Tag Archives: LIGO

Classicality Has Consequences

Last week, I mentioned some interesting new results in my corner of physics. I’ve now finally read the two papers and watched the recorded talk, so I can satisfy my frustrated commenters.

Quantum mechanics is a very cool topic and I am much less qualified than you would expect to talk about it. I use quantum field theory, which is based on quantum mechanics, so in some sense I use quantum mechanics every day. However, most of the “cool” implications of quantum mechanics don’t come up in my work. All the debates about whether measurement “collapses the wavefunction” are irrelevant when the particles you measure get absorbed in a particle detector, never to be seen again. And while there are deep questions about how a classical world emerges from quantum probabilities, they don’t matter so much when all you do is calculate those probabilities.

They’ve started to matter, though. That’s because quantum field theorists like me have recently started working on a very different kind of problem: trying to predict the output of gravitational wave telescopes like LIGO. It turns out you can do almost the same kind of calculation we’re used to: pretend two black holes or neutron stars are sub-atomic particles, and see what happens when they collide. This trick has grown into a sub-field in its own right, one I’ve dabbled in a bit myself. And it’s gotten my kind of physicists to pay more attention to the boundary between classical and quantum physics.

The thing is, the waves that LIGO sees really are classical. Any quantum gravity effects there are tiny, undetectably tiny. And while this doesn’t have the implications an expert might expect (we still need loop diagrams), it does mean that we need to take our calculations to a classical limit.

Figuring out how to do this has been surprisingly delicate, and full of unexpected insight. A recent example involves two papers, one by Andrea Cristofoli, Riccardo Gonzo, Nathan Moynihan, Donal O’Connell, Alasdair Ross, Matteo Sergola, and Chris White, and one by Ruth Britto, Riccardo Gonzo, and Guy Jehu. At first I thought these were two groups happening on the same idea, but then I noticed Riccardo Gonzo on both lists, and realized the papers were covering different aspects of a shared story. There is another group who happened upon the same story: Paolo Di Vecchia, Carlo Heissenberg, Rodolfo Russo and Gabriele Veneziano. They haven’t published yet, so I’m basing this on the Gonzo et al papers.

The key question each group asked was, what does it take for gravitational waves to be classical? One way to ask the question is to pick something you can observe, like the strength of the field, and calculate its uncertainty. Classical physics is deterministic: if you know the initial conditions exactly, you know the final conditions exactly. Quantum physics is not. What should happen is that if you calculate a quantum uncertainty and then take the classical limit, that uncertainty should vanish: the observation should become certain.

Another way to ask is to think about the wave as made up of gravitons, particles of gravity. Then you can ask how many gravitons are in the wave, and how they are distributed. It turns out that you expect them to be in a coherent state, like a laser, one with a very specific distribution called a Poisson distribution: a distribution in some sense right at the border between classical and quantum physics.

The results of both types of questions were as expected: the gravitational waves are indeed classical. To make this work, though, the quantum field theory calculation needs to have some surprising properties.

If two black holes collide and emit a gravitational wave, you could depict it like this:

where the straight lines are black holes, and the squiggly line is a graviton. But since gravitational waves are made up of multiple gravitons, you might ask, why not depict it with two gravitons, like this?

It turns out that diagrams like that are a problem: they mean your two gravitons are correlated, which is not allowed in a Poisson distribution. In the uncertainty picture, they also would give you non-zero uncertainty. Somehow, in the classical limit, diagrams like that need to go away.

And at first, it didn’t look like they do. You can try to count how many powers of Planck’s constant show up in each diagram. The authors do that, and it certainly doesn’t look like it goes away:

An example from the paper with Planck’s constants sprinkled around

Luckily, these quantum field theory calculations have a knack for surprising us. Calculate each individual diagram, and things look hopeless. But add them all together, and they miraculously cancel. In the classical limit, everything combines to give a classical result.

You can do this same trick for diagrams with more graviton particles, as many as you like, and each time it ought to keep working. You get an infinite set of relationships between different diagrams, relationships that have to hold to get sensible classical physics. From thinking about how the quantum and classical are related, you’ve learned something about calculations in quantum field theory.

