture is how I remember Chris most fondly - sitting somewhere, fully engaged in conversation about something new and interesting.
I remember one beautiful summer evening when we were invited for food and drinks at his house. I recovered from recounting to Katherine some particularly inappropriate Seinfeld moment and followed people into the garden, where we sat on the grass listening to Chris explain what he knew of the shikimate pathway and why Roundup worked. The sun set, the blue sky deepened and the breeze rustled the flowers as he sketched pathways on an easel. He held this event for no reason other than it was fun to talk about interesting things. It remains for me one of those "this is what academia is meant to be" moments.
3) He was supportive. He would often play Devil's Advocate, forcefully. It was important for students to withstand this, and to realise that such sparring was the most important form of intellectual support. During a PhD we screw up, or we coast and lose focus. We apply for jobs and we make mistakes. Chris was unfailingly supportive and had a good word to say no matter what. I'd love to list a selection of examples, but these will probably all remain private moments between me and him, despite their significance to me and the insights they give to who he was.
4) He was laissez-faire. So was my postdoc supervisor Paul Bartlett, actually. In turn it's made me fairly hands off. Some people don't thrive in such an environment, but I saw how this can make people develop their own ideas, enthusiasm and scientific direction. Chris was around if you needed him - he'd sometimes come into the lab and just sit down without a reason. There was no particular need to talk about recent results, and I think sometimes the details could bore him. This led his students to talk to each other to solve technical and scientific problems quickly. It created a thriving intellectual atmosphere where we had plenty of time to figure out what we were interested in. The challenge was whether we could take an idea to Chris that was more interesting than the thing he had in his head, that day. Hours sitting in recliners in the Chemistry library reading goodness knows what, and I knew he'd approve.
My PhD supervisor, Professor Chris Abell, passed away, too soon, last year. The awful news brought back a flood of memories of my time with him, which in turn made me try to figure out why I felt a rush of gratitude. Gratitude that it is now too late to express to him. I am a PhD supervisor. I often wonder about the nature of the impact I have had, or not, on my students as they leave the lab and go out into the wider world. Such departures between mentor and student are hugely emotional, and I probably ought to show it much more than I do. Sometimes students express their feelings directly, years later. This always means a huge amount to me. I spent a fun evening with Chris and Katherine in Madrid in 2015 and I wish I'd taken the opportunity to say Thank You. I think about all this particularly keenly as my own boys are growing up. The creative, slow-burn impact one might have on how people grow.
It's difficult to frame coherent thoughts on the mentor-student relationship, and complicated to write them down, but chemists are supposed to be good at distillation, so:
1) Chris was generous in spirit. He wanted the best for his students. He would give, intellectually, without thought of reward.
2) He loved ideas. And he loved talking about ideas. He just loved that part of life. He would frequently accompany his research group to the tea room (ah, the old tea room) during breaks and engage with whatever nonsense we were talking about. I remember once describing some theory I had about aluminium metal causing Alzheimer's, and lightheartedly suggested I would not be scrubbing my pans too hard any more. Chris listened and kind of nodded, like he thought this was plausible, which at the time really freaked me out.
This picture is how I remember Chris most fondly - sitting somewhere, fully engaged in conversation about something new and interesting.
I remember one beautiful summer evening when we were invited for food and drinks at his house. I recovered from recounting to Katherine some particularly inappropriate Seinfeld moment and followed people into the garden, where we sat on the grass listening to Chris explain what he knew of the shikimate pathway and why Roundup worked. The sun set, the blue sky deepened and the breeze rustled the flowers as he sketched pathways on an easel. He held this event for no reason other than it was fun to talk about interesting things. It remains for me one of those "this is what academia is meant to be" moments.
3) He was supportive. He would often play Devil's Advocate, forcefully. It was important for students to withstand this, and to realise that such sparring was the most important form of intellectual support. During a PhD we screw up, or we coast and lose focus. We apply for jobs and we make mistakes. Chris was unfailingly supportive and had a good word to say no matter what. I'd love to list a selection of examples, but these will probably all remain private moments between me and him, despite their significance to me and the insights they give to who he was.
4) He was laissez-faire. So was my postdoc supervisor Paul Bartlett, actually. In turn it's made me fairly hands off. Some people don't thrive in such an environment, but I saw how this can make people develop their own ideas, enthusiasm and scientific direction. Chris was around if you needed him - he'd sometimes come into the lab and just sit down without a reason. There was no particular need to talk about recent results, and I think sometimes the details could bore him. This led his students to talk to each other to solve technical and scientific problems quickly. It created a thriving intellectual atmosphere where we had plenty of time to figure out what we were interested in. The challenge was whether we could take an idea to Chris that was more interesting than the thing he had in his head, that day. Hours sitting in recliners in the Chemistry library reading goodness knows what, and I knew he'd approve.
5) He laughed. Loud. Jeez, I miss that.
I know it's too late now, but thank you, Chris.