Illustrations by Claire Anderson/North by Northwestern

Reconnect with your lava-monster, freeze-tag self of school days past. Raymond Park (trapezoidally enclosed by Chicago, Grove, Hinman, and Lake) boasts monkey bars, a slide, and plenty of greenery and benches. Or test your game at Tallmadge Park on Colfax and Ridge. There’s no playground, but the park features an unusual circular basketball court divided into three pie slices, with three hoops spaced along the edge. Call it tribasketball.

Sail a boat
What are a tack and a jibe? Where are the jib and the halyard? Learn the ropes at Northwestern’s Sail Center, offering lessons for sailboats, windsurfing and catamarans (speedy Siamese-twin-like boats). Once you’ve mastered the sea — er, lake — swing by and rent a boat for $30 to $90 an hour, depending on the boat model, the date and whether or not you are a member. If you fall in love with harnessing the power of wind over water, get a month-long student membership for $179. Just remember: This is not a cheap hobby. Call 847-491-4142 for lessons sign-up or more info.

Ride a bike
Buffalo travel in packs to avoid getting picked off by lions; bikers travel in swarms to avoid getting run over. This is the logic behind “Critical Mass” group rides. If you want to zip around Chicago, the group meets at Dearborn and Washington around 5:30 p.m. on the last Friday of each month. If you want something more local, meet fellow bikers at Fountain Square (Davis, Sherman and Orrington) at 6:30 p.m. on the first Friday of each month. But if you’d rather cycle by yourself, just follow the lakefront path.

Pitch a tent
Norris loans camping gear at great prices. Their two-person weekend packages range from $35 to $45 for 72 hours of camping fun. A tent, two sleeping bags and mission-specific items for the Fishing Trip, the Weekend Warrior and the Backpacker packages are available. You can also rent items like lanterns, stoves and sports equipment on a day-by-day basis. For details, call 847-491-2345 or visit the Norris website. Find nearby campgrounds at illinoisgocamping.com/northern, then pack your bags and hop on the Metra to the great outdoors.

Wash a car
Smear sudsy soap on salt-stained cars for money. You can blow bubbles, get a tan, and make a profit for your student group, all at the same time! Call Facilities Management at 847-491-5201 to reserve the Garrett parking lot for your group, and they’ll provide all the necessary supplies besides soap and sponges. To sign up for this lucrative fun in the sun, you must be part of a campus organization. Plan a few weeks ahead of time and have your billing info ready; they’ll ask for it in case you break a hose or lose a nozzle.

Sling a hammock

There’s not really a precedent or set of rules for this. Permitted on the Lakefill? Several phone calls to Norris Outdoors, the Northwestern Facilities Management, Risk Management and Police Department revealed that you’ll need to fill out an outdoor event request form (even if it’s just you and your hammock), and be prepared to explain yourself. And no damaging the vegetation — a hammock is fine, just don’t axe any pines to build a cabin. Also, NUPD discourages sleeping on the Lakefill.

Sow a seed
On weekend mornings, experience the satisfaction of sawing and hacking at evil vegetation with Students for Ecological and Environmental Development (SEED). Weed out invasive buckthorn or garlic mustard, and plant lovely native species. Sure, you need to get up early on a weekend morning, but nothing cures a hangover like the fresh air of local woodland, prairie and savanna ecosystems. Site locations and trip times vary, so contact Jackie Beard at j-beard@northwestern.edu for details.

The Mee-Ow cast. Not pictured: Connor White. Photo by Julie Beck / North by Northwestern.

Correction appended

Mee-Ow is an eight-member comedy troupe which boasts notable alumni like Julia Louis-Dreyfuss. They’re preparing to entertain you on Feb. 26 – 28 in the Louis Room of Norris with a recipe calling for one-third sketch comedy, one-third improv, and one-third rock n’ roll.

Concocting each show requires practice. Communication junior Jen D’Angelo and Communication senior Connor White rush through the doors of University Hall 112 half an hour late. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry!” D’Angelo says. She’s been waiting for her car to defrost, a valid excuse considering the night’s low of minus 20 degrees.

