Goya: Beauty Unmasked

Francisco de Goya, a late 18th to early 19th century Spanish painter of the Romantic school, is a fascinating study in evolving style, a visual descent into deafness, isolation, and existential dread, though more philosophically, his lifelong disillusionment with civilization’s failure to embody the Enlightenment’s promised ideals of reason, justice, and human dignity. His art swung like a pendulum, from crisp detail to loose rendering to the raw emotion of a mind increasingly separated from reason.

As a court painter to the Spanish monarchy, Goya’s portraits became canvases for cynicism, derision, and paradox. He offered scathing critiques hidden beneath formal composition, and the court loved him for it. They mistook his precision for praise, even as he quietly dismantled their poise and splendor.

His colossal canvas Charles IV of Spain and His Family (110 × 132”) does not illustrate majesty or brilliance; it immerses the senses in familial estrangement and tedium. Awkward poses; lifeless gazes; a composition emotionally hollowed, drained of vitality and intent. These are not confident rulers but bored figures waiting for the dinner bell to summon a distraction: ceremonial chatter over fish soup and presentation of chocolates. In the background of the painting, Goya includes himself, brush in hand, an artist caught in the act of witnessing. It was a nod to Velázquez’s Las Meninas; Goya once said he “had only three masters: Nature, Velázquez, and Rembrandt”; but here, reverence turns to scorn. Goya didn’t flatter his subjects; he distorted the real, undermining not his own reverence for form, but theirs. His royal figures do not speak; they stare blankly, confirming that the emperor wears no clothes. He looked beneath the surface in search of beauty and instead found something far less attractive, an insignificant echo of a tired reality.

Goya’s notion of beauty, conventionally understood, remained intact. But in his subjects, he saw hypocrisy, a lie, elegantly draped, concealing the moral disfigurement beneath. This critique finds haunting expression in his etching Nadie se Conoce (“Nobody recognizes himself”), Plate No. 6 of Los Caprichos, where masked carnival patrons drift like phantoms of untruth. On the reverse of the plate, Goya inscribed his chilling reflection: “The world is a mask; the face, the costume, and the voice are all feigned. Everyone wants to appear what they are not, everyone deceives, and no one knows himself.”

Goya painted the existential. His late works: The Disasters of War, The Black Paintings, The Madhouse, Saturn Devouring His Son, reveal more of his suffering psyche than his technical ability. Anthony Cascardi argues in Francisco de Goya and the Art of Critique that Goya’s entire oeuvre is a sustained confrontation with Enlightenment ideals. Reason and beauty dissolve under his brush. Societal decay no longer whispers, it screams.

In style, Goya stands at the edge of the Impressionist movement, decades before its arrival. His gestural freedom, emotional brushwork, and psychological texture prefigure the rawness of Manet and even hint at Bacon’s existential grotesque. Paint becomes not just medium but mood, an extension of perception unraveling. Form overrides detail. But Goya moved to a darker rhythm, his brushwork shades where theirs shimmered. Where Monet dances with light, Goya wrestles with darkness. The Impressionists chose beauty over Goya’s emotional appeal, which ultimately served to mock his subjects’ feigned grace.

Unlike Picasso’s theatrical mockery, Goya’s assessment is surgical. He dispenses with pretense and seeks truth, not a truth easily embraced, but one rooted in the soul’s unpleasant, hidden recesses. Picasso once echoed a similar sentiment in a 1923 interview with The Arts: “Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand.” Art distorts to reveal what reality conceals, truth not always visible, but deeply felt. Superficial beauty without the soul is not art, it is a lie.

In contrast to today’s symbolic excess, where the subject is buried beneath concept and symbols, Goya’s portraits are revealing to the point of brutality. He doesn’t idealize; he removes the layers of deceit. The beast within becomes the subject. His cynicism is constant, his honesty sometimes absurd, but always truthful.

Goya takes a moral stance. His genius lies in the ability to paint the conscious with the unconscious, to render not just what he saw, but what he felt and feared, the form with the spiritual. His style matched his psyche. He painted the perceived rot beneath grandeur, the weariness behind powdered wigs, the absurdity beneath court spectacle.

Goya’s fame was built and balanced on a knife’s edge: he gave the rich what they wanted in form, while seeding beneath it a quiet, damning truth. That duality, beauty as lure, truth as blade, is Goya’s lasting contribution to art.

Graphic: Self-Portrait at 69 Years, by Goya, 1815. Museo del Prado-Madrid.