That’s why these papers caught my eye. A chunk of my sub-field is needing to learn more and more about the relationship between quantum and classical physics, and it may have implications for the rest of us too. In the future, I might get a bit more qualified to talk about some of the very cool implications of quantum mechanics.

Amplitudes 2021 Retrospective

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Phew!

Now that I’ve rested up after this year’s Amplitudes, I’ll give a few of my impressions.

Overall, I think the conference went pretty well. People seemed amused by the digital Niels Bohr, even if he looked a bit like a puppet (Lance compared him to Yoda in his final speech, which was…apt). We used Gather.town, originally just for the poster session and a “virtual reception”, but later we also encouraged people to meet up in it during breaks. That in particular was a big hit: I think people really liked the ability to just move around and chat in impromptu groups, and while nobody seemed to use the “virtual bar”, the “virtual beach” had a lively crowd. Time zones were inevitably rough, but I think we ended up with a good compromise where everyone could still see a meaningful chunk of the conference.

A few things didn’t work as well. For those planning conferences, I would strongly suggest not making a brand new gmail account to send out conference announcements: for a lot of people the emails went straight to spam. Zulip was a bust: I’m not sure if people found it more confusing than last year’s Slack or didn’t notice it due to the spam issue, but almost no-one posted in it. YouTube was complicated: the stream went down a few times and I could never figure out exactly why, it may have just been internet issues here at the Niels Bohr Institute (we did have a power outage one night and had to scramble to get internet access back the next morning). As far as I could tell YouTube wouldn’t let me re-open the previous stream so each time I had to post a new link, which probably was frustrating for those following along there.

That said, this was less of a problem than it might have been, because attendance/”viewership” as a whole was lower than expected. Zoomplitudes last year had massive numbers of people join in both on Zoom and via YouTube. We had a lot fewer: out of over 500 registered participants, we had fewer than 200 on Zoom at any one time, and at most 30 or so on YouTube. Confusion around the conference email might have played a role here, but I suspect part of the difference is simple fatigue: after over a year of this pandemic, online conferences no longer feel like an exciting new experience.

The actual content of the conference ranged pretty widely. Some people reviewed earlier work, others presented recent papers or even work-in-progress. As in recent years, a meaningful chunk of the conference focused on applications of amplitudes techniques to gravitational wave physics. This included a talk by Thibault Damour, who has by now mostly made his peace with the field after his early doubts were sorted out. He still suspected that the mismatch of scales (weak coupling on the one hand, classical scattering on the other) would cause problems in future, but after his work with Laporta and Mastrolia even he had to acknowledge that amplitudes techniques were useful.

In the past I would have put the double-copy and gravitational wave researchers under the same heading, but this year they were quite distinct. While a few of the gravitational wave talks mentioned the double-copy, most of those who brought it up were doing something quite a bit more abstract than gravitational wave physics. Indeed, several people were pushing the boundaries of what it means to double-copy. There were modified KLT kernels, different versions of color-kinematics duality, and explorations of what kinds of massive particles can and (arguably more interestingly) cannot be compatible with a double-copy framework. The sheer range of different generalizations had me briefly wondering whether the double-copy could be “too flexible to be meaningful”, whether the right definitions would let you double-copy anything out of anything. I was reassured by the points where each talk argued that certain things didn’t work: it suggests that wherever this mysterious structure comes from, its powers are limited enough to make it meaningful.

A fair number of talks dealt with what has always been our main application, collider physics. There the context shifted, but the message stayed consistent: for a “clean” enough process two or three-loop calculations can make a big difference, taking a prediction that would be completely off from experiment and bringing it into line. These are more useful the more that can be varied about the calculation: functions are more useful than numbers, for example. I was gratified to hear confirmation that a particular kind of process, where two massless particles like quarks become three massive particles like W or Z bosons, is one of these “clean enough” examples: it means someone will need to compute my “tardigrade” diagram eventually.

