Get Stuffed

Taxidermy is grand in its ambitions — brazenly flouting the unstoppable cycles of nature and freezing animals in time. Lumbering lions, dainty butterflies, and venomous reptiles are all delicately arranged into striking tableaus. Human order is ruthlessly imposed on the marauding chaos of the natural realm. This cheeky slap-in-the-face to Mother Earth is an undeniable testament to the pluckiness of the human spirit. 

Like so much of Western culture, taxidermy can trace its roots all the way back to ancient Egypt. During this long-lost age, pharaohs would embalm cats to join them in their sarcophaguses. These pickled pusses were intended to help their companions reach the afterlife. It’s no wonder that Egyptian burial prefigured the birth of taxidermy — the whole process is a glittering assault on the natural. The process of mummification is designed to preserve the body from decay while pyramids jut out against the empty desert, forming artificial mountains. These awe-inspiring coffins are the embryos of the modern skyscraper. Taxidermy has a noble lineage, forged in the Egyptian duel with nature.

As the wheel of history turned, embalming morphed into stuffing (although, apparently taxidermists prefer the term mounting). Impressive prizes would be taxidermied in country manors allowing nobles to flaunt their hunting abilities. Think of those big leering bears and bulging stag heads. Although the aristocratic impulse to show off has created countless masterpieces, taxidermy is not merely the penchant of the elites. From the quaint dioramas of Walter Potter to Iris Schieferstein’s fabulous ‘gun hoofs’, it has made an impressive mark on the art world and remains, in my view, drastically underappreciated.

With characteristic British hypocrisy, taxidermy is dismissed as cruel and unethical. The sort of stuff we hear about fur coats, snakeskin boots, and leather jackets — all of which I unapologetically adore! As long as one can justify a juicy steak or a gelatinous trifle, one can justify taxidermy. Surely, its aesthetic value outweighs the largely carnal motivations for animal consumption. These impressive statues last far longer than the momentary pleasure induced by a delicious meal. That said, taxidermy is perfectly compatible with the noble principles of vegetarianism. Like Godmother’s fur coat in Fleabag (“It’s OK because it had a stroke.”), most modern taxidermists operate only on animals who have died of natural causes. The only real crime of taxidermy is its violation of the taboo on dead bodies. It coldly denies animals the dignity of a ‘natural death’ — forever trapping them in their corpses. 

Ethics aside, taxidermy pieces function as a wonderful addition to household décor, enlivening dowdy rooms and generating a host of conversation-starters. Amongst the host of tasteless mansions dully exposed in Architectural Digest’s Open Door Series, Dita Von Teese’s taxidermy-filled Tudor revival stands out as a tribute to genuine eccentricity and self-expression. Her stuffed swans are particularly charming and would create a rather exciting, regicidal atmosphere in a British abode. Inspired by Von Teese, I have purchased a rather alienating ‘angel mouse’ which hangs above my bed. I admit that this hasn’t been much of a success. Instead of exuding the charming bohemianism of Von Teese’s home, this mouse has succeeded only in generating a spooky, unsettling atmosphere.

For all its charms, there is undeniably something morbid — even grotesque — about taxidermy. Devoted pet owners seeking to preserve the remains of their beloved companions often come to regret it. There is a little shop in one of Paris’ expensive arrondissements where elegant old ladies get their dead lapdogs taxidermied. Upon seeing them frozen in those quasi-living poses, many flee the scene, abandoning their deformed Franken-pets to the care of the shop. Consequently, it has developed a whole collection of poodles, papillons, and other preserved pooches. 

Whilst I celebrate the bravery of taxidermy, Mother Nature cannot be bested. Deyrolle, the famed Paris taxidermy establishment, burnt to the ground in 2008. The supposedly eternal statues of polar bears, peacocks, and monkeys were all incinerated. The charred remains of the destroyed objects make for a ghostly, haunted viewing. I admire the death-defying principles of taxidermy and its implied conviction for art for its own sake. However, I fear it may be too decadent for its own good.

Illustration by: Ruby Pitman