Vox Meditantis

Here is the woman who made glass disappear, and with it transformed everything from Hollywood blockbusters to submarine warfare. Katharine Burr Blodgett was the first woman to earn a PhD in physics from Cambridge University, the first female scientist at General Electric, and the inventor of non-reflective glass that revolutionised optics. Her “invisible glass” became the secret behind the crystal-clear cinematography in Gone with the Wind and saved countless lives through military applications during World War II.

Yet whilst her Langmuir-Blodgett technique remains fundamental to modern nanotechnology and surface science today, Blodgett’s name has largely vanished from public consciousness – a curious fate for someone whose work made visibility itself possible.

Dr Blodgett, thank you for joining us. You’ve been called “the woman who made glass disappear.” Looking back, does that description capture what you were trying to achieve?

Well, that’s rather dramatic, isn’t it? I suppose it captures the public’s fancy, but it makes it sound like magic rather than science. What we actually did was understand how light behaves when it meets surfaces. Glass isn’t truly invisible, you see – we simply found a way to eliminate the reflections that make it visible to the eye.

Your work emerged from collaboration with Irving Langmuir at General Electric. Can you tell us about those early days?

Irving was remarkable – he had this ability to see the practical possibilities in the most abstract research. When I arrived at GE in 1918, I was just twenty and the only woman in the research laboratory. Irving was studying these extraordinarily thin films on water surfaces, just one molecule thick. To most people, they were scientific curiosities. But Irving saw potential applications, and he encouraged me to push further.

The fascinating thing about working with monomolecular films is that you’re operating at the very edge of what’s measurable. These layers were so thin that 35,000 of them wouldn’t equal the thickness of a single sheet of paper. I had to develop entirely new methods just to measure what we were creating.

How did you move from Langmuir’s basic research to your breakthrough with non-reflective glass?

Irving’s films were limited to single molecular layers. I developed a technique to build them up, layer by layer, by dipping substrates through the films repeatedly. Each dip added precisely one molecular layer – it was like painting with molecules, if you will.

The real breakthrough came when I realised that ordinary glass reflects about eight to ten percent of the light that strikes it. That’s why you can see glass when you look straight at it. But if you could coat the glass with a film whose reflection precisely cancelled out the glass’s own reflection – well, then you’d have something rather special.

The process required exactly forty-four layers of soap film. How did you arrive at that specific number?

It wasn’t guesswork, though I suspect it appeared that way to observers. The thickness had to be precisely one-fourth the wavelength of visible light – about four millionths of an inch. Too few layers, and the interference wouldn’t work properly. Too many, and you’d overcorrect. Forty-four layers of barium stearate gave us exactly the right thickness for the light waves to cancel each other out completely.

Your invisible glass made its Hollywood debut in Gone with the Wind in 1939. Were you aware your work was being used for such a high-profile film?

Oh yes, that was tremendously exciting! The film industry had been struggling with reflections from camera lenses that caused distortions and reduced the clarity of their images. When David O. Selznick’s people approached us about using our glass for the cameras, we were delighted. The cinematography in that film was indeed crystal clear – I rather think our glass contributed to its winning the Academy Award for Best Cinematography.

But the military applications during World War II were rather different, weren’t they?

The war changed everything. Suddenly, our “invisible” glass wasn’t just about improving photographs or eliminating glare from spectacles. It became crucial for spy cameras in aeroplanes, for submarine periscopes, for rangefinders. When you’re trying to spot enemy vessels or photograph strategic targets, even the slightest reflection can mean the difference between success and disaster.

I also worked on improving smoke screens. The conventional ones required enormous quantities of oil to cover small areas. I developed a system where just two quarts of oil could create smoke screens covering several acres, and the particles stayed suspended much longer because they were molecule-sized.

You mentioned working conditions as the only woman at GE Research. How did you navigate that environment?

Well, one simply got on with the work, didn’t one? I was fortunate that Irving Langmuir believed in my capabilities and gave me tremendous freedom to pursue my own research directions. But I won’t pretend it was easy. There were certainly colleagues who questioned whether a woman belonged in a research laboratory.