Rehearsals for Mee-Ow tend to start late and end in a different room than planned. “We get asked to move, or we’re too loud,” says co-director Sarah Grace Welbourn, a Communications senior.

Jack Novak, also co-directing, pouts. “People don’t like us. Even though we’ve done nothing wrong.”

While waiting for the stragglers to arrive, Mee-Ow exchanges some theater talk. Communication senior Joel Sinensky emails a callback related question. Could he bring music to impersonate a ventriloquist’s dummy? Communication junior Tim McGovern sings a Broadway snippet: “Being aliiive…” They converse about the upcoming Waa-Mu show, which many Mee-Ow members are collaborating on. (Ironically, Mee-Ow was named in the 1970s to poke fun at Waa-Mu). Communication junior James Daniel jinxes Communication senior Jessica McKenna. Now she owes him a coke.

Mee-Ow is stacked with folks who are pretty good at being hilarious, which means they often compete for the same parts in on-campus shows. McKenna and Sinensky are up for the same role in “Ghetto,” while McGovern, Novak and Sinensky are competing for the same role in “The Illusion.” Novak recalls his sadness from Spring 2008 when a show featuring three funny females did not call back any of the Mee-Ow ladies.

“Thanks Jack,” says Welbourn. “That was very supportive.”

“Very supportive,” echoes McKenna.

Cold winter nights and long rehearsals can be draining, so Mee-Ow love and support are necessary. (Especially for White, who had support in the form of an Aircast. He sprained his ankle “playing basketball,” he says, then thinks: “being funny.”) In fact, there’s a lot of love. Most of the cast members have made out with one another, either on stage or off. “On my birthday, everybody kissed me,” says Welbourn.

Daniel seems wary of the make-out discussion. “If this is going to be about an incestuous theater group…”

Before finally getting down to business, they settle cross-legged in a circle on the floor atop the peeling carpet tiles (which McGovern describes as “helter-skelter”) and scoot a lit candle from person to person while recounting events of the day. Or were they? Distinguishing their straight-up sarcasm from embellished truth is near impossible.

“Humor is obviously going to pervade their serious lives, because seriousness often pervades comedy,” said Mee-Ow’s producer, Katie Halpern. “If you’re not gonna bring comedy into your life, it’s gonna be a pretty sad one, but if you’re not gonna bring life into your comedy than it ceases to be art.”

Updated 3/12, 2:54 p.m. Thanks to Jack Novak for alerting us to the misspelling of his name. Also, this rehearsal took place in room 112, not room 101 as originally specified.

–Nate Silver, Statistician

Two things matter very much to Michio and Kozue Funakoshi: their music and their dog, Victor. As they strolled around the Lakefill last September, Kozue carried her violin on her back — she had come straight from a rehearsal with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra — and Michio, a tuba player, snapped photos of Victor. The dog padded comfortably around the path on two front paws, while a wheeled cart supported his paralyzed hind legs.

Michio spotted Victor 14 years ago when driving down the streets of Fukuoka, Japan. Prince, who had recently switched his name to an unpronounceable symbol, sang from the speakers, to the tune of a new release about the civil rights movement called “The Sacrifice of Victor.” Michio decided to name the dog Victor.

The Funakoshis are huge Prince fans. Sheet music for “3121″ rests on their keyboard at home. In the same way Michio admires Mozart for writing beautiful operas about affairs and death, he respects Prince’s choice of subject matter, because it brings up what people would rather not discuss: sex, violence and controversy. (Not just purple rain.)

Michio and Kozue tried to explain why Prince impressed them. Six-octave range, frank topics, high energy, physical attractiveness, “small hips.” At some point during our meetings from Sept. 2008 to this past January, they gave me a mix CD of Prince songs.

“I didn’t explain about Prince when we talk about Prince, because it’s impossible,” Michio said. Similarly, he was reluctant to compare and contrast the playing styles of his tuba mentors. He also hesitated when asked to explain why his dog was so important, or how he thought about music.

