Another special exhibition had rolled into town. The National Museum was hosting Birds of America and we didn't want to miss this one. The work of American artist and ornithologist John James Audubon (1785 - 1851) was the subject of the installation. Around 1820, he declared his intention to paint every species of bird in North America. The printed result of this ambition was Birds of America, published between 1827 and 1838. Featuring 435 life-size, watercolour illustrations of staggering detail, the book's outsize dimensions and its release as a series of folios has resulted in very few complete volumes remaining to this day. An intact first edition will now set you back millions of pounds/dollars. Only 120 such examples are known to exist and the museum's collection includes a partial set of prints from a lapsed subscription, augmented by a few individual pages acquired over the years.
We took the bus across to Edinburgh from the Inverkeithing park & ride facility. It was a blustery day in the capital but not too cold. After a wander around Greyfriars Churchyard, where a crazy preacher was in full flow, we strolled over to the museum and headed straight for the temporary exhibition gallery. The admission fee was the usual £10 but we had a good look around the adjacent bird-themed shop before going in. Nicole bought herself a pair of bullfinch earrings while I made do with a handful of postcards. Taking pride of place on the shelves was a lovely poster (pictured right), depicting European birds with text in German. At £80 however, it was a bit beyond our budget for the day. We purchased our exhibition tickets at the counter and made our way through the doors. The first room featured a revolving set of Audubon's prints being projected on to the white walls. I knew very little about the man and took the time to read a text panel next to his portrait before progressing deeper inside. John James Audubon is generally regarded as the most famous bird illustrator of all time. Born in French-speaking Haiti, he was the illegitimate son of a sugar plantation owner and his chambermaid mistress. Audubon was raised in Nantes and therefore had French as his native language. An early fascination with birds and other wildlife continued into adulthood, by which time he had emigrated to the United States. Audubon set about studying American birds, determined to illustrate his findings in a more realistic manner than most artists did back then. He began drawing, painting and observing behaviour. Audubon settled in Kentucky with his wife Lucy. They had two sons and two daughters but only the boys survived childhood. Both lads eventually helped publish their father's works and young John became a naturalist, writer, and painter in his own right. After finding it difficult to attract the respect of the scientific community, not to mention the necessary financial backing for the Birds of America concept in his adopted homeland, Audubon set sail for Great Britain where his pitch found a receptive audience. He arrived in Liverpool carrying a portfolio of 200 drawings and was well received there. It was however a journey north to Edinburgh that provided the key to making his project a reality.
Armed with his artwork and letters of introduction, Audubon planned to spend a week in Scotland's capital but ended up staying for five months. The movers and shakers in Edinburgh found the "American woodsman" persona fascinating and a public display of Audubon's work received glowing feedback. But the positive impression didn't stop there. He was also elected to many of the city's artistic and scientific societies. Publisher and engraver William Home Lizars stepped in with a distribution deal. Subscribers were sought in order to cover the ongoing production costs. Today we think nothing of sending a colour picture to a laser printer but in the 1800s it was a painstaking (and expensive) process to produce this type of work. Calculating that the illustrations of large birds would prove the most popular, each release deliberately contained one such specimen, along with a medium sized bird and three smaller examples. The big beasts were therefore drip-fed into the market. Another publishing ruse was to issue the sets of prints without accompanying text, therefore getting round the law stipulating that a dozen copies be provided free of charge to various state libraries. A companion piece furnished the reader with the finer details of the pictured birds. For this task, Audubon enlisted the help of an academic named William MacGillivray. English wasn't Audubon's first language and he didn't feel confident enough to write the formal notes on his own, although he did add personal anecdotes which no doubt brought the subject matter to life among non-specialist readers. Audubon was not the first naturalist to turn his hand to painting. This fact was recognised by the exhibition which provided examples of artwork by eminent ornithologists Mark Catesby and Scots-born Alexander Wilson. The determination of Audubon to draw each subject on a life-sized scale meant that large birds were often contorted into unnatural (and often aerodynamically impossible) poses in order to fit the already-huge page. Indeed, only two paper mills in the whole of Britain were manufacturing sheets of suitable dimensions. Audubon claimed he never drew from a stuffed specimen and often shot down the birds himself before commencing work. This would be regarded as a highly controversial act nowadays but back then it would be the only viable method of obtaining a life model. As always, we must resist the temptation to waggle a finger when referencing a much earlier age of different values.