Sunny Side Up: Gömböc, Bille, and the Geometry of Falling

In Shel Silverstein’s poem “Falling Up,” a child trips on his shoelace and soars skyward instead of tumbling down. A delightful inversion of reality, a child’s imagination conjuring tomorrow’s focus. In the world of mathematics and physics, a similar inversion has captivated minds for decades: can you design an object that always falls the same way, always sunny side up, no matter how it starts, like a cat landing on all fours.

In the realm of numbers and materials this is the problem of monostability: creating a shape that, when placed in any orientation, will always return to a single, stable resting position. It’s a deceptively simple question with grudgingly difficult solutions. And it has at least two very different answers.

The first answer to the cat landing on all fours came in 2006 with the discovery of the Gömböc, a smooth, convex, homogeneous shape that rights itself without any differential weighting or moving parts. Invented by Hungarians Gábor Domokos and Péter Várkonyi, the Gömböc, meaning “little sphere or roundy” in Hungarian, has only one stable and one unstable equilibrium point. No matter how you place it, it will wobble and roll until it settles in its preferred orientation.

The Gömböc is a triumph of pure geometry. It solves the monostability problem using only shape, no tricks, no hidden weights but some serious math. It’s been compared to a mathematical cat: always landing on its feet, a design with a natural convergence toward the domed asymmetry of tortoise shells, whose shapes nature may have unconsciously optimized for self-righting.

Although uses for Gömböc are still being explored, some have developed designs for passive orientation systems, and the name has been co-opted for a company that is building self-correcting cloud infrastructure.

The second answer came recently in June of this year, when Gergő Almádi, Robert Dawson, and Gábor Domokos, of Gomboc fame, constructed a monostable tetrahedron, a four-faced scalene or irregular polyhedron that always lands on the same face which they named Bille: “to tip or to tilt” in Hungarian. A solution to a decades-old conjecture by John Conway, a Princeton polymath professor, with a talent for finding tangible solutions to abstract problems.

In this case, unlike the geometric solution of the Gömböc, geometry enables self-righting only when paired with carefully engineered mass distribution: a lightweight carbon-fiber frame and a dense tungsten-carbide core, precisely positioned to shift the center of gravity into a narrow “loading zone.” It’s a hybrid of form and force, where the shape permits monostability, but the mass forces the issue.

Unlike the Gömböc, which might inspire real-world designs, the monostable tetrahedron is too fragile, too constrained, and too dependent on ideal conditions to be practical. It’s a mathematical curiosity, not an engineering breakthrough. But like numerous mathematical solutions, practicality may occupy some interesting spaces in the future because landing on your feet is a useful function in many areas of commerce and science.

In space exploration lunar landers have recently had a bad, and expensive habit of falling over. In marine safety, users of escape pods and lifeboats prefer them to remain upright and watertight. Come to think most occupants of any watercraft prefer to remain upright and dry. Robots and drones benefit from shapes that naturally return them to a functional position without motors or sensors.

In the end, both the Gömböc and the weighted tetrahedron are about their inevitable position and stability. They are objects that always know where they stand. One does it with elegance; the other with abstraction and compromise. One is a cat. The other is a clever box of lead and air.

And maybe that’s the real lesson of “falling up”: that sometimes, the most interesting ideas aren’t the ones that solve problems, but the ones that reframe the question, and quietly remind us that some problems, left alone, reveal their own solutions.

As Calvin Coolidge once observed, “If you see ten troubles coming down the road, you can be sure that nine will run into the ditch before they reach you.” Meaning he didn’t need to attack and solve 10 problems, just the persistent one. The Gömböc and Bille didn’t wait for the problem to develop, they honored the ditch. Their designs never left the ditch. The problem never materialized in the first place.

Source: Mon-monstatic Bodies by Varkonyi and Domokos, Springer Science, 2006. Bulilding a Monostable Tetrahedron by Almadi et al, arXiv, 2025.

Drunken Monkey Hypothesis–Good Times, Bad Times

In 2004, biologist Robert Dudley of UC Berkeley proposed the Drunken Monkey Hypothesis, a theory suggesting that our attraction to alcohol is not a cultural accident but an evolutionary inheritance. According to Dudley, our primate ancestors evolved a taste for ethanol (grain alcohol) because it signaled ripe, energy-rich, fermenting fruit, a valuable resource in dense tropical forests. Those who could tolerate small amounts of naturally occurring ethanol had a foraging advantage, and thus a caloric advantage. Over time, this preference was passed down the evolutionary tree to us.