What frustrated me most was the assumption that because I was working in an industrial laboratory rather than a university, my contributions were somehow less significant scientifically. People saw practical applications and thought “engineering” rather than recognising the fundamental science involved. The fact that Irving won the Nobel Prize in 1932 partly for work we did together – well, let’s just say the recognition wasn’t shared equally.

You’ve been somewhat overlooked by history compared to male contemporaries. How do you reflect on that now?

I suppose there’s some irony in the woman who made glass invisible becoming rather invisible herself. But you know, the work endures. Every pair of spectacles, every camera lens, every computer screen benefits from principles we established. Modern nanotechnology still uses Langmuir-Blodgett films.

What pleases me is that young women today don’t have to be “the first woman” to do anything. They can simply be scientists. Though I do hope they remember that someone had to be first, and that it wasn’t always comfortable.

There were competing innovations. MIT researchers announced their own non-reflective glass method just two days after GE’s announcement. How did you feel about that?

Two days! Yes, that was rather suspicious timing, wasn’t it? Their method used calcium fluoride evaporated in a vacuum – quite different from our approach. But both methods produced coatings that rubbed off easily. The real breakthrough came later when other researchers developed durable coatings that wouldn’t wipe away.

I’ve learned that in science, you rarely work in complete isolation. Good ideas seem to emerge when the time is right. What matters is not who crosses the finish line first, but that the problems get solved.

What mistakes did you make along the way?

Oh, where do I begin? Early on, I was far too focused on the precision of measurement and not enough on potential applications. I spent months perfecting techniques for measuring film thickness when I could have been exploring what those films might be used for.

I also underestimated how difficult it would be to scale up laboratory techniques for industrial production. Creating perfect films on small glass plates in controlled conditions is one thing. Coating automobile windshields or camera lenses in a factory is quite another. We had to solve entirely new problems about uniformity, adhesion, and durability that I hadn’t anticipated.

Looking at today’s technology – smartphones, LED displays, solar panels – how do you see your work’s legacy?

Extraordinary, isn’t it? These devices you carry about – they’re essentially layers upon layers of precisely controlled thin films. Solar panels use our anti-reflective principles to capture more light. Those brilliant screens depend on films that control electrical conductivity.

What fascinates me most is how surface chemistry has become central to so many technologies we couldn’t have imagined. In our day, we were working with soap films on water. Now scientists manipulate individual atoms to create surfaces with precisely designed properties.

What would you tell young women entering STEM fields today?

First, don’t let anyone convince you that practical applications are somehow lesser science. Some of the most profound discoveries emerge from trying to solve real problems. Second, learn to measure what others cannot. I developed methods to gauge films so thin they were nearly impossible to detect – that precision opened up entirely new possibilities.

And don’t be discouraged if recognition doesn’t come immediately. The most important innovations often seem invisible at first – rather like my glass. But if the work is sound, if it solves genuine problems, it will endure long after the names and personalities are forgotten.

Any final thoughts on being remembered as “the invisible woman of science”?

Well, invisibility does have its advantages, doesn’t it? One can observe without being observed, work without interference, and sometimes accomplish things that might not be possible under scrutiny.

But truly, I hope the next generation of women scientists won’t need to be invisible. Their work should be seen, celebrated, and recognised for what it contributes to human knowledge. Perhaps that’s the most important thing – not making glass disappear, but making women’s contributions to science visible at last.

Letters and emails

Following our conversation with Dr Blodgett, we’ve received dozens of letters and emails from readers worldwide who were captivated by her story and wanted to explore further into her experiences. We’ve selected five thoughtful questions from our growing community – spanning continents and professions – who seek to understand more about her pioneering journey, the personal cost of breaking barriers, and what wisdom she might offer to those walking in her footsteps today.

Susie Kelley, 34, Patent Attorney, Melbourne, Australia
Dr Blodgett, you held multiple patents during an era when women rarely controlled their own intellectual property. How did you navigate the patent process, and what advice would you give to women today who are hesitant to protect their innovations? Did you ever face challenges in defending your patents against larger competitors?

Ah, Susie, you’ve touched on something rather close to my heart. You know, when I first arrived at General Electric in 1918, the whole notion of intellectual property was still quite foreign to most women. We were fortunate in America – the Patent Act of 1790 had explicitly allowed women to petition for patents from the very beginning. But having the legal right and exercising it successfully were two entirely different matters.

