Science isn't just about some guy in a lab coat shouting "Eureka!" while a beaker bubbles over. It’s mostly about real estate. Or rather, how the buildings we build actually shape the way we think and discover.
If you look at the leap from Henry Gilman to Morgridge Hall, you aren't just looking at two points on a map. You're looking at the entire evolution of how humans solve problems. On one end, you have the "Father of Organometallic Chemistry" working in a world of physical beakers and harsh chemicals. On the other, you have a $267 million temple of data and silicon that just opened its doors at the University of Wisconsin-Madison in 2025.
It’s a wild transition.
The Grind in Gilman Hall
Let’s be honest: Henry Gilman was a beast. He didn't just "do" chemistry; he basically willed the field of organometallic chemistry into existence at Iowa State. He moved to Ames in 1919. Back then, the chemistry building—later named Gilman Hall in his honor—was brand new and gleaming.
But science then was isolated. It was lonely.
Gilman was known as a "slave driver," and I mean that in the most academic sense possible. He expected his students to be in the lab on Sundays. He expected them to work until midnight. If he went on a business trip, he wouldn’t tell them when he was coming back. Why? He wanted to make sure they weren't slacking off the second he left the parking lot.
Here’s the kicker: Gilman went almost completely blind in 1947. Glaucoma and a detached retina. Most people would have called it a career. Not Henry. He published more than half of his 1,020 research papers after he lost his sight. He used his wife, Ruth, and his students as his eyes. He memorized the structure of the lab. He visualized the molecules in his head.
That era of science was about the individual's willpower within a specific, siloed department. You were a "Chemistry Person." You stayed in the Chemistry Building.
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Why Morgridge Hall Changes the Game
Fast forward to late 2025. We aren't in Ames anymore. We’re at UW-Madison, looking at Morgridge Hall.
If Gilman Hall was a fortress for chemists, Morgridge Hall is more like a massive, high-tech airport terminal where nobody has a gate. It’s the new home for the School of Computer, Data & Information Sciences (CDIS).
Kinda different vibes, right?
Morgridge Hall is 350,000 square feet of "let’s see what happens if we put these people together." It houses computer science, statistics, and data science. But it’s not just offices. They built it with a "grand staircase" in a seven-story atrium they call "The Heart."
The logic is simple: If a biostatistician bumps into a robotics expert while getting coffee, maybe they’ll solve a problem that neither could fix alone.
It's the literal opposite of the siloed world Henry Gilman lived in. In the old days, you specialized until you knew everything about nothing. Now, if you’re in Morgridge, you’re expected to be a polymath—or at least be friends with one.
The Manhattan Project vs. The Data Revolution
We often forget that Henry Gilman was a consultant on the Manhattan Project. He was working on uranium compounds for the atomic bomb. That was the pinnacle of "Big Science" in the 1940s. It was secretive, departmentalized, and physically dangerous.
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The "bombs" being built in Morgridge Hall today are made of code.
Researchers there are working on quantum computing and AI that can predict climate shifts. When you move the focus from Henry Gilman to Morgridge Hall, you’re seeing the shift from the Atomic Age to the Information Age.
Honestly, the scale of data being handled in Morgridge would have been literal magic to Gilman. We’re talking about bits and bytes instead of moles and reagents. Yet, the core "vibe" is similar: a relentless pursuit of the "new."
Real-world differences you can actually see:
- Visibility: Gilman worked in a world of shadows, eventually literally. Morgridge is filled with floor-to-ceiling glass and "Living Walls" with actual plants.
- Collaboration: Gilman’s students worked for him. In Morgridge, the "open concept" means a freshman might be sitting at a table next to a world-renowned researcher who just got a $10 million grant.
- Purpose: Gilman wanted to understand the bond between a metal and a carbon atom. Morgridge researchers want to understand the bond between human behavior and the algorithms that govern our lives.
What Most People Get Wrong
People think that because we have fancy buildings like Morgridge Hall, the "old" way of doing science is dead. That’s a mistake.
You still need the "Gilman Grind."
You can have the most beautiful, $267 million building in the world, but if you don't have someone with the obsessive, late-night-on-a-Sunday focus that Henry Gilman had, nothing gets done. Morgridge Hall is a tool. It makes collaboration easier, but it doesn't replace the need for deep, grueling expertise.
The transition from Henry Gilman to Morgridge Hall is basically a move from "The Lone Genius" to "The Genius Network."
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How to Navigate This New World
If you’re a student, a researcher, or just someone interested in how the world is changing, there are some pretty clear takeaways from this architectural and scientific shift.
First, stop staying in your lane. The era of being "just" a chemist or "just" a coder is over. If you find yourself in a space like Morgridge, talk to the person whose research sounds like Greek to you. That’s where the breakthroughs are hiding.
Second, embrace the tools, but don't lose the tenacity. Henry Gilman didn't need a 350,000-square-foot facility to change the world; he needed a lab and a vision that his eyes couldn't even see.
Third, look at the "connective tissue." In Morgridge, it’s the grand staircase and the shared lounges. In your own life or work, find the places where different ideas collide.
Basically, we've moved from the chemistry of atoms to the chemistry of ideas.
To truly understand this evolution, look into the specific research coming out of the Wisconsin Institute for Discovery, which sits right next to Morgridge Hall. It’ll give you a clearer picture of how "wet lab" biology is finally merging with "dry lab" data science in ways Gilman could have only dreamed of.