Among those who would join this intellectual fellowship was architect and systems theorist R. Buckminster Fuller, a man whose life’s work seemed almost perfectly designed to embody the Academy’s ideals.

Fuller became a Fellow of the World Academy of Art and Science during a period when both he and the organization were grappling with the same fundamental question: How could human ingenuity solve global problems rather than create them? The Academy was founded on the recognition that scientific discovery had created instruments of unparalleled power for either fulfillment or destruction, and Fuller had spent decades developing what he called “Comprehensive Anticipatory Design Science”—a methodology aimed at making the world work for all humanity through technological innovation guided by ethical principles.

The philosophical alignment between Fuller and the Academy was profound. The World Academy approached all activities from a values-based, human-centered, comprehensive and transdisciplinary perspective, exactly the kind of integrated thinking that Fuller championed throughout his career. Where others saw disciplinary boundaries, Fuller saw patterns and systems. His geodesic domes weren’t merely architectural innovations; they represented a philosophy of doing more with less, of working with nature’s principles rather than against them.

Fuller’s famous concept of “Spaceship Earth”—the idea that our planet is a finite vessel traveling through space with limited resources that must be carefully managed—resonated deeply with the Academy’s mission. The Academy strived to evolve solutions to the world’s pressing challenges by transcending the limits of national self-interest, disciplinary perspectives and conventional thinking while integrating knowledge with universal values and social responsibility. This was precisely what Fuller attempted with initiatives like the World Design Science Decade and his World Game, which he envisioned as a tool for comprehensive resource planning on a planetary scale.

The World Game, launched in 1965, exemplified Fuller’s approach to global problem-solving. According to Fuller, the project was devoted to applying the principles of science to solving the problems of humanity. It was an ambitious simulation that sought to demonstrate how the world’s resources could be distributed to benefit all people, transcending political boundaries and economic systems. Though it remained largely an academic exercise, the World Game represented the kind of transformative thinking the Academy championed—ideas powerful enough to reshape how humanity approached its collective challenges.

What made Fuller an ideal fellow of the World Academy was his refusal to separate technical innovation from moral responsibility. The Academy’s founding motive came from the knowledge that academic knowledge cannot be separated or divorced from the social responsibility of how the knowledge is used. Fuller lived this principle daily, whether designing affordable housing solutions, developing more efficient transportation, or creating his revolutionary Dymaxion Map that portrayed the world without the distortions inherent in traditional projections.

Fuller’s work embodied what the Academy meant by integrating art and science. The inclusion of Art in the title of the Academy was intended to foster a marriage of the objective and subjective dimensions of knowledge essential for understanding consciousness and social evolution. Fuller was simultaneously engineer, architect, philosopher, and poet—a comprehensive thinker who understood that solving humanity’s problems required both technical precision and creative imagination. His geodesic structures were mathematical marvels that also possessed aesthetic beauty and symbolic power, representing possibility and human ingenuity.

The World Academy’s motto, “Leadership in thought that leads to action”, could have been Fuller’s personal creed. He spent over fifty years traveling the world, delivering lectures, writing books, and developing prototypes—always translating ideas into tangible demonstrations of what was possible. He believed passionately in humanity’s capacity to consciously direct its own evolution, to choose cooperation over conflict, abundance over scarcity.

Fuller’s relationship with the World Academy of Art and Science represented more than institutional affiliation. It was a meeting of shared conviction that the great challenges facing humanity—from resource management to environmental degradation to social inequality—could only be addressed through transdisciplinary collaboration grounded in universal human values. Both Fuller and the Academy understood that technical solutions without ethical frameworks were insufficient, and that ethical aspirations without practical implementation were equally hollow.

As the Academy continues its work into the twenty-first century, grappling with challenges Fuller foresaw—climate change, resource depletion, technological disruption—his example remains instructive. He demonstrated that addressing global problems requires thinking comprehensively about systems, acting boldly with prototypes and demonstrations, and maintaining unwavering faith that human creativity, when properly directed, can indeed make the world work for everyone.

Myrdal’s journey from social reformer to one of the world’s leading voices against nuclear proliferation parallels the moral evolution of science itself. As nations rushed to harness the power of the atom in the wake of World War II, Myrdal stood apart — not as a scientist but as a visionary who understood the social and psychological consequences of living under the nuclear shadow. Her intellectual foundation was deeply rooted in the Scandinavian welfare model she helped shape with her husband, economist Gunnar Myrdal. Together, they sought to balance economic growth with social justice — a balance that WAAS would later frame as the search for “science with a conscience.”

