You don't hate maths

If the phrase “we’re doing algebra today” still gives you mild PTSD, you’re not alone. Most of us met maths under fluorescent lighting, armed with dull pencils and hiding an earphone by threading it through our jumper sleeve (peak millennial experience). But somewhere between the times tables and trigonometry, we lost sight of what maths actually is: a language for describing beauty, chaos, and everything in between.

Maths isn’t boring. You were just taught it without its poetry.

(No offence Mr Durran, you were a poet in your own right)

Because at its heart, maths isn’t about getting the right answer, it’s about asking better questions. It’s about spotting patterns where no one else can see them, making connections between the abstract and the real, the logical and the poetic.

As someone returning to study for a BSc in Combined STEM (Engineering and Mathematics), I’ve rediscovered that the joy of maths lies in its elegance, not its rigidity. It’s less about crunching numbers, and more about understanding how ideas fit together, like an equation that somehow has the right vibes.

Here are some of my favourite numerical artists, who show that maths isn't just numbers on pages, but a piece of fine art, reaching beyond its outward appearances:

Ada Lovelace

(10 December 1815 – 27 November 1852)

Ada Lovelace proves that imagination isn’t just for artists.

In the 1840s, she worked with Charles Babbage on his Analytical Engine, an early concept for a computer, before computers even existed. Ada didn’t just calculate; she dreamed. She saw beyond the machine’s mechanics, imagining it composing music, creating art, expressing ideas.

She called herself a “poetical scientist,” which feels like the perfect bridge between my creative past and my STEM present. Ada reminds me that creativity isn’t something you leave behind when you enter a technical field; it’s the secret ingredient.

When I’m knee-deep in equations or tinkering with a model, I like to think of Ada: as a composer, turning pure logic into melody.

Henri Poincaré

(29 April 1854 – 17 July 1912)

Henri Poincaré is the mathematician who realised that the universe doesn’t always follow neat rules. He stumbled into what we now call chaos theory, the study of systems that look random, but secretly follow deep, intricate patterns.

Poincaré believed creativity in maths wasn’t just logical. It was intuitive. He wrote that breakthroughs often come when we stop forcing them. The mind keeps working quietly in the background, connecting threads we didn’t even realise were there.

I see that all the time now in my studies. Some problems don’t click during the lecture, but they do the next morning while I’m making coffee, or when I'm talking to my partner and he just guesses "... minus one?" and I realise, wow, this guy knows what he's talking about (he doesn't).

He would have been delighted to know that my best ideas come from pub bartenders and vanilla lattes.

Benoît Mandelbrot

(20 November 1924 – 14 October 2010)

Ah, Benoît Mandelbrot, the man who found art hiding inside equations.

In the 1970s, he coined the word fractal and showed that the universe loves repetition: in coastlines, clouds, tree branches, and even Romanesco broccoli. Zoom in or out, and the same shapes reappear: infinite complexity born from simple rules.

Mandelbrot’s fractals are hypnotic because they remind us that maths isn’t sterile. It’s messy and organic, like nature’s own sketchbook.

When I first saw the Mandelbrot set, it made me realise why I’m drawn to engineering: it’s the art of giving shape to logic. Engineers use maths to build something tangible, something beautiful. It’s order applied to chaos, or maybe, like Mandelbrot showed us, a little bit of both.

Maths is cool!

Maths isn't about memorising formulas, it’s about seeing. Seeing relationships, patterns, connections. Seeing how the world is built, one elegant idea at a time.

That’s what connects Lovelace’s imagination, Poincaré’s intuition, and Mandelbrot’s artistry. They all used maths to tell stories about the world; stories of rhythm, pattern, and possibility.

To me, maths and engineering are both creative acts. They’re not opposites of art; they’re extensions of it. The only difference is the medium.

It’s the original language of wonder. We just forgot to teach it with any.

(Again, not you, Mr Durran.)