I was tremendously fortunate in my circumstances. Working directly for GE meant I had the company’s legal department at my disposal, and Irving Langmuir was absolutely instrumental in ensuring I received proper credit for my innovations. But make no mistake – it wasn’t automatic. I had to fight for recognition, particularly when my work straddled the line between what people considered “chemistry” and “engineering.”

Of my eight U.S. patents, I was the sole inventor on six of them. The invisible glass patent, for instance – that was entirely my own development, building on Langmuir’s earlier work but taking it in directions he hadn’t envisioned. But I discovered rather quickly that having your name on a patent and controlling your invention’s destiny were quite different things.

The real challenge wasn’t the patent office – it was what happened afterward. When companies wanted to license our technology, they invariably negotiated with Irving or the General Electric executives, not with me directly. I might have been the inventor, but I was rarely treated as the business decision-maker. It was profoundly frustrating.

What I learned was this: document everything meticulously. Keep detailed laboratory notebooks with dated entries and witness signatures. When you make a breakthrough, immediately write up your methods and have colleagues verify your work. I cannot emphasise this enough – in patent disputes, contemporaneous documentation is your strongest defence.

And here’s something crucial that many women don’t realise: don’t let your employer or collaborators minimise your contributions, even inadvertently. Irving was genuinely supportive, but even he sometimes described our work as “Langmuir’s method, improved by Blodgett.” I had to politely but firmly correct that narrative repeatedly. The Langmuir-Blodgett technique bears both our names because I contributed fundamental innovations, not mere improvements.

For women today, I’d say this: first, understand that patents are business assets, not just scientific recognition. If you’re working in industry, negotiate patent incentives and inventor bonuses upfront. Don’t assume good intentions will translate to fair compensation. Second, build your own professional networks. I was rather isolated at GE – Irving was my primary advocate, but what if he’d left? Having multiple champions in different organisations would have served me better.

As for defending patents against larger competitors, well, that’s where working for a large company like GE was both blessing and curse. We had the resources to defend our intellectual property, but I had limited say in how aggressively we pursued infringers or licensed our technology. When those MIT researchers announced their competing method just two days after our glass announcement, it felt rather suspicious. But the legal response was entirely out of my hands.

The most important thing I learned was that persistence and precision matter more than politics. My patents have endured because the science was rigorous and the applications were genuinely useful. Keep detailed records, understand the business implications of your work, and never let anyone convince you that being practical makes your science less valuable. Some of the most important innovations emerge from solving real problems, not from theoretical pursuits that never leave the laboratory.

And Susie, given your profession, I suspect you understand this better than most – the patent system rewards those who can articulate the commercial potential of their innovations. Learn to speak that language fluently. It’s as important as mastering the science itself.

Leonard Dimitrov, 42, Materials Science Professor, Sofia, Bulgaria
Your work bridged fundamental research and industrial applications decades before ‘translational research’ became fashionable. If you were establishing a research programme today, how would you balance the pressure for immediate commercial results against the need for long-term scientific discovery? What role should universities versus industry play in this balance?

Professor Dimitrov, what a fascinating question! You know, when I hear the term “translational research,” I must confess it sounds rather modern to my ears. In our day at General Electric, we simply called it “industrial research,” but I suspect we were doing what you’d now term translational work without the formal framework.

The balance you describe between fundamental discovery and commercial application was precisely what made GE Research Laboratory so remarkable. When Willis Whitney founded our laboratory in 1900, he deliberately modelled it on the German university system, where professors could pursue their intellectual curiosities whilst also considering practical applications. Whitney used to say we needed to “discover those principles” that could lead to “profitable fields”.

But here’s what I think you’re really asking about – this tension between immediate results and long-term discovery. In my experience, the most profound innovations emerged when we weren’t under pressure to solve specific problems. My work with monomolecular films began as pure curiosity about surface phenomena. Irving Langmuir was studying these extraordinarily thin layers simply because they were fascinating scientifically. Had we been forced to justify immediate commercial applications, we might never have pursued that research at all.

Yet the practical applications – the invisible glass, the improved smoke screens – these emerged naturally from our fundamental understanding. What you call “translational research” happened organically because we maintained that dual perspective: rigorous science coupled with an awareness of potential utility.