“If I tell you what I’m talking about Prince, it’s always through my opinion. Yeah, genius guy. It’s always right, whatever you feel from the song is the answer. That’s why I don’t like to tell people. ‘What are you thinking about music?’”

~~~

Kozue and Michio never had a wedding ceremony. Their families have met only once, when Kozue’s father went to visit Michio’s parents before they married. When the time came to sign the papers, Michio had rehearsal. His mother went with Kozue to the city hall, “and when she was signing paperwork, my mother was checking her blood pressure!” Michio said. That was 13 years ago, a year after Michio picked up Victor.

Michio left Victor in the care of his mother while he went to Chicago with Kozue. Shortly after they arrived in America, Michio’s mother broke her collarbone. She was out walking Victor when suddenly he yanked on his leash to chase a cat, and she fell. So Michio returned, feeling personally responsible for the injury, and stayed in Japan for six months, playing in an orchestra and taking care of his mother and Victor.

“And one day,” Kozue began, “and usually he doesn’t do these kind of things, he send me small mailbox–”

“Tsehehee you shouldn’t tell this story!”

Kozue continued: She opened the package and her eyes teared up. Inside was a wedding ring.

When Michio finally came back to the states, he had no ring of his own. He thinks maybe he threw it out with some fast food trash in his car, or maybe his mother accidentally did something with it. They both agree that a wedding ring is, after all, nothing more than a symbol.

They have never traveled together on a honeymoon or similar vacation. Michio began to explain why.

“He — he is joking. Joking,” said Kozue.

“If we see beautiful landscape together, we talk, ‘What a beautiful view,’ we say something.” Kozue stifled a laugh as Michio kept speaking. “I don’t say anything. Because if we speak something, impression is impossible to express. Should be expressed by sound, or color, or–”

“That’s okay, we don’t need to go into–”

“That’s why we didn’t travel to–”

“Nooo! I don’t think that’s why!”

Beneath the apparent contradictions of the Funakoshis’ conversations lie private jokes and mutual understanding. They don’t mind being separated when they need to travel or practice. They know Victor’s needs. They influence and inspire each other. Thanks to Michio’s recommendation, Kozue likes Anton Bruckner, a 19th-century Austrian composer, though his works celebrate the brass section and bore the strings.

They also have come to understand and accept the complexity of musicians, and of people overall: No one is plain good, no one is plain bad. Kozue learned this when she joined the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Politics play out backstage.

Sections get to choose their own subs or additional players, a policy that can result in unpleasant situations, according to the Funakoshis’ friend, CSO principal tuba player Gene Pokorny. “There are a lot of people who just think their shit doesn’t smell!” He chuckled.

Michio tries to gain perspective from as many teachers as possible. This is how he met Gene. Whenever international orchestras came to Japan in the ’80s and ’90s, Michio would try to get in touch with their tubists for some instruction, even if he had to call their hotels to get a hold of them. From the St. Louis Symphony Orchestra, he met Rex Martin, Northwestern’s tuba performance professor. From the CSO, he met renowned tubist Arnold Jacobs, for whom the CSO principal tuba chair is named, and Gene, his successor.

Gene became a good friend of the Funakoshis, and Michio referred to him as an extremely influential person in his life. I met with Gene in the basement of Chicago’s Symphony Center, which resonates with the talent of 110 musicians, the sacrifices they’ve made to get there, and the constant balance of tension and camaraderie between them.

At the same time that they might compete with each other and bicker over guest players, members can serve as a web of support for one another. On a bulletin board near the mail cubbies and flyers requesting members’ evaluation forms for past and present CSO conductors was a letter posted to thank fellow musicians for their support of a leukemia patient.

After eight years, Kozue has adjusted to the high-stress environment of a top-notch orchestra, but the transition was difficult. The orchestra is full of strong personality types, musicians driven to be at the top of their field. “Competition is not music for me, in my life,” she said.

Kozue’s parents encouraged music. Her father listened to records of the British invasion, and he still plays rock on piano and guitar. Her mother, a kindergarten teacher, took her to the music store to find easy songs for her pupils to sing. Six-year-old Kozue, the only child, tagged along and picked up a tiny violin, hardly more than a toy, which her mother bought.

At first, the violin’s squeal frustrated Kozue. She kept playing and won a nationwide competition when she was 16. A year later, her mother died of a rare form of cancer.

“I always feel, I’m so lucky to be a musician,” she said. “Even if I have, I’m suffering for a particular time, I can express everything by music. Difficult thing, problem, is inspiration to make music.”

Oct. 4 was the anniversary of Michio’s father’s death and the same day Kozue won her CSO audition. On this particular day, Michio was thinking of his father.

As the sun set opposite the lake, Victor walked a few paces ahead of Michio, who switched subjects easily from the dog to his family to the meaning of music. To Michio, these conversation topics are intertwined. “We understand each other, but we never use a word,” he said, looking at Victor. “We have a lot of emotions, but we can’t, we never be able to express our emotions by words.”

Kozue explained later how she and Michio called his family nine years ago from an airport to share the news about her seat in the CSO. His mother began to cry — his father was hospitalized. He died later that day.

Even during hard times, explained Michio, the youngest child and family clown, his relatives prefer to be funny rather than sad. “They never shows, ‘Ohhh, my god!’” He made a sorrowful face and held his head in his hands. “They never show kind of face. Always make a joke.” Michio’s father had smoked heavily, so when he was cremated, one of his sisters said, “Oh, he is smoking lots now.”

“Yeah, but her boyfriend told us later, she was miserable,” Kozue said.