If collider physics is our main application, N=4 super Yang-Mills has always been our main toy model. Jaroslav Trnka gave us the details behind Nima’s exciting talk from last year, and Nima had a whole new exciting talk this year with promised connections to category theory (connections he didn’t quite reach after speaking for two and a half hours). Anastasia Volovich presented two distinct methods for predicting square-root symbol letters, while my colleague Chi Zhang showed some exciting progress with the elliptic double-box, realizing the several-year dream of representing it in a useful basis of integrals and showcasing several interesting properties. Anne Spiering came over from the integrability side to show us just how special the “planar” version of the theory really is: by increasing the number of colors of gluons, she showed that one could smoothly go between an “integrability-esque” spectrum and a “chaotic” spectrum. Finally, Lance Dixon mentioned his progress with form-factors in his talk at the end of the conference, showing off some statistics of coefficients of different functions and speculating that machine learning might be able to predict them.

On the more mathematical side, Francis Brown showed us a new way to get numbers out of graphs, one distinct but related to our usual interpretation in terms of Feynman diagrams. I’m still unsure what it will be used for, but the fact that it maps every graph to something finite probably has some interesting implications. Albrecht Klemm and Claude Duhr talked about two sides of the same story, their recent work on integrals involving Calabi-Yau manifolds. They focused on a particular nice set of integrals, and time will tell whether the methods work more broadly, but there are some exciting suggestions that at least parts will.

There’s been a resurgence of the old dream of the S-matrix community, constraining amplitudes via “general constraints” alone, and several talks dealt with those ideas. Sebastian Mizera went the other direction, and tried to test one of those “general constraints”, seeing under which circumstances he could prove that you can swap a particle going in with an antiparticle going out. Others went out to infinity, trying to understand amplitudes from the perspective of the so-called “celestial sphere” where they appear to be governed by conformal field theories of some sort. A few talks dealt with amplitudes in string theory itself: Yvonne Geyer built them out of field-theory amplitudes, while Ashoke Sen explained how to include D-instantons in them.

We also had three “special talks” in the evenings. I’ve mentioned Nima’s already. Zvi Bern gave a retrospective talk that I somewhat cheesily describe as “good for the soul”: a look to the early days of the field that reminded us of why we are who we are. Lance Dixon closed the conference with a light-hearted summary and a look to the future. That future includes next year’s Amplitudes, which after a hasty discussion during this year’s conference has now localized to Prague. Let’s hope it’s in person!

Black Holes, Neutron Stars, and the Power of Love

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What’s the difference between a black hole and a neutron star?

When a massive star nears the end of its life, it starts running out of nuclear fuel. Without the support of a continuous explosion, the star begins to collapse, crushed under its own weight.

What happens then depends on how much weight that is. The most massive stars collapse completely, into the densest form anything can take: a black hole. Einstein’s equations say a black hole is a single point, infinitely dense: get close enough and nothing, not even light, can escape. A quantum theory of gravity would change this, but not a lot: a quantum black hole would still be as dense as quantum matter can get, still equipped with a similar “point of no return”.

A slightly less massive star collapses, not to a black hole, but to a neutron star. Matter in a neutron star doesn’t collapse to a single point, but it does change dramatically. Each electron in the old star is crushed together with a proton until it becomes a neutron, a forced reversal of the more familiar process of Beta decay. Instead of a ball of hydrogen and helium, the star then ends up like a single atomic nucleus, one roughly the size of a city.

Not kidding about the “city” thing…and remember, this is more massive than the Sun

Now, let me ask a slightly different question: how do you tell the difference between a black hole and a neutron star?

Sometimes, you can tell this through ordinary astronomy. Neutron stars do emit light, unlike black holes, though for most neutron stars this is hard to detect. In the past, astronomers would use other objects instead, looking at light from matter falling in, orbiting, or passing by a black hole or neutron star to estimate its mass and size.

Now they have another tool: gravitational wave telescopes. Maybe you’ve heard of LIGO, or its European cousin Virgo: massive machines that do astronomy not with light but by detecting ripples in space and time. In the future, these will be joined by an even bigger setup in space, called LISA. When two black holes or neutron stars collide they “ring” the fabric of space and time like a bell, sending out waves in every direction. By analyzing the frequency of these waves, scientists can learn something about what made them: in particular, whether the waves were made by black holes or neutron stars.