If I were establishing a research programme today, I’d argue for what we might call “patient capital” – sustained funding that allows researchers to follow promising leads without demanding quarterly results. The modern pressure for immediate commercial returns troubles me deeply. Some of our most important discoveries took years to mature. My invisible glass patent wasn’t filed until 1938, twenty years after I began working with surface films.

Universities and industry must work as partners, not competitors. Universities excel at fundamental research – they have the freedom to explore ideas that might seem impractical. Industry brings the resources and practical constraints that ultimately make innovations useful to society. But this partnership requires mutual respect and understanding.

What concerns me about today’s research environment is this artificial separation between “basic” and “applied” work. In my day, we understood that the most practical applications often emerged from the most theoretical investigations. When industry dismisses fundamental research as impractical, or when universities disdain commercial applications as somehow beneath them, both sides suffer.

I’ve observed that breakthrough innovations require what I’d call “convergent patience” – the ability to pursue long-term fundamental research whilst remaining alert to practical possibilities. At GE, we had researchers working on problems that might not yield products for decades, alongside engineers solving immediate manufacturing challenges. The magic happened when these different timelines intersected.

Universities today should resist the temptation to become mere training grounds for industry. Their role is to ask the questions that no one else can afford to pursue – the research that might fail spectacularly or might revolutionise entire fields. Industry’s role is to translate these discoveries into solutions that actually improve people’s lives.

As for the balance between institutions, I’d say this: universities should control the fundamental research agenda, but with sufficient industry engagement to understand real-world constraints. Industry should drive the development and application phases, but with sufficient university collaboration to avoid short-sighted thinking.

The fatal error is allowing either immediate commercial pressure or academic isolation to dominate completely. My invisible glass succeeded because it solved real problems – reducing glare in photographs, improving optical instruments for the military. But it emerged from years of purely scientific investigation into molecular behaviour at surfaces.

True innovation requires both the freedom to explore and the discipline to apply. Neither universities nor industry can achieve this balance alone. They need each other, and they need the patience to let ideas mature naturally. The most important question isn’t whether research is “basic” or “applied” – it’s whether it’s rigorous, creative, and ultimately useful to humanity.

Estelle Cervantes, 28, Startup Founder (Biotech), Mexico City, Mexico
As someone who worked in corporate research before the concept of ‘work-life balance’ existed, how did you maintain your passion for science throughout your career? Did you ever experience burnout or moments when you questioned your path? What sustained you through the inevitable failures and setbacks that come with pioneering work?

Estelle, what a perceptive question. You know, we didn’t use the term “work-life balance” in my day – that phrase would have seemed rather foreign to us. We simply called it “getting on with life” whilst pursuing our passions. But the underlying challenge you describe – maintaining one’s scientific enthusiasm whilst navigating the inevitable disappointments – that was very real indeed.

I must admit, there were moments when I questioned everything. Not the science itself – that always fascinated me – but whether the struggle was worth it. I remember one particularly difficult period in the early 1930s when I’d spent months perfecting a new measurement technique for molecular films, only to have a colleague dismiss it as “mere technique, not real science.” That stung terribly.

What people don’t realise is how isolating it could be. I was often the only woman in meetings, conferences, laboratory discussions. There’s a peculiar exhaustion that comes from constantly having to prove your competence, from knowing that every mistake will be magnified and every success questioned. You develop what I suppose we might now call “imposter syndrome,” though we had no name for it then.

But you ask what sustained me through the failures – and there were many. First, curiosity itself became my anchor. When I was working with those impossibly thin films, measuring substances that were barely measurable, I genuinely didn’t know what we’d discover next. That sense of intellectual adventure never left me, even during the most frustrating periods.

Second, I had what you might call “refuges” – activities that restored my spirits without competing with my scientific work. I acted in plays with the Schenectady Civic Players, which was wonderfully restorative. There’s something about inhabiting a completely different character that gives your mind permission to rest. I also had a cottage on Lake George where I could garden and simply be quiet with my thoughts.