At its birth, WAAS brought together luminaries such as Bertrand Russell, Robert Oppenheimer, and Joseph Needham — individuals haunted by the double-edged legacy of scientific discovery. They shared a conviction that the atomic age demanded a new moral architecture, a framework in which art, science, and human values were inseparable. Myrdal’s commitment to peace and human development made her a natural ally in this mission. Though not a physicist, she possessed the moral clarity that many scientists lacked: an insistence that knowledge carries responsibility.

In the 1950s and 1960s, Myrdal’s focus sharpened on what she called the “immorality of deterrence.” As a diplomat at the United Nations and later Sweden’s Minister for Disarmament, she challenged the orthodoxy that peace could be preserved by the threat of annihilation. In speeches that startled her contemporaries, she dissected the logic of the nuclear arms race: “Security based on fear,” she said, “is the most insecure form of peace imaginable.” Her insistence that true security must be based on cooperation and trust echoed the philosophical core of the World Academy’s founding charter, which warned that humanity’s survival depends on uniting scientific progress with ethical wisdom.

While Oppenheimer and Russell struggled with the moral aftermath of their own scientific achievements, Myrdal offered a practical path forward. Her leadership at the Geneva Disarmament Conference and in the United Nations General Assembly transformed abstract moral principles into diplomatic strategy. She advocated tirelessly for the Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT), pressing both superpowers to accept verifiable limits on their arsenals. Her 1975 Nobel Peace Prize, shared with Mexican diplomat Alfonso García Robles, was not only recognition of her personal courage but an acknowledgment of her ability to transform ethical conviction into institutional change — the very synthesis WAAS was created to achieve.

The Academy’s founding statement declared that “the future of humanity depends upon the wise use of knowledge.” Myrdal’s entire career can be read as a meditation on that sentence. For her, “wise use” meant understanding the social systems that determine how knowledge is applied — whether toward the welfare of people or the destruction of cities. In her early sociological writings, she explored the relationship between family policy, education, and equality, believing that social progress must be designed as consciously as scientific progress. Later, in her disarmament work, she extended that logic to the global stage: if humanity could engineer its welfare systems, it could also engineer peace.

Her intellectual kinship with WAAS extended beyond shared ideals. Both Myrdal and the World Academy viewed art and science as two halves of the same moral project. The arts, they believed, could humanize the abstract power of science; science, in turn, could lend rigor and evidence to humanity’s moral aspirations. In an age when technology was beginning to outpace ethics, Myrdal and WAAS sought a balance — a reconciliation between the analytical and the humane.

It is easy today to forget the radicalism of her stance. In the heat of the Cold War, to question nuclear deterrence was to risk political exile. Yet Myrdal’s voice, steady and unflinching, broke through the noise. She refused to accept that moral choices were subordinate to strategic logic. “The world has not yet learned,” she said in her Nobel lecture, “that security can only be achieved through disarmament and confidence, not through arms and fear.” In those words, one hears the echo of WAAS’s enduring mission — to move the world from competition to cooperation, from fear to wisdom.

Myrdal’s legacy offers a lesson that is as urgent now as it was in 1960. The weapons may have changed — from nuclear arsenals to algorithms and autonomous systems — but the moral dilemma remains the same: how to ensure that human intelligence, amplified by technology, serves the cause of life rather than its destruction. WAAS continues to grapple with this challenge in the age of artificial intelligence and biotechnology, and in doing so, it walks a path Myrdal helped clear.

Born in 1898 in Castleford, a small mining town in Yorkshire, England, Moore’s upbringing was modest but intellectually rich. His father, a coal miner, valued education deeply, and despite their limited means, he encouraged Moore’s artistic ambitions. After serving in World War I, Moore pursued his studies at the Leeds School of Art and later at the Royal College of Art in London. From these beginnings, he went on to reshape modern sculpture.

Moore became best known for his semi-abstract monumental bronze sculptures, often depicting reclining figures or mother-and-child themes. These works, with their organic shapes, voids, and hollows, reflected Moore’s conviction that sculpture should be an extension of the natural landscape. He once remarked, “Art is the expression of man’s pleasure in nature and his own being.” This perspective guided not only his choice of subject but also his methods, as he frequently drew inspiration from stones, bones, shells, and natural forms he collected on his walks.

