Not Art or Science

By Jerry Wang / Spring 2026

The scratch paper in front of me is fully covered with my own handwriting.

There are free body diagrams, a long integration formula, repeated steps, crossed-out attempts, and a few shaky capitals I only use when I am extremely nervous. I have been staring at this paper and my MacBook for over fifty minutes. On the screen, Dr. Budimir from Oxford University is a slightly pixelated rectangle in the top right. Below him are some of his fellows, and I am the smaller rectangle at the bottom.

“Well done, Jerry. That is all I have for the technical part of today’s interview,” Dr. Budimir says, leaning back. His chair makes a soft creak that the microphone catches. “Just one more question, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, sir,” I say, but in my head I am thinking, "My God, there is still one more?”  I nod anyway, as if I have a choice.

“As an engineer, which do you think is more important?” He smiles. “Art or science?”

I blink.

For a second, I genuinely think I have misheard. We have just spent the past hour talking about motion, Lagrangian mechanics, and engineering. My paper is full of equations, and my brain is still trying to process an unsolved mathematical problem.

Art?

The word feels like an alien.

“Ummm…”

I look down at my paper and say, “Science? I guess, maybe?”

“Good,” he says. “May I know why?”

Science.

I have said it because it sounds safe. Because it sounds correct. Because it is the answer people expect from someone applying for engineering. But as soon as Dr. Budimir asks me why, the word suddenly feels empty in my mouth.

“Ehh, this question is interesting,” I say, trying to buy more time. “Maybe because…”

The silence stretches.

I can hear the tiny sound of my laptop fan. I scratch my head. On the screen, the professor waits politely.

“Because science is fundamental to the world,” I finally say. “We can’t live without it. Engineering solves problems, builds things, improves people’s lives. It’s just… gorgeous, you know?”

The words come out smoothly enough. They are not wrong.

But they are not fully mine either.

I keep speaking for a few more minutes. I talk about how technology, science, AI…… changes us. I sound reasonable. Maybe even mature. But the whole time, there is a small voice inside me asking, Is that really why?

When the interview finally ends, I thank them, smile, and click the red button.

The rectangles disappear one by one.

“Wooo, that’s a long interview.” I take a deep breath out, talking to myself.

Suddenly, my room is just my room again. No more professors, no more questions. It is just myself, my table, the paper and quiet.

I lean back in my chair and rub my eyes. Looking outside the window, the sun is beginning to set. A strip of gold light falls across my desk. It touches the scratch paper first, then moves slowly over my hands. The equations do not look so hard in that light. The black ink softens. The crossed-out mistakes look almost gentle.

And then, for no clear reason, I think of my grandfather’s hand over mine.

I was eleven again, sitting beside him at an old wooden table. In front of us was a sheet of thin, coarse white paper, an inkstone, and a brush that looked too delicate for my tiny fingers. The room smelled faintly of ink and tea.

“Don’t rush,” he said.

His hand covered my wrist. His skin was warm and powerful.

I wanted to make the character beautiful immediately. I wanted the line to be straight, strong, correct. But the brush did not obey like a pencil. If I pressed too hard, the stroke became heavy. If I lifted too fast, it broke. Every movement showed.

“Again,” he said.

So I tried again.

A horizontal stroke. A pause. A turn. A downward line.

At that age, I did not think about art as a career or a risk. I did not think about money, university, or whether people would nod respectfully when I told them what I wanted to become. I only knew the feeling of watching black ink spread into paper, slowly and permanently. I knew the small excitement of making a character come alive under my hand. This feeling is, Pure.

I had forgotten that feeling.

Or maybe I had not forgotten it. Maybe I had only buried it under thicker textbooks, cleaner answers, and the kind of dreams that sounded safe when spoken out loud.

I did not get into Oxford in the end.

For a while, that feels like the whole story.

But now, when I think about that interview, I do not remember the physics question first. I remember the last question. I remember the silence after it. I remember saying “science” and realizing I do not understand my own answer.

I still do not know whether art or science is more important.

Maybe that was the wrong question.

Maybe the better question is why I ever believed I had to choose only one.