But I won’t romanticise it. There were periods – particularly during the war when the pressure for immediate results was enormous – when I felt genuinely burned out. I remember working eighteen-hour days on smoke screen research, knowing that soldiers’ lives depended on our success. The weight of that responsibility, combined with the technical challenges, was nearly overwhelming.

What I learned was the importance of what we might call “cyclical rest.” Not daily balance – that’s often impossible in serious research – but longer periods of restoration. After intensive projects, I would deliberately take time to pursue completely different interests. I wrote amusing poems for colleagues, volunteered with conservation efforts, travelled. These weren’t escapes from science; they were investments in my ability to return to science refreshed.

The thing about pioneering work is that you’re constantly pushing against the boundaries of what’s known. That’s exhilarating, but it’s also mentally exhausting in ways that people don’t expect. You’re not just solving problems; you’re often discovering what the problems actually are. That requires a particular kind of intellectual stamina.

What troubled me most wasn’t the technical failures – those are part of research. It was the social exhaustion of constantly having to justify my presence, my capabilities, my right to be taken seriously. That’s what nearly broke my spirit more than once. The science itself was energising; the politics around the science was depleting.

Looking back, I think what sustained me was maintaining a sense of larger purpose. Yes, I was studying molecular films and surface chemistry, but I always understood that this work might lead to something genuinely useful. When our invisible glass appeared in Gone with the Wind, when our smoke screens protected soldiers, when our techniques enabled new optical instruments – those moments justified years of seemingly abstract research.

For young scientists today, particularly women, I’d say this: expect the setbacks, but don’t let them define your trajectory. Build multiple sources of intellectual and emotional nourishment. Science can consume your entire identity if you let it, but you’ll be a better scientist if you remain a complete human being.

And remember that the most important discoveries often emerge from work that initially seems to be going nowhere. Some of my most significant breakthroughs happened precisely when I thought I was failing most spectacularly. Persistence matters more than perfection, and passion can carry you through periods when neither recognition nor results seem forthcoming.

The work itself – the genuine pursuit of understanding – that’s what ultimately sustains you. Everything else is just… circumstance.

Kim Lindström, 51, Science Museum Director, Stockholm, Sweden
Looking at how scientific achievements are commemorated today – from Nobel Prizes to popular science communication – what do you think needs to change about how we recognise and remember scientific contributions? Should there be different metrics for evaluating the impact of applied versus theoretical research?

Dr Lindström, what a fascinating and necessary question. You know, having lived through the era when the Nobel Prize system was being established, and watching how scientific recognition has evolved, I have rather strong feelings about this matter.

The fundamental problem with our current recognition system is that it privileges theoretical breakthrough over practical application. When Irving Langmuir won the Nobel Prize in 1932, it was partly for work we developed together – yet the committee focused on the theoretical aspects of surface chemistry rather than the innovations that emerged from understanding those principles. The invisible glass, the improved smoke screens, the techniques that actually helped people – these were treated as mere engineering applications rather than scientific achievements.

This reflects a deeper bias in how we define “fundamental” versus “applied” science. The Nobel committees have historically favoured discoveries that appear purely theoretical, as if practical utility somehow diminishes scientific worth. But consider this: my work on monomolecular films led directly to modern nanotechnology. The principles we established are now used in everything from computer chips to medical devices. Yet because the work emerged from an industrial laboratory rather than a university, because it solved real problems rather than remaining abstract, it was deemed less worthy of recognition.

The selection process itself is profoundly flawed. Research shows that Nobel nominations are dominated by established networks, particularly among older white men from elite institutions. The system rewards self-promotion and visibility rather than genuine contribution. Women and scientists from the Global South are systematically excluded, not because their work lacks merit, but because they lack access to the nomination networks.

What troubles me most is the obsession with individual recognition rather than collaborative achievement. Modern science is increasingly collaborative – think of the hundreds of researchers involved in discovering the Higgs boson, yet only three individuals could receive the Nobel Prize. My own work was deeply collaborative with Irving Langmuir, with technicians, with colleagues across different disciplines. Why should recognition be limited to a few “stars” when science is fundamentally a collective enterprise?

For applied versus theoretical research, we need entirely different evaluation frameworks. Applied research should be judged by its impact on human welfare, its practical utility, its contribution to solving real problems. Theoretical research should be evaluated for its conceptual elegance, its potential for future applications, its expansion of knowledge. But both should be valued equally. Some of the most profound theoretical insights emerge from practical work – and some of the most useful applications spring from abstract research.