Central to Moore’s worldview was a belief in the universality of human experience. His works, while rooted in personal and cultural references, transcended specific contexts. They resonated across societies because they addressed fundamental themes of humanity: birth, protection, vulnerability, endurance. In the aftermath of World War II, his images of sheltering figures — derived from sketches of Londoners huddled in bomb shelters during the Blitz — captured the collective fragility and resilience of people everywhere. These works underscored Moore’s conviction that art could serve as a bridge between cultures, expressing both suffering and hope in ways that words often could not.

It is in this universalist spirit that Moore’s association with the World Academy of Art and Science (WAAS) becomes especially meaningful. As a Fellow of the Academy, Moore joined an international network of thinkers, scientists, artists, and leaders dedicated to addressing global challenges through creativity and collaboration. WAAS was founded in 1960 by eminent figures like Albert Einstein and Bertrand Russell, who believed that humanity’s most urgent problems — nuclear proliferation, poverty, environmental destruction — required not only scientific expertise but also cultural and ethical insight. Moore’s inclusion reflected recognition that art, no less than science, shapes how humanity imagines its future.

While Moore did not write extensively about politics or global governance, it is reasonable to speculate that his art carried a quiet but potent form of advocacy aligned with the Academy’s mission. His exploration of universal human forms can be seen as an artistic parallel to the Academy’s search for universal solutions. Just as WAAS sought to bridge divides between disciplines and nations, Moore’s sculptures created spaces where people of all backgrounds could contemplate shared human truths. His preference for open, accessible public art — placing works in parks, plazas, and universities — mirrored the Academy’s commitment to democratizing knowledge and dialogue.

It is also plausible that Moore, having lived through two world wars, felt an affinity with WAAS’s efforts to prevent future global catastrophe. The Academy’s founding ethos emphasized the responsibility of intellectuals and creators to guide humanity toward peace and sustainability. Moore’s recurring themes of shelter, nurture, and continuity resonate with this responsibility. His mother-and-child figures, for example, can be read as meditations on the survival of future generations — a concern that echoed the Academy’s focus on safeguarding humanity’s long-term well-being.

Henry Moore’s art was not only about form and space but also about values — endurance, compassion, and interconnectedness. His association with the World Academy of Art and Science underscored the recognition that art plays a vital role in shaping the moral imagination of society. He believed that sculpture should “stand free in the open air, born out of the earth,” and in many ways his involvement with WAAS suggests he also believed ideas should stand free, shared globally for the benefit of all.

Through his monumental works and his quiet participation in an international academy of thinkers, Moore exemplified how art and science together can offer humanity both vision and grounding. His legacy reminds us that the shaping of stone and the shaping of civilization are, in the deepest sense, part of the same human endeavor.

The manifesto was written during a time of great fear, just a decade after World War II and at the height of tensions between East and West. The Cold War had divided the world, and the threat of nuclear war was real and terrifying.

In the face of this danger, two of the greatest minds of the 20th century—philosopher Bertrand Russell and scientist Albert Einstein—joined with other Nobel Prize-winning scientists to make a simple, human appeal: “Remember your humanity, and forget the rest.” They were not speaking as politicians or as members of a particular nation. They were speaking as human beings, asking other human beings to look beyond political conflicts and see what was truly at stake—our shared future.

The manifesto warns that if another world war were to break out, nuclear weapons would almost certainly be used. These weapons, they said, threaten not just soldiers or cities, but the survival of the entire human race. And so, they urged the leaders of all countries to abandon war as a way to resolve disputes.

Instead of continuing to argue and build weapons, the manifesto suggests that we have another option—one filled with hope. If we choose peace, we can move forward together, discovering more knowledge, gaining more wisdom, and building a happier future for everyone. But if we let our anger and division guide us, we risk destroying everything.

The message is still dramatically relevant today. Though the Cold War has ended, the world still faces the prospect of a nuclear war, existential threats have increased in number, and political tensions and wars are on the rise. The manifesto reminds us that science and progress must be used to support life, not destroy it. It calls on scientists, leaders, and everyday people to speak out for peace and live peaceful and sustainable relationships with ourselves, others and the world.