One big difference between black holes and neutron stars lies in something called their “Love numbers“. From far enough away, you can pretend both black holes and neutron stars are single points, like fundamental particles. Try to get more precise, and this picture starts to fail, but if you’re smart you can include small corrections and keep things working. Some of those corrections, called Love numbers, measure how much one object gets squeezed and stretched by the other’s gravitational field. They’re called Love numbers not because they measure how hug-able a neutron star is, but after the mathematician who first proposed them, A. E. H. Love.

What can we learn from Love numbers? Quite a lot. More impressively, there are several different types of questions Love numbers can answer. There are questions about our theories, questions about the natural world, and questions about fundamental physics.

You might have heard that black holes “have no hair”. A black hole in space can be described by just two numbers: its mass, and how much it spins. A star is much more complicated, with sunspots and solar flares and layers of different gases in different amounts. For a black hole, all of that is compressed down to nothing, reduced to just those two numbers and nothing else.

With that in mind, you might think a black hole should have zero Love numbers: it should be impossible to squeeze it or stretch it. This is fundamentally a question about a theory, Einstein’s theory of relativity. If we took that theory for granted, and didn’t add anything to it, what would the consequences be? Would black holes have zero Love number, or not?

It turns out black holes do have zero Love number, if they aren’t spinning. If they are, things are more complicated: a few calculations made it look like spinning black holes also had zero Love number, but just last year a more detailed proof showed that this doesn’t hold. Somehow, despite having “no hair”, you can actually “squeeze” a spinning black hole.

(EDIT: Folks on twitter pointed out a wrinkle here: more recent papers are arguing that spinning black holes actually do have zero Love number as well, and that the earlier papers confused Love numbers with a different effect. All that is to say this is still very much an active area of research!)

The physics behind neutron stars is in principle known, but in practice hard to understand. When they are formed, almost every type of physics gets involved: gas and dust, neutrino blasts, nuclear physics, and general relativity holding it all together.

Because of all this complexity, the structure of neutron stars can’t be calculated from “first principles” alone. Finding it out isn’t a question about our theories, but a question about the natural world. We need to go out and measure how neutron stars actually behave.

Love numbers are a promising way to do that. Love numbers tell you how an object gets squeezed and stretched in a gravitational field. Learning the Love numbers of neutron stars will tell us something about their structure: namely, how squeezable and stretchable they are. Already, LIGO and Virgo have given us some information about this, and ruled out a few possibilities. In future, the LISA telescope will show much more.

Returning to black holes, you might wonder what happens if we don’t stick to Einstein’s theory of relativity. Physicists expect that relativity has to be modified to account for quantum effects, to make a true theory of quantum gravity. We don’t quite know how to do that yet, but there are a few proposals on the table.

Asking for the true theory of quantum gravity isn’t just a question about some specific part of the natural world, it’s a question about the fundamental laws of physics. Can Love numbers help us answer it?

Maybe. Some theorists think that quantum gravity will change the Love numbers of black holes. Fewer, but still some, think they will change enough to be detectable, with future gravitational wave telescopes like LISA. I get the impression this is controversial, both because of the different proposals involved and the approximations used to understand them. Still, it’s fun that Love numbers can answer so many different types of questions, and teach us so many different things about physics.

Unrelated: For those curious about what I look/sound like, I recently gave a talk of outreach advice for the Max Planck Institute for Physics, and they posted it online here.

Reality as an Algebra of Observables

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Listen to a physicist talk about quantum mechanics, and you’ll hear the word “observable”. Observables are, intuitively enough, things that can be observed. They’re properties that, in principle, one could measure in an experiment, like the position of a particle or its momentum. They’re the kinds of things linked by uncertainty principles, where the better you know one, the worse you know the other.