~~~

A shy cocker spaniel; a bulky Bouvier des Flandres; two Jack Russell terriers, one aged, the other springy; a peppy Bichon Frise; a wrinkly Shar-Pei; a lolloping golden retriever; a commanding boxer; an unsociable black Labrador; these are just some of the canine characters we encountered with Victor at the Lakefill over the course of a few months.

“He’s famous, people know him,” said Deirdre Jordan of Victor. She and her partner Bob Robinson sat by the lake and discussed Japanese ice cream with Michio and Kozue for a bit, expressing interest in meeting up with each other for dinner at some point.

Most of the Funakoshis’ acquaintances were formed through either orchestras or dogs. Gene Pokorny and his wife fill both categories: They can talk to Michio and Kozue about their music and their pets.

Although Gene’s wife, Beth, is a businesswoman, not a professional musician, she plays a diverse range of instruments including oboe and saxophone. One day, Tchaikovsky’s 5th Symphony came on the car radio as they drove. She cranked up the volume. The piece “has a tendency to kind of play itself,” Gene said. In other words, same old song, even if it’s great. But “it became a more exciting piece for me because of the pep talk Beth gave to me before we played it.”

“I couldn’t imagine not being married to a musician or someone who couldn’t feel the passion for a piece of music,” said Gene. “It would be impossible.”

Rex Martin, the Northwestern tuba professor, said most musicians he knows marry other musicians. His wife is not a musician, though “she really appreciates music and understands art in general.” He says he’s glad he can come home from work and talk about subjects other than symphonies.

As far as canine companions are concerned, Rex was never a dog person. He didn’t discover why until his father’s funeral, when an old neighbor came up to him and apologized profusely: Her dog mauled Rex when he was three.

Gene, on the other hand, has a few basset hounds. “The neat thing about a basset hound is,” he explained, “you can spend an entire week playing very tough music at an orchestra hall, and when you come home on Saturday night, the dog is the only thing that looks worse than you do!”

Victor could walk just fine until two years ago when a spinal disc problem paralyzed the rear half of his body. The Funakoshis had a special cart made for him, which tended to generate attention and leave an impression whenever they went for walks.

Linn Raven, a member of PETA, seemed to disapprove when she saw Victor at the Lakefill: She thought the dog was being kept alive in pain. After talking to the Funakoshis, she changed her mind. “Thank you for taking care of him,” she said and walked away. “He certainly looks loved.”

Victor was a mutt, probably with Akita and other classic Japanese breeds in his blood. He resembled a German Shepard, but his eyes were larger, his face was rounder, his ears were taller. He was loyal to those close to him and distrusting of new acquaintances. (He once bit Rex Martin.) He was strong — before he went deaf and ceased to bark, “his voice was much louder than tuba,” Michio said — yet sometimes afraid.