The resolution they proposed was clear: no government should ever believe that war—especially nuclear war—can help them achieve their goals. Peaceful solutions must always be found.

As we remember the anniversary of this historic document, let us honor its message. Let us, as they said, remember our humanity. Because only through peace can we truly move forward.

Read the manifesto here

The story was headlined by a striking photo of an 18-week‑old fetus on the cover of the April 30 issue, alongside a dozen vivid, full-color shots documenting human development from fertilization to just before birth.

Nilsson embarked on this ambitious project in the mid-1950s, driven by curiosity and early exposure to an embryo preserved at a Stockholm hospital. That curiosity propelled a multi-year journey: he learned medical science, collaborated with hospitals, and engineered specialized macro lenses and lighting setups to capture unprecedented clarity and intimacy in his subject matter.

Though the images appeared as if snapped in utero, most were actually taken from embryos and fetuses removed for medical reasons—often miscarriages or terminations—and artfully staged in Nilsson’s studio to mimic life in the womb. Still, his use of endoscopes, macro lenses, and scanning electron microscope techniques yielded images so lifelike that viewers assumed they depicted creatures floating naturally inside their mothers.

Upon publication, Nilsson’s photo essay sparked wonder and controversy. Readers marveled at the level of detail: identifiable organs, twisting umbilical cords, developing limbs, and beating hearts—features rarely seen by the public. As such, the essay fundamentally changed visual culture, offering a rehearsal of life’s earliest stages in stunning clarity and forging a deep fascination with the unseen beginnings of human life.

The imagery also ignited ethical, legal, and social debates, especially around abortion and the definition of when life begins. Pro‑life advocates used the photographs to humanize fetuses in public discourse, while reproductive rights supporters noted that the images were produced using terminated specimens—and emphasized that scientific photography shouldn’t be wielded as ethical proof.

Nilsson himself avoided moral pronouncements, stating that as a photographer and reporter, his task was to show what he saw—not to take sides on where human life begins. Nonetheless, the essay left an undeniable mark: its influence extended far beyond magazines, shaping public fascination with fetal imagery and inspiring advances in medical imaging, including the development of modern 3D and 4D ultrasound.

Building on this success, Nilsson published the book A Child Is Born later in 1965. It became a worldwide bestseller—translated into multiple languages, reissued in numerous editions, and even carried aboard NASA’s Voyager spacecraft as a symbol of humanity’s beginnings. Its pages blended Nilsson’s images with commentary by medical experts on prenatal development and maternal care, solidifying the photographer’s legacy as a bridge between science and art.

Now, over six decades after its debut, “Drama of Life Before Birth” endures as a defining work. It continues to mesmerize with its visual poetry, expand our vision of human origins, and provoke reflection on profound questions about life, science, and belief. Nilsson’s creation remains a powerful testament to the beauty and complexity of early life—and the curious human drive to understand it.

Professor Hugo Boyko, a German-born Israeli scientist, and his wife, Dr. Elizabeth Boyko, a pioneering thinker and botanist in her own right, embarked on a groundbreaking mission that fused hard science with a humanitarian vision for water-scare regions of the world. Hugo was a prominent, charter founder of the World Academy of Art and Science (WAAS) in 1960, and championed interdisciplinary approaches to some of humanity’s greatest challenges. Hugo was a man who saw the future through the lens of collaboration and ecological necessity.

After fleeing Nazi Germany, he settled in what would become Israel, driven by a vision to transform arid land into fertile ground. Elizabeth, a partner in both science and life, supported and co-authored much of his work. While Hugo provided the scientific rigor, Elizabeth brought clarity, advocacy, and organizational strength to their projects and her work at WAAS.

The Boyko’s were among the first to argue for environmental issues to be treated as global security concerns. Their work with WAAS reflected their belief in peaceful cooperation through knowledge, and their efforts were soon to bear historic fruit.

One of their most transformative contributions was the pioneering use of saline water for agricultural irrigation. While most experts dismissed saltwater as unsuitable for crops, the Boyko’s dared to challenge the consensus. Working from their experimental farm in Israel, they conducted the world’s first large-scale tests on growing vegetation — particularly tomatoes and cotton — with saline and brackish water. Their research was rigorous, empirical, and deeply hopeful. In 1959, the husband and wife team received the prestigious Fleming Award in 1959 for the advancement of human welfare through outstanding achievement in science.