I’d propose several changes. First, establish separate recognition categories for different types of scientific contribution: theoretical breakthrough, practical application, collaborative achievement, lifetime impact. Second, democratise the nomination process – allow broader communities to propose candidates, not just elite networks. Third, require transparency in selection criteria and process. The current fifty-year secrecy rule is absurd in an era demanding accountability.

Most importantly, we need to recognise that scientific achievement isn’t just about discovering new principles – it’s about applying those principles to improve human life. My invisible glass may seem less intellectually impressive than theoretical work on quantum mechanics, but it enabled clearer photography, better optical instruments, safer military operations. That practical impact should count as genuine scientific achievement.

Universities and research institutions bear responsibility here too. They’ve perpetuated the myth that “pure” research is somehow more valuable than applied work. This creates artificial hierarchies that don’t reflect the reality of how science actually advances. Some of history’s most important innovations emerged from people trying to solve practical problems – often in industrial settings like General Electric.

The most profound change would be expanding our definition of what constitutes scientific excellence. Instead of focusing solely on theoretical novelty, we should recognise contributions to scientific methodology, improvements in research transparency, collaborative leadership, public engagement, and practical application. Science exists to serve humanity – our recognition systems should reflect that purpose.

And perhaps most importantly, we need more women and underrepresented groups on selection committees. The current system perpetuates its own biases because it’s run by the very people who have historically been recognised. True reform requires bringing in voices that have been systematically excluded – people who understand that excellence takes many forms, and that science’s greatest achievements often come from those working quietly to solve the world’s pressing problems.

Della Park, 39, High School Chemistry Teacher, Auckland, New Zealand
Dr Blodgett, when I teach surface tension and molecular behaviour to my students, I often think about how you visualised these invisible forces without modern computer simulations or electron microscopes. What mental models or analogies did you use to understand molecular behaviour? How would you explain your work to a curious sixteen-year-old today?

Oh, Della! What a delightful question. You know, teaching molecular behaviour without being able to see it directly – that was precisely the challenge we faced every day in the laboratory. When I was working with Irving Langmuir on those impossibly thin films, we were dealing with structures that were literally invisible to any instrument we possessed.

The mental models I developed came from everyday experiences, much like the analogies teachers use today. I used to think of surface tension as being rather like the surface of a trampoline with children bouncing on it. The children represent the molecules just beneath the surface, all pulling equally on each other. But the molecules right at the top – they’re like a child standing at the very edge of the trampoline. They can only be pulled downward and sideways by their neighbors, never upward. That creates a sort of “skin” on the water’s surface.

For monomolecular films, I often used the analogy of a crowd of people at a railway station. When the crowd is loose, people can move about freely – that’s like molecules in a gas or dilute solution. But as more people arrive and the platform becomes crowded, they begin to organize themselves, standing closer together, facing the same direction. Eventually, if you pack them tightly enough, you get a single layer of people standing shoulder to shoulder – that’s exactly like our monomolecular films on water.

The truly challenging part was explaining how we could measure something so thin. Imagine trying to measure the thickness of a single sheet of paper when you’ve stacked 35,000 sheets together and the whole pile is still thinner than this. I used to tell people it was like trying to determine how many coats of paint were on a wall by looking at it from across the street – impossible unless you had some very clever indirect methods.

Without computer simulations or electron microscopes, we relied heavily on what I called “inference by effect”. We couldn’t see the molecules, but we could observe their behavior. When I dipped a glass slide through one of our surface films and pulled it up, I could measure exactly how much material accumulated on the glass. Each dip added precisely the same amount – like building a brick wall, one brick at a time, except our “bricks” were individual molecules.

The most important visualisation tool I had was actually my hands. I would trace molecular arrangements in the air whilst thinking through problems. For a sixteen-year-old today, I’d say: imagine you’re spreading butter on toast. The molecules in our films behaved rather like butter – they wanted to spread out in a thin, even layer. But unlike butter, our molecular films were exactly one molecule thick, no more, no less.