Initially, Victor was jealous of the attention Michio gave Kozue, and he didn’t trust her until one stormy night in Cleveland, while Kozue had a job with the Cleveland Orchestra and Michio was studying in Chicago. Because Victor feared thunder, he followed Kozue everywhere in the apartment, “even to bathroom!” she said. After that evening, they got along better. The Funakoshis attribute their record of zero robberies in a theft-prone apartment complex a few years ago to Victor’s protective presence.

To Michio and Kozue, Victor was more than just a pet. He was a family member. So when veterinarians diagnosed Victor with prostate cancer last August, they decided they would pay any amount for medical care to keep him alive for as long as possible.

“When dog is healthy, many people humanize them,” said Kozue. “They treat as human child. But once they get problem, like paralyzed, they say, ‘This is dog. We can’t pay thousands of dollars.’”

“We say, it’s heartbreaking,” Michio said.

Some find it difficult to see why the Funakoshis were willing to sacrifice so much time and money caring for a sick dog. Victor started pricey chemotherapy in the fall, and Michio stopped playing tuba to spend more time with him. “I cancel all schedule.” He turned down several gigs, he said, and he predicts those places won’t call him with any more offers.

When something carries great personal value, as Victor was to the Funakoshis, sacrificing for its sake comes more easily. Another example: music to musicians. The best performers must spend several hours practicing every day. They usually give up weekends for shows. They have to live near big cities if they want to play in big orchestras. This put a damper on Gene’s interest in stargazing — too much light and pollution around him, too busy performing when the constellations are out.

Or another example: a child to a parent. Kozue recalled a letter her mother wrote from a hospital bed on her 17th birthday, not long before she died. “She said, ‘I’m watching sky from the window, in the hospital, and it’s so blue and beautiful, and remind me of your brilliant future.’ Something like that.”

She keeps the letter in a box filled with other letters and old pictures: her mother’s family of Buddhist monks, her mother’s father in his uniform before his ship was sunk in the second World War. (Monks weren’t forced to fight until the very end of the war, as Japan’s situation worsened.) The box isn’t stored away in an attic. It sits on a shelf in the room where she practices, next to Japanese literature, and books on music, and sculptures she made, one of a Japanese comic character, one of Victor.

~~~

On Oct. 23, Victor died. Michio and Kozue cried more that day than they did when their parents passed away. “Runny nose, and tears,” said Kozue. They stood by him for over an hour after the vet put him to sleep.

Michio went on a brief trip in November to take some of Victor’s ashes back to Fukuoka. They sent out cards with pictures of the dog — Victor watching the shadow of a squirrel, Victor looking up towards the sky, Victor’s footprints in the snow — to over a hundred people, many of whom they met on walks during Victor’s last months. Heller Nature Center, a spot the Funakoshis frequented in Highland Park, will plant a tree in Victor’s memory come spring.

December marked their first holiday season together without Victor. “Like, when I chopped green onion, ‘Oh I can’t drop it on the floor, because dog is allergic to green onion. Oh, he is not here.’ Like that,” Kozue said.

A pet’s death is not usually viewed as a life-changing event, but for the Funakoshis, it was a wake-up call. Victor’s illness came during a time of questioning. Why do we pursue music? Will we have any kids? Who are our friends? “I kept taking care of Victor. Why I have to play tuba? Why I have to play music?” said Michio. He took up an interest in jazz; a box set of a PBS jazz program sits in the kitchen near an old stuffed toy of Victor’s. (They donated most of Victor’s other belongings to an animal shelter.) Soon, they want to have a child.

Michio left mid-January for Japan again, and Kozue stayed behind with the CSO for another week of rehearsals to prepare for the upcoming tour of Asia. On Feb. 2, they had a family reunion in Japan. Michio will teach a master class, which has spurred him to pick up his tuba again for the first time in months. His mother saw Kozue perform with the rest of the CSO. They returned a day after Valentine’s Day.

Victor’s death underscored the importance of family and friends, said Kozue. We talked in their home in Highland Park after Michio had left for Japan. “Every person has many aspects,” both pleasant and unpleasant, she said, and everyone wears “sunglasses” through which they view other people and themselves. “It’s very hard to know myself. Maybe for everyone.”

Still, she thinks, people need other people. “If human being is artwork, you can’t be finished by yourself, if you are alone. It’s very hard to explain in English.” Her sentences and Michio’s seem to carry a lot of weight: Their words have been so carefully chosen and filtered by mental translation.