But alcohol’s effects have always been double-edged: mildly advantageous in small doses, dangerous in excess. What changed wasn’t the molecule, it was our ability to concentrate, store, and culturally amplify its effects. Good times, bad times…

Dudley argues that this trait was “natural and adaptive,” but only because we didn’t die from it as easily as other species. Ethanol is a toxin, and its effects, loss of inhibition, impaired judgment, and aggression, are as ancient as they are dangerous. What may have once helped a shy, dorky monkey approach a mate or summon the courage to defend his troop with uncharacteristic boldness now fuels everything from awkward first dates, daring athletic feats, bar fights, and the kind of stunts or mindless elocutions no sober mind would attempt.

Interestingly, alcohol affects most animals differently. Some life forms can handle large concentrations of ethanol without impairment, such as Oriental hornets, which are just naturally nasty, no chemical enhancements needed, and yeasts, which produce alcohol from sugars. Others, like elephants, become particularly belligerent when consuming fermented fruit. Bears have been known to steal beer from campsites, party hard, and pass out. A 2022 study of black-handed spider monkeys in Panama found that they actively seek out and consume fermented fruit with ethanol levels of 1–2%. But for most animals, plants, and bacteria, alcohol is toxic and often lethal.

Roughly 100 million years ago in the Cretaceous, flowering plants evolved to produce sugar-rich fruits, nectars, and saps, highly prized by primates, fruit bats, birds, and microbes. Yeasts evolved to ferment these sugars into ethanol as a defensive strategy: by converting sugars into alcohol, they created a chemical wasteland that discouraged other organisms from sharing in the feast.

Fermented fruits can contain 10–400% more calories than their fresh counterparts. Plums (used in Slivovitz brandy) show some of the highest increases. For grapes, fermentation can boost calorie content by 20–30%, depending on original sugar levels. These sugar levels are influenced by climate, warm, dry growing seasons with abundant sun and little rainfall produce sweeter grapes, which in turn yield more potent wines. This is one reason why Mediterranean regions have long been ideal for viticulture and winemaking, from ancient Phoenicia to modern-day Tuscany, Rioja, and Napa.

The story of alcohol is as ancient as civilization itself. The earliest known fermented beverage dates to 7000 BC in Jiahu, China, a mixture of rice, honey, and fruit. True grape wine appears around 6000 BC in the Caucasus region (modern-day Georgia), where post-glacial soils proved ideal for vine cultivation. Chemical residues in Egyptian burial urns and Canaanite amphorae prove that fermentation stayed with civilization as time marched on.

Yet for all its sacred and secular symbolism, Jesus turning water into wine, wine sanctifying Jewish weddings, or simply easing the awkwardness of a first date, alcohol has always walked a fine line between celebration and bedlam. It is a substance that amplifies human behavior, for better or worse. Professor Dudley argues that our attraction to the alcohol buzz is evolutionary: first as a reward for seeking out high-calorie fruit and modulating fear in risky situations, but it eventually became a dopamine high that developed as an end in itself.

Source: The Drunken Monkey by Robert Dudley, 2014.

Joel Gott Blend No. 815 Cabernet Sauvignon 2021

Cabernet Sauvignon from Lodi and Napa California

100% Cabernet Sauvignon 

Purchase Price: $14.97

James Suckling 90,Decanter 90,Wine Spectator 89, ElsBob 90-91

ABV 13.9%

A deep ruby to a dark purple wine with aromas of black fruits, a taste of vanilla and spice; medium-full bodied, smooth tannins, dry, slightly acidic, with a medium finish. This wine will pair well with beef, lamb and chocolate desserts.

An excellent fine wine at a great price that is just entering its peak age range. Cheers.

Natural Law—Point Counterpoint

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“The notions of right and wrong, justice and injustice, have there no place. Where there is no common power, there is no law; where no law, no injustice.” — Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes

Thomas Hobbes saw human nature as a cauldron of chaos. In his state of nature, life is “nasty, brutish, and short,” a “war of all against all” where self-preservation is the only natural law. Shaped by Thucydides’ tales of strife and Machiavelli’s ruthless pragmatism, Hobbes cast man’s self-interest as a destructive force that casts morality aside. His remedy to avert chaos: a towering sovereign, ideally a monarch, to crush anarchy with an iron fist. The social contract trades liberty for security, forging laws as human tools to bind the beast within. Yet Hobbes stumbled: he failed to grasp power’s seductive pull. He assumed his Leviathan, though human, would rise above the self-interest he despised, wielding authority without buckling to its corruption.