The key insight that helped me understand molecular behavior was realising that molecules are rather social creatures – they prefer to be surrounded by their own kind. At the surface of water, the water molecules beneath are “happier” when they can pull their surface neighbors down into the bulk liquid. That’s what creates surface tension. Our soap molecules were like party guests who didn’t quite fit in – they had one end that loved water and another that avoided it, so they arranged themselves with their water-loving heads down in the water and their water-avoiding tails sticking up in the air.

For your students, I’d suggest starting with things they can actually touch and see. Have them observe how water droplets behave on different surfaces – glass, wax paper, cloth. Then ask them to imagine what’s happening at the molecular level. The beauty of surface chemistry is that the macroscopic effects are so dramatic you can actually see the molecular forces at work. Once they understand that molecules have preferences about their neighbors, the rest follows quite naturally.

And tell them that some of the most important scientific discoveries come from learning to “see” things that are invisible. We developed entire new fields of science simply by paying careful attention to effects we could measure, even when we couldn’t directly observe their causes.

Reflection

As our conversation with Dr Blodgett draws to a close, I’m struck by the quiet defiance that runs through her story – a woman who refused to let invisibility define her, even as she literally made glass disappear. Her reflections reveal someone acutely aware of the contradictions of her position: celebrated for practical innovations yet marginalised for working in industry rather than academia, recognised as a pioneer yet systematically excluded from the networks that determined scientific prestige.

What emerges most powerfully is Blodgett’s understanding that true innovation requires both intellectual courage and institutional savvy. Her emphasis on meticulous documentation, strategic patent filing, and the importance of building multiple professional relationships reflects hard-won wisdom that many historical accounts overlook. The traditional narrative focuses on her scientific breakthroughs; our conversation reveals the political intelligence required to protect and promote those discoveries.

Certain aspects of her story remain contested or unclear in the historical record. The exact nature of her collaboration with Irving Langmuir – how credit was shared, decisions made, recognition distributed – varies across different sources. Her personal motivations and private frustrations, largely absent from contemporary accounts, can only be inferred from later interviews and the broader experiences of women scientists of her era. What we do know is that she navigated these challenges with remarkable grace whilst advancing fundamental science.

Perhaps most tellingly, Blodgett’s story illuminates how little has changed – and how much progress remains possible. Today’s women in STEM still fight for equitable recognition, still see their applied research undervalued compared to theoretical work, still struggle with work environments that question their presence and contributions. Yet her example also suggests pathways forward: the power of collaborative innovation, the importance of translating discoveries into practical solutions, and the need for recognition systems that value impact over institutional pedigree.

In an age of quantum computing and nanotechnology – fields that build directly on the surface chemistry principles she pioneered – Katharine Burr Blodgett’s invisible glass serves as a powerful metaphor. Sometimes the most profound innovations are those we cannot see, created by people whose contributions become transparent precisely because they work so well. Her legacy challenges us to look more carefully at who we remember, how we measure scientific achievement, and what we might be missing when we focus only on the most visible contributors to human knowledge.

The woman who made glass disappear ultimately made herself unforgettable – not through self-promotion, but through work so foundational that it became invisible infrastructure for countless subsequent discoveries. Perhaps that’s the deepest lesson: true scientific achievement transcends individual recognition, creating possibilities that outlast any single career or reputation.

Who have we missed?

This series is all about recovering the voices history left behind – and I’d love your help finding the next one. If there’s a woman in STEM you think deserves to be interviewed in this way – whether a forgotten inventor, unsung technician, or overlooked researcher – please share her story.

Email me at voxmeditantis@gmail.com or leave a comment below with your suggestion – even just a name is a great start. Let’s keep uncovering the women who shaped science and innovation, one conversation at a time.

Editorial Note: This interview is a dramatised reconstruction based on extensive historical research into the life, work, and documented perspectives of Katharine Burr Blodgett (1898-1979). Whilst her biographical details, scientific achievements, and historical context are factually grounded, the specific dialogue and personal reflections presented here are imaginative interpretations designed to bring her remarkable story to contemporary audiences. All scientific and historical claims have been researched and cited from credible sources, but readers should understand that Dr Blodgett’s “voice” in this piece represents an informed reconstruction rather than verbatim historical record.

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