~~~

In January, before either of the Funakoshis left for Japan, we met at my apartment. The Lakefill was too cold, and there was no dog to walk.

“So, there’s Japanese fish called Namazu. So fish’s tail is like this.” Michio waved his hand from side to side, imitating the fluid motion of a goldfish. Kozue suddenly interrupted and said something in Japanese. Michio replied, and continued with the story, looking quite serious. “And Namazu’s tail is like this.” He waved his hand up and down now, more like rolling waves. “There’s only one fish who has this kind of tail. Then, the tail has colors, that looks like a face. Then the children, small fishes, always follow that tail.”

Having never heard of such a fish, I had asked how to spell its name.

“This story, I make this story,” he said. “This is not true.”

The Namazu fish — in some incarnations, a bird — is a teaching tool meant to illustrate independence from following musical trends. Michio is constantly trying to teach, to express what he is feeling, to perform, even in conversation, although he is convinced that ultimately, precise explanations are impossible.

So is complete understanding, Kozue said later. She can’t describe exactly why she and Michio are so attached to each other. “There are so many things you don’t know, and so many of the things, you can’t control. And that’s okay. Yeah, I notice that, and since I realize that, I have felt so easy, more comfortable.”

While Victor was alive, Michio would reference him while trying to explain human matters, subjects ranging from relationships to music to Prince. Victor had become a symbol.

“He doesn’t know he has cancer. He just think about eating, and walking, and chasing animals,” Michio said. “Human being thinks too much, has fear. And then, do you know why we need music and art?”

Artist Pete Nawara lives and works in Logan Square, which can be described as the next Wicker Park due to the rising numbers of artistically-inclined young residents (but it’s not too expensive…yet). In a typical Nawara piece, faces and clothing become colorful topographic maps — think Photoshop in your head. Now try painting that on the Rock.

Does Logan Square feel artsy?
It’s the last place to get power back after a storm.

If you had to explain your work what would you say?
There are definitely solid ideas behind what I do that could be written up and explained, but when I work, I try to make sure that explanation isn’t necessary at all. I’d rather have people be able to look at the work and appreciate it solely for the aesthetic quality, like use of color balance and composition.

What was your first experience with art like?
I was always doodling, drawing, fingerpainting. I have three older brothers and we’re all very into artistic expression in some way shape or form. My older brother had this friend who did this drawing of a vampire in the back of my sketchbook. I remember going to school when I was 10 or 11 and drawing over it, and showing the other kids in the class and being like, “yeah, see, I did this.” And I totally had stolen it from this guy. I would do more drawings on my own that were similar, and that was the point at which I realize, I really enjoy drawing. And I remember, I was back at home and this guy was visiting my brother and hanging out, and he looked in the journal and saw that I’d drawn over his drawing. He was super pissed off at me.

It seems like you mostly paint people. Why people?
I think it’s because when I look at artwork, I generally tend to lean towards work that involves the human figure. I’m fascinated by it and I think that humans are generally interested in seeing other people. It’s how our brains work. It’s really interesting how we look at ourselves and how we look at other people, and our obsession with it, you know? Like these Us Weekly magazines and all the celebrity magazines. We can’t get enough of it, of seeing other people and prodding into their lives.

When I met you at the Art Chicago exposition last spring, you were reading a book by Kandinsky. Do his artistic theories influence you? What are your influences?
That guy’s insane. The book itself reads like stereo instructions, it’s really really dry. It gets a bit cheesy and abstract, but there are interesting ideas in it, like how he relates color and composition to musical notes and different instruments. As far as influences, I’m really really into Alphonse Mucha. In the early 1900s, he did all these kind of art nouveau pieces. He did tobacco posters in Paris, and it’d be beautiful women with just a soft outline and really ornate art nouveau patterns around them and stuff. I think his stuff is absolutely stunning.