“Reason, which is that law, teaches all mankind…that being all equal and independent, no one ought to harm another in his life, health, liberty, or possessions.” — Second Treatise of Government by John Locke

John Locke painted a gentler portrait of man than did Hobbes. He rooted natural law in reason and divine will, granting all people inherent rights to life, liberty, and property. His state of nature is peaceful yet imperfect, marred by the “want of a common judge with authority,” leaving it vulnerable to human bias and external threats. Optimistic, Locke envisioned a social contract built on the consent of the governed, protecting these rights through mutual respect and laying the groundwork for constitutional rule. Where Hobbes saw a void to be filled with control, Locke trusted reason to elevate humanity, crafting government as a shield, not a shackle.

Hobbes and Locke clash at the fault line of power. Hobbes’s sovereign, meant to tame chaos, reflects the rulers’ thirst for dominance, but his naivety about power’s effect cracks his foundation. Locke’s ideals, morality, reason, rights, empower the ruled, who yearn for liberty after security sours. Hobbes missed the flaw: rulers, driven by the same self-interest he feared, bend laws to their will, spawning a dual reality—one code for the governed, another for the governors. Locke’s vision of freedom and limited government inspires their soul, while Hobbes’s call for order fortifies their bones with courts, police, and laws of men. The U.S. Constitution marries both, yet scandals tip the scales: power corrupts, and liberty frays as safeguards buckle under the rulers’ grip.

Hobbes and Locke both accept the imperfection of man but take different paths to mitigate that imperfection with workable safeguards. Hobbes insists on the rule by law but drafted by imperfect man and applied with a Machiavellian indifference with no solution for absolute powers corrupting influence. Locke also chooses to rule by law but guided by morality, God and the will to depose of despots.

Sources: Leviathan, Thomas Hobbes; Second Treatise of Government, John Locke. Graphic:Original Leviathan frontispiece, a king composed of subjects, designed with Hobbes’s input.

Mind and Brain

“Life is never made unbearable by circumstances, but only by lack of meaning and purpose.” — Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor and psychiatrist 

For centuries, we’ve assumed consciousness resides in the brain. Yet, despite decades of slicing, mapping, and probing, its precise location remains elusive. Dr. Wilder Penfield, a neurosurgeon who charted the brain’s sensory and motor regions in the mid-20th century, wrestled with what we might call “self and memory.” While he pinpointed areas tied to movement and sensation, he couldn’t locate the “seat” of consciousness. By the 1960s, this led him to a bold hypothesis: the mind might not be fully reducible to brain activity. In his view, brain and mind could be distinct, with the mind perhaps holding a non-physical dimension—a whisper of something beyond neurons and synapses.

Fast forward to today, and researchers like Michael Levin at Tufts University are pushing this question further, though differently. Levin doesn’t dismiss the brain’s role in consciousness but argues cognition isn’t confined there. He proposes that intelligence and goal-directed behavior arise across the body’s cells and tissues. The brain, in this model, acts as a hub for processing and storing information—not the sole architect of the mind. Levin’s team explores how systems beyond the brain—from cellular networks to synthetic constructs—display mind-like traits: agency, problem-solving, and the pursuit of goals.

At the heart of Levin’s work is bioelectricity, the electrical signaling that guides cells from the zygote’s first spark to a fully formed organism. He sees it as a blueprint, directing how cells collaborate toward a larger purpose, much like ants hauling food to their colony. Each contributes to a collective intelligence, shaped by bioelectric cues that drive development and behavior. Levin stays rooted in empirical science, mapping the “how” without chasing the “why”—hinting at a distributed mind but avoiding a single source or controller.

Could memory bridge consciousness to the self, and perhaps beyond? For Penfield, electrical jolts to the brain summoned vivid past moments—smells, voices—yet the “I” reliving them remained elusive, suggesting a unity beyond the physical. Levin offers a twist: if memory isn’t just locked in the brain but woven into the body’s bioelectric web, consciousness and self might emerge together, shared across every cell. Each recalls its role, its history, to pursue a shared aim—like ants rebuilding their hill. Memory, then, isn’t merely a record but the thread weaving awareness into identity, maybe even purpose. Yet, does bioelectricity simply reflect life’s mechanics, a benign dance of physics and biology? Or does it hint at a deeper force—a directionality we’ve long named “lifeforce” or “soul”? Levin’s inductive lens echoes Descartes’ “I think, therefore I am”—proving existence through awareness but leaving purpose a shadow on the horizon. Science maps the signals; their origin remains unanswered.