Some physicists get frustrated by this focus on measurements alone. They think we ought to treat quantum mechanics, not like a black box that produces results, but as information about some underlying reality. Instead of just observables, they want us to look for “beables“: not just things that can be observed, but things that something can be. From their perspective, the way other physicists focus on observables feels like giving up, like those physicists are abandoning their sacred duty to understand the world. Others, like the Quantum Bayesians or QBists, disagree, arguing that quantum mechanics really is, and ought to be, a theory of how individuals get evidence about the world.

I’m not really going to weigh in on that debate, I still don’t feel like I know enough to even write a decent summary. But I do think that one of the instincts on the “beables” side is wrong. If we focus on observables in quantum mechanics, I don’t think we’re doing anything all that unusual. Even in other parts of physics, we can think about reality purely in terms of observations. Doing so isn’t a dereliction of duty: often, it’s the most useful way to understand the world.

When we try to comprehend the world, we always start alone. From our time in the womb, we have only our senses and emotions to go on. With a combination of instinct and inference we start assembling a consistent picture of reality. Philosophers called phenomenologists (not to be confused with the physicists called phenomenologists) study this process in detail, trying to characterize how different things present themselves to an individual consciousness.

For my point here, these details don’t matter so much. That’s because in practice, we aren’t alone in understanding the world. Based on what others say about the world, we conclude they perceive much like we do, and we learn by their observations just as we learn by our own. We can make things abstract: instead of the specifics of how individuals perceive, we think about groups of scientists making measurements. At the end of this train lie observables: things that we as a community could in principle learn, and share with each other, ignoring the details of how exactly we measure them.

If each of these observables was unrelated, just scattered points of data, then we couldn’t learn much. Luckily, they are related. In quantum mechanics, some of these relationships are the uncertainty principles I mentioned earlier. Others relate measurements at different places, or at different times. The fancy way to refer to all these relationships is as an algebra: loosely, it’s something you can “do algebra with”, like you did with numbers and variables in high school. When physicists and mathematicians want to do quantum mechanics or quantum field theory seriously, they often talk about an “algebra of observables”, a formal way of thinking about all of these relationships.

Focusing on those two things, observables and how they are related, isn’t just useful in the quantum world. It’s an important way to think in other areas of physics too. If you’ve heard people talk about relativity, the focus on measurement screams out, in thought experiments full of abstract clocks and abstract yardsticks. Without this discipline, you find paradoxes, only to resolve them when you carefully track what each person can observe. More recently, physicists in my field have had success computing the chance particles collide by focusing on the end result, the actual measurements people can make, ignoring what might happen in between to cause that measurement. We can then break measurements down into simpler measurements, or use the structure of simpler measurements to guess more complicated ones. While we typically have done this in quantum theories, that’s not really a limitation: the same techniques make sense for problems in classical physics, like computing the gravitational waves emitted by colliding black holes.

With this in mind, we really can think of reality in those terms: not as a set of beable objects, but as a set of observable facts, linked together in an algebra of observables. Paring things down to what we can know in this way is more honest, and it’s also more powerful and useful. Far from a betrayal of physics, it’s the best advantage we physicists have in our quest to understand the world.

What Tells Your Story

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I watched Hamilton on Disney+ recently. With GIFs and songs from the show all over social media for the last few years, there weren’t many surprises. One thing that nonetheless struck me was the focus on historical evidence. The musical Hamilton is based on Ron Chernow’s biography of Alexander Hamilton, and it preserves a surprising amount of the historian’s care for how we know what we know, hidden within the show’s other themes. From the refrain of “who tells your story”, to the importance of Eliza burning her letters with Hamilton (not just the emotional gesture but the “gap in the narrative” it created for historians), to the song “The Room Where It Happens” (which looked from GIFsets like it was about Burr’s desire for power, but is mostly about how much of history is hidden in conversations we can only partly reconstruct), the show keeps the puzzle of reasoning from incomplete evidence front-and-center.

Any time we try to reason about the past, we are faced with these kinds of questions. They don’t just apply to history, but to the so-called historical sciences as well, sciences that study the past. Instead of asking “who” told the story, such scientists must keep in mind “what” is telling the story. For example, paleontologists reason from fossils, and thus are limited by what does and doesn’t get preserved. As a result after a century of studying dinosaurs, only in the last twenty years did it become clear they had feathers.