What advice would you give to people who want to be professional artists?
It’s really obvious, but you have to keep it in your brain: You have to have content. Keep quality in mind, but you definitely have to always have some kind of project you’re working on regardless of whether or not you have a show, because you’re not gonna get a show if you don’t have content.

And what do you do when you’re not painting?
Party.

Correction appended

This biweekly feature explores the research of Northwestern’s science professors.

Can you trick cells? Can you make them grow as if they’re in the uterus, when really they’re in a petri dish? Or as if they’re in the pancreas, or the spinal cord, when they’re in a scientist-created tiny piece of scaffolding?

According to research led by Lonnie Shea, Associate Professor of Chemical and Biological Engineering, you can.

Experiments have confirmed that the processes succeed in mice. For example, Shea created a womb-like gel to swaddle egg-containing follicles that went on to produce mouse pups after fertilization.* “We’re in the process now of saying, ‘Can we translate this result from a mouse?’ ” he said. “Can we make it work for people?”

In the right environment, a female’s egg can be preserved, fertilized and nurtured until it grows into a baby. The gel surrounding the egg prevents gravity from flattening the fragile follicle structure. It acts as a cushiony pillow, a protective cage and an instruction manual for the cells. “We’re trying to recreate the environment of the ovary as much as possible and provide all of the cues that are necessary for it to grow,” Shea said.

Human eggs are already being nurtured in the gel, though none have been fertilized. The procedure is offered as an experimental option for young female cancer patients whose chemotherapy may cause infertility.

“It’s still not completely resolved,” Shea said of the ethical dilemma surrounding the procedure. He remembers sitting in a meeting where “a reproductive endocrinologist would say, ‘I just don’t think this is right that we should give a woman with five percent chance of survival the chance to have a baby.’”

Scientists and ethicists also debate who deserves egg preservation. If cancer patients can save their eggs from the effects of chemotherapy, Shea said, what about a 20-year-old woman who wants to focus on her career until she’s older, then reclaim her egg later down the road?

Preserving and growing eggs in gel may involve complex ethical issues, but the process itself is technically simpler than growing cells to treat diabetes or repair the spinal cord: when dealing with eggs, all the action occurs in a dish, not in the body.

Another aspect of Shea’s research involves creating “scaffolds” that facilitate cell growth. These scaffolds are similar to the egg gel in that they provide the appropriate environment for cell growth, but they differ because they must be implanted in the body.

One of the scaffolds aids in the survival of islets, cells which are normally made in the pancreas. These cells control insulin production, which in turn regulates blood sugar and determines whether you’ll spike into energy hyper-drive or crash and crave a coffee. In diabetes patients, insulin production doesn’t work.**

Shea’s scaffolding provides an environment for proper production of islets. His research team inserted 3 mm scaffolds into diabetic mice and successfully reversed their condition. The scaffolding can also be inserted into the spinal cord, where it acts as a superstructure for the main tissue and leaves gaps for highways of neurons to form.

So what makes Shea’s scaffolding and tissue growth special? “People have grown skin. There’s been some success with cartilage, but taking things to follicles and islets, these are really new applications.”

Unlike skin and cartilage, which serve mostly structural, protective services in the body, islets, neurons and follicles are functional. “This has to respond to glucose in the blood and produce just the right amount of insulin,” he said, gesturing towards a picture of islets. He pointed to photos of follicles: “This has to grow to produce an egg that can produce every single cell in the body after it’s fertilized.”

“In the end, I think it’s fun. I think I wanted to become a professor because I wanted to keep learning and experiencing new things,” Shea said. When he came to work at Northwestern nine years ago, he had no extensive knowledge of reproductive biology. “You talk to people, you work with them, you read a lot.”

His research has required coordination with many scientists in other fields, from Northwestern and beyond. “They come with a certain set of skills, and I come with a different set of skills, and we’re able to bring those skills, talents together to really make something very unique happen.”

Sept. 28, 6:05 p.m.: * This sentence was reworded for clarification. ** The piece originally misstated what diabetes is.