Sources: Technological Approach to Mind Everywhere… by Levin and Resnik, 2025, OSF Preprints; Ingressing Minds… by Michael Levin, 2025, PsyArXiv Preprints. Graphic: Molecular Thoughts by Agsandrew, iStock, Licensed.

Birthplace of Wine

The modern grape (Vitis vinifera subsp. vinifera) is believed to have evolved from its wild ancestor, Vitis vinifera subsp. sylvestris, native to a broad region spanning the Caucasus Mountains (present-day Armenia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan) to the Mediterranean. This area offered ideal conditions for wild grapevines to flourish after the retreat of the Pleistocene glaciers, with its temperate climate and poor, rocky soils providing excellent drainage on rolling hills and mountainsides.

Archaeological evidence suggests that the domestication of grapes likely began in the South Caucasus region between 6,000 and 8,000 years ago. It’s possible that early farmers selectively cultivated wild grapevines, favoring those with the juiciest and most flavorful fruit, gradually developing them into the domesticated grape varieties familiar to us today.

In modern-day Georgia, approximately 30 miles (50 km) south of Tbilisi, evidence of grape wine production dates back to 6000–5800 BC. At the sites of Gadachrili Gora and Shulaveris Gora—Gora or hills are akin to the “tels” of the Levant—researchers have unearthed ancient pottery fragments containing chemical traces of wine, such as tartaric acid. These findings indicate that the inhabitants of this region were cultivating grapes and fermenting them into wine as early as 8,000 years ago.

This positions Georgia as a leading candidate for the “birthplace of wine,” with a merry winemaking tradition that has persisted through millennia.

Source: Oldest Evidence of Winemaking by Andrew Curry, National Geographic, 2017. Graphic: Caucasus Region by Peter Fitzgerald, modified by Travelpleb, Wikimedia Commons.

Closer to Zero

“The answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe, and everything is 42” Douglas Adams.

But to the question “Are we alone?”—the answer leans towards likely,”  ElsBob. 

In a recent systems-thinking thought experiment, researchers from Germany and the U.S. revisited the statistical “Hard Steps” model, originally proposed by Brandon Carter in 1983, which aimed to estimate the probability of intelligent life emerging. Carter’s model focused on rare biological milestones—such as photosynthesis and multicellularity—concluding that intelligent life should be exceedingly rare due to the improbability of these “hard steps.” 

In a February 2025 paper, Mills et al. propose a tweak to this framework. Rather than life’s progression depending on a handful of unlikely biological breakthroughs, they suggest Earth’s environmental evolution—marked by the presence of water, organic compounds, oxygen, and geochemical shifts—created a more gradual pathway toward complexity. They argue that these conditions didn’t so much lower the odds of each step but reframed life’s development as a cumulative process, softening the gauntlet of improbable hurdles envisioned by Carter. 

Is this new? Not entirely. The idea that life’s journey—from planetary formation to advanced neural systems, language, and sociocultural structures—unfolded as a process has roots in the 1950s, with pioneers like Urey and Miller. What’s novel in Mills et al.’s work is their integration of geological timelines and Bayesian reasoning to qualitatively soften the perceived improbability of life’s emergence, rather than delivering a fully quantitative overhaul of the Hard Steps model. Where Carter’s framework likened intelligent life to finding a unicorn, this tweak nudges it from “highly improbable” to “slightly less than highly improbable.” 

Now, the fun part—calculating the odds of a planet fostering life advanced enough for Alan Turing to deem it intelligent. 

The “witch’s cauldron” of variables for simple life might include (though not exhaustively): a planet in the habitable zone, liquid water, organic molecules, self-replicating systems, protocell formation, anaerobic metabolism, photosynthesis, aerobic respiration, multicellularity, geochemical cycles, plate tectonics, ocean currents, atmospheric dynamics, natural radiation, planetary stability, appropriate size and gravity, and a protective magnetic field—plus, perhaps, a partridge in a pear tree. Estimating these probabilities is speculative, but let’s assume a rough combined probability for simple life emerging on a suitable planet. Using reasonable constraints, Grok 3 might estimate this at approximately 1 in 1 billion (10⁻⁹). 