At a time when water scarcity threatened many parts of the globe, their work showed that non-freshwater sources could be harnessed to support plant growth. Hugo published influential papers and presented their findings at major international conferences, often under the auspices of WAAS. The Boykos’ breakthrough offered a paradigm shift in global agriculture, especially in arid and semi-arid regions. A grass species found in Spain, North Africa and Portugal, juncos esparto, was highlighted by the couple as ideal for irrigation with seawater, and described by the Boykos as a cheap substitute for wood pulp.

More than just scientists, Hugo and Elizabeth were diplomats of possibility. They hosted delegations, advised governments, and inspired a generation of scientists and policymakers to look beyond traditional limitations. Their home became a gathering place for WAAS members and international collaborators who were drawn to their rare blend of scientific credibility and moral clarity.

Though Hugo passed away in 1970, his and Elizabeth’s legacy lives on — in the research institutes they inspired, such as the Boyko Institute for Saline Water Agriculture that was established in 1980, and in the millions of farmers and communities that today use saline irrigation as part of sustainable agriculture. Their lives serve as a reminder that great change begins not just with knowledge, but with the courage to reimagine what is possible.

This innovative approach offers a glimpse into how AI can preserve history and illuminate its relevance to the present. The sample below was generated by uploading six scanned archive papers in PDF form, that relate to correspondence between Dr. John McHale the Honorary Secretary of the American Division of WAAS, WAAS publisher Dr. W Junk in the Netherlands, WAAS Charter Members Boris Pregel, WAAS President Stuart Mudd, and a WAAS year book entry and newsletter. Google AI did the rest:

WAAS’s archive, held at Yale University in New Haven, North of New York, are a treasure trove of research papers, meeting transcripts, and visionary pronouncements on topics ranging from global governance to the future of education, represents a significant intellectual legacy. Yet, its sheer volume and format – a vast collection of PDF files – presented a formidable challenge. Grant Schreiber, WAAS’s General Manager, recognized the potential of this archive but sought a way to transcend the limitations of traditional research methods. He sought a dynamic platform that could synthesize the complex ideas contained within these documents and make them accessible to a wider audience.

Google Notebook LM is a powerful AI, designed for research and knowledge synthesis, is proving to be more than just a digital archivist. Its ability to process and analyze vast quantities of textual data, understand nuanced language, and identify connections between disparate concepts is transforming this WAAS project. The AI acts as a sophisticated research assistant, sifting through the archives to identify key themes, trace the evolution of thought within the WAAS community, and even suggest potential interview questions for the podcast. Its ability to connect related ideas across multiple documents, a key strength of NotebookLM, is proving invaluable in weaving together the threads of WAAS’s intellectual history.

Archbishop Makarios, President of Cyprus required that the “World Man Center, Inc.” be operated for 50 years under a trusteeship of the highest order of intellectual and scientific capability, “for instance, by the World Academy of Art and Science which includes among its governing body a number of Nobel Prize winners.”

The individuals involved in the World Man Center project included R. Buckminster Fuller and his architectural associate Shoji Sadao; Caresse Crosby, philanthropist and patron of the arts; Xenon Rossides, ambassador from Cyprus to the United States; Archbishop Makarios, President of Cyprus; and Patroclus Stavrou, secretary to the archbishop. Artists who sold their art to benefit the project included Robert Motherwell, Isamu Noguchi, WAAS Fellow Henry Moore, Michael Lekakis, and Salvador Dali. United Nations Secretary-General U Thant raised funds at dinners for ambassadors. The project was to have been under the trusteeship of the World Academy of Art and Science.

Although the project was not realized because of the war between the Turks and the Greek Cypriots, it should not go forgotten and unexamined. Neither should the ideals it represented be abandoned. The project remains a symbol both of the power of the metaphysics of art and of art as a transnational magnet of creativity. Art forces man to reevaluate what he has or has not accomplished by reason. There are powers in art that go beyond philosophy. Art discloses what cannot be disclosed through the tools of philosophy and at least be complementary to philosophy in the penetration of the meaning of humankind.

Source: “Art, Science, and Peace: The Proposed ‘World Man Center’ Project on Cyprus.” Florence Hetzler. Leonardo, Vol. 17, No. 2 (1984), pp. 100-103