Astronomy, too, is a historical science. Whenever astronomers look out at distant stars, they are looking at the past. And just like historians and paleontologists, they are limited by what evidence happened to be preserved, and what part of that evidence they can access.

These limitations lead to mysteries, and often controversies. Before LIGO, astronomers had an idea of what the typical mass of a black hole was. After LIGO, a new slate of black holes has been observed, with much higher mass. It’s still unclear why.

Try to reason about the whole universe, and you end up asking similar questions. When we see the movement of “standard candle” stars, is that because the universe’s expansion is accelerating, or are the stars moving as a group?

Push far enough back and the evidence doesn’t just lead to controversy, but to hard limits on what we can know. No matter how good our telescopes are, we won’t see light older than the cosmic microwave background: before that background was emitted the universe was filled with plasma, which would have absorbed any earlier light, erasing anything we could learn from it. Gravitational waves may one day let us probe earlier, and make discoveries as surprising as feathered dinosaurs. But there is yet a stronger limit to how far back we can go, beyond which any evidence has been so diluted that it is indistinguishable from random noise. We can never quite see into “the room where it happened”.

It’s gratifying to see questions of historical evidence in a Broadway musical, in the same way it was gratifying to hear fractals mentioned in a Disney movie. It’s important to think about who, and what, is telling the stories we learn. Spreading that lesson helps all of us reason better.

QCD Meets Gravity 2020, Retrospective

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I was at a Zoomference last week, called QCD Meets Gravity, about the many ways gravity can be thought of as the “square” of other fundamental forces. I didn’t have time to write much about the actual content of the conference, so I figured I’d say a bit more this week.

A big theme of this conference, as in the past few years, was gravitational waves. From LIGO’s first announcement of a successful detection, amplitudeologists have been developing new methods to make predictions for gravitational waves more efficient. It’s a field I’ve dabbled in a bit myself. Last year’s QCD Meets Gravity left me impressed by how much progress had been made, with amplitudeologists already solidly part of the conversation and able to produce competitive results. This year felt like another milestone, in that the amplitudeologists weren’t just catching up with other gravitational wave researchers on the same kinds of problems. Instead, they found new questions that amplitudes are especially well-suited to answer. These included combining two pieces of these calculations (“potential” and “radiation”) that the older community typically has to calculate separately, using an old quantum field theory trick, finding the gravitational wave directly from amplitudes, and finding a few nice calculations that can be used to “generate” the rest.

A large chunk of the talks focused on different “squaring” tricks (or as we actually call them, double-copies). There were double-copies for cosmology and conformal field theory, for the celestial sphere, and even some version of M theory. There were new perspectives on the double-copy, new building blocks and algebraic structures that lie behind it. There were talks on the so-called classical double-copy for space-times, where there have been some strange discoveries (an extra dimension made an appearance) but also a more rigorous picture of where the whole thing comes from, using twistor space. There were not one, but two talks linking the double-copy to the Navier-Stokes equation describing fluids, from two different groups. (I’m really curious whether these perspectives are actually useful for practical calculations about fluids, or just fun to think about.) Finally, while there wasn’t a talk scheduled on this paper, the authors were roped in by popular demand to talk about their work. They claim to have made progress on a longstanding puzzle, how to show that double-copy works at the level of the Lagrangian, and the community was eager to dig into the details.