The leap to sentient, intelligent life adds further layers: advanced neural systems, social organization, cultural evolution, time, and a dash of random chance. These additional factors could reduce the odds by another factor of 1,000, shifting the probability to between 1 in 1 trillion (10⁻¹²) and 1 in 1 quadrillion (10⁻¹⁵). These are back-of-the-envelope figures, grounded in the spirit of the thought experiment rather than precise data. 

To make these abstract numbers relatable, let’s scale them to the universe and our galaxy. Current estimates suggest the observable universe contains roughly 100 billion galaxies (10¹¹), each with an average of 100 million stars (10⁸). Assuming 3 planets per star (a conservative guess based on exoplanet studies), that yields approximately 3 × 10¹⁹ planets—30 quintillion—across the universe. In the Milky Way, with 100 billion stars (10¹¹), we might estimate 300 billion planets (3 × 10¹¹). 

Applying the probabilities: 

Simple life in the universe: At 1 in 1 billion (10⁻⁹), roughly 3 × 10¹⁰ planets—30 billion—might host simple life. 

Intelligent life in the universe: At 1 in 1 trillion (10⁻¹²) to 1 in 1 quadrillion (10⁻¹⁵), between 30 million (3 × 10⁷) and 30,000 (3 × 10⁴) planets might harbor intelligent life. 

Simple life in the Milky Way: At 1 in 1 billion (10⁻⁹), about 300 planets (3 × 10²) could sustain simple life. 

Intelligent life in the Milky Way: At 1 in 1 trillion (10⁻¹²) to 1 in 1 quadrillion (10⁻¹⁵), the odds drop to 0.3 (3 × 10⁻¹) to 0.0003 (3 × 10⁻⁴) planets—statistically less than 1.

Across the vast universe, intelligent life seems plausible on millions or thousands of planets, depending on how pessimistic the odds. On a galactic scale, though one planet with intelligent life is statistically improbable meaning that Earth is likely alone in the Milky Way as far as sentient beings are concerned.  Still, these numbers remain speculative, blending science with educated guesswork—and a touch of cosmic whimsy.

Source: …Evolution of Intelligent Life, Mills, et al, Science Advances 2025. Graphic: Grok 3 Drawn DNA.

Looking In All the Wrong Places

Johnny Lee’s 1980 recording of “Lookin’ for Love” in all the wrong places is a mantra that most scientists and engineers eventually learn. Not love, but when confronted with the conundrum of not finding an object where it should be, the first response, before questioning the theory, is to look elsewhere.

This is further encapsulated in Arthur Conan Doyle’s “Fate of the Evangeline” when Holmes quips, “Exclude the impossible and what is left, however improbable, must be the truth.”

Recent research suggests that Earth and Mars originally had higher concentrations of moderately volatile elements (MVEs), such as copper. These elements were likely abundant in the early formation of Earth and Mars but were depleted by violent cosmic events, such as collisions with meteorites.

These collisions during planetary formation caused large-scale vaporization, leading to the loss of these crustal sources of MVEs into space but not necessarily those present in the mantle or core. While this new understanding challenges traditional theories about why MVEs are not in higher concentrations on Earth, it may also mean that we need to look not only to space for the lost MVEs but also to other deeper and less explored crevices and crannies here on Earth.

Additional areas of exploration on Earth may include hydrothermal vents on the ocean floors, deep crustal and mantle areas, tectonic boundaries, and active volcanic provinces.

Source: …Earth’s Missing Elements by Kim Baptista ASU, 2025. Lookin’ for Love written by Morrison, Ryan, and Mallette. Graphic: Earth Collision, Grok, 2025.

Money for Nothing

In 1985 Dire Straits released their 5th studio album “Brothers in Arms”, becoming their most successful album while attaining several firsts for the band and British music. It was the first album to sell over a million CDs and the first British album to go 10x Platinum in the UK, eventually reaching 14x platinum.

The whimsical, tongue in cheek firmly planted, “Money for Nothing”, the 2nd track on “Brothers in Arms” was to become their greatest commercial success reaching No. 1 on the Billboard Hot 100 in the United States and winning the Grammy Award for Best Rock Performance by a Duo or Group with Vocal. The song’s partially animated music video was a staple on MTV when the channel focused on music videos.

Mark Knopfler got the idea from listening to hardware store employees who thought rock stars had it easy. He, however, found a successful musician’s life exhausting. In 2009, he remarked, “If anyone can tell me one good thing about fame, I’d be very interested to hear it.”

Source: PDMusic.org. Knopfler…by Ian Young, BBC, 2009. Graphic: Money for Nothing—Dire StraitsVEVO.