From there, a grab-bag of talks covered other advancements. There were talks from string theorists and ambitwistor string theorists, from Effective Field Theorists working on gravity and the Standard Model, from calculations in N=4 super Yang-Mills, QCD, and scalar theories. Simon Caron-Huot delved into how causality constrains the theories we can write down, showing an interesting case where the common assumption that all parameters are close to one is actually justified. Nima Arkani-Hamed began his talk by saying he’d surprise us, which he certainly did (and not by keeping on time). It’s tricky to explain why his talk was exciting. Comparing to his earlier discovery of the Amplituhedron, which worked for a toy model, this is a toy calculation in a toy model. While the Amplituhedron wasn’t based on Feynman diagrams, this can’t even be compared with Feynman diagrams. Instead of expanding in a small coupling constant, this expands in a parameter that by all rights should be equal to one. And instead of positivity conditions, there are negativity conditions. All I can say is that with all of that in mind, it looks like real progress on an important and difficult problem from a totally unanticipated direction. In a speech summing up the conference, Zvi Bern mentioned a few exciting words from Nima’s talk: “nonplanar”, “integrated”, “nonperturbative”. I’d add “differential equations” and “infinite sums of ladder diagrams”. Nima and collaborators are trying to figure out what happens when you sum up all of the Feynman diagrams in a theory. I’ve made progress in the past for diagrams with one “direction”, a ladder that grows as you add more loops, but I didn’t know how to add “another direction” to the ladder. In very rough terms, Nima and collaborators figured out how to add that direction.

I’ve probably left things out here, it was a packed conference! It’s been really fun seeing what the community has cooked up, and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

QCD Meets Gravity 2020

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I’m at another Zoom conference this week, QCD Meets Gravity. This year it’s hosted by Northwestern.

QCD Meets Gravity is a conference series focused on the often-surprising links between quantum chromodynamics on the one hand and gravity on the other. By thinking of gravity as the “square” of forces like the strong nuclear force, researchers have unlocked new calculation techniques and deep insights.

Last year’s conference was very focused on one particular topic, trying to predict the gravitational waves observed by LIGO and VIRGO. That’s still a core topic of the conference, but it feels like there is a bit more diversity in topics this year. We’ve seen a variety of talks on different “squares”: new theories that square to other theories, and new calculations that benefit from “squaring” (even surprising applications to the Navier-Stokes equation!) There are talks on subjects from String Theory to Effective Field Theory, and even a talk on a very different way that “QCD meets gravity”, in collisions of neutron stars.

With still a few more talks to go, expect me to say a bit more next week, probably discussing a few in more detail. (Several people presented exciting work in progress!) Until then, I should get back to watching!

Discovering the Rules, Discovering the Consequences

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Two big physics experiments consistently make the news. The Large Hadron Collider, or LHC, and the Laser Interferometer Gravitational-Wave Observatory, or LIGO. One collides protons, the other watches colliding black holes and neutron stars. But while this may make the experiments sound quite similar, their goals couldn’t be more different.

The goal of the LHC, put simply, is to discover the rules that govern reality. Should the LHC find a new fundamental particle, it will tell us something we didn’t know about the laws of physics, a newly discovered fact that holds true everywhere in the universe. So far, it has discovered the Higgs boson, and while that particular rule was expected we didn’t know the details until they were tested. Now physicists hope to find something more, a deviation from the Standard Model that hints at a new law of nature altogether.

LIGO, in contrast, isn’t really for discovering the rules of the universe. Instead, it discovers the consequences of those rules, on a grand scale. Even if we knew the laws of physics completely, we can’t calculate everything from those first principles. We can simulate some things, and approximate others, but we need experiments to tweak those simulations and test those approximations. LIGO fills that role. We can try to estimate how common black holes are, and how large, but LIGO’s results were still a surprise, suggesting medium-sized black holes are more common than researchers expected. In the future, gravitational wave telescopes might discover more of these kinds of consequences, from the shape of neutron stars to the aftermath of cosmic inflation.

There are a few exceptions for both experiments. The LHC can also discover the consequences of the laws of physics, especially when those consequences are very difficult to calculate, finding complicated arrangements of known particles, like pentaquarks and glueballs. And it’s possible, though perhaps not likely, that LIGO could discover something about quantum gravity. Quantum gravity’s effects are expected to be so small that these experiments won’t see them, but some have speculated that an unusually large effect could be detected by a gravitational wave telescope.

As scientists, we want to know everything we can about everything we find. We want to know the basic laws that govern the universe, but we also want to know the consequences of those laws, the story of how our particular universe came to be the way it is today. And luckily, we have experiments for both.

Zoomplitudes Retrospective

4 gravitons

The trials and tribulations of four gravitons and a physicist