Many of Audubon's paintings showed birds devouring prey, showing nature in its full gory detail. I've never understood why people complain about photos on social media depicting raptors enjoying a well-earned meal. Yet a blackbird posing with a worm dangling from its beak is likely to be regarded as cute. Everyone has the right to nourishment. The 18th century saw the proliferations of large museums in major cities which were always looking to add to their natural history collections. Extravagant displays and illustrations of specimens were a sure-fire way of attracting public curiosity. It was certainly a fertile time for an artist to be touting wares showing flora and fauna in the raw. One glass case in the exhibition gallery contained a selection of the taxidermist's art, including a massive golden eagle and a rather attractive tufted puffin - the latter a native of North Pacific regions. Even though Audubon supposedly disapproved of drawing from this type of source, he did possess rudimentary taxidermy skills and the presence of stuffed birds at today's exhibition helped to broaden the scope. Besides, I'm sure he cheated at least once! Another eye-catching stuffed specimen was the gyrfalcon - the largest member of this genus and native of northern parts. It is sometimes seen at lower latitudes during harsh winters when food is scarce. Audubon's life story is full of contradictions and controversy. The son of a slave trader, Audubon himself dabbled in this nefarious trade and also studied the now discredited science of phrenology for a while (although coming to the conclusion it was complete nonsense). Meanwhile he accepted the patronage of abolitionists in England. A failed businessman in his younger days, he nevertheless secured funding for the production of a bird book on a scale and ambition never attempted before or since. A hunter who boasted of shooting thousands of creatures, he also warned of the dangers to wildlife caused by habitat degradation and human interference. Audubon is considered by many today as an advocate of conservation.
Reading between the lines, it seems Audubon was willing to try his hand at anything but often realised the folly of his actions. He apparently refused to participate in the mass shooting of buffalo for sport, rapidly concluding the practice of leaving mounds of corpses piled on the plains while taking only tails and tongues as trophies was completely barbaric and not remotely sustainable. Audubon erroneously believed that targeting species already existent in large numbers would do no lasting harm to their population. A prime example is the passenger pigeon, once widespread across North America but hunted to extinction after demand for its meat reached industrial proportions. Coupled with mass deforestation, this led to an estimated three billion birds being reduced to zero by the outbreak of WW1. Native Americans had of course eaten pigeon flesh for centuries but this activity made no impact on bird numbers. Martha, the last known passenger pigeon, died in Cincinnati Zoo. Her body was frozen into a block of ice and sent to the Smithsonian Institution, where it was skinned, dissected, photographed and mounted. A tragic end for a once ubiquitous bird. A stuffed specimen gazed mournfully from the display case as I wandered past. The gallery also related the sad tale of the Carolina parakeet - a brilliantly coloured, medium-sized parrot that travelled in large noisy flocks and was once common in eastern America. As European settlers arrived and colonised the continent, they began clearing large swathes of forest where the birds resided, mainly for agriculture and residential development. Farmers saw the parakeet as a pest and shot them in large numbers. The prevailing fashion of wearing colourful feathers in ladies hats hardly helped matters.
Therefore the same old situation occurred. A combination of habitat loss and persecution from humans led to a sharp decline and the last surviving parakeet died in 1918 at Cincinnati Zoo - unbelievably in the same cage once occupied by Martha the pigeon. Many experts attribute the final stage of the extinction process to an unknown disease. Viruses are part of nature but the low population base would have been unable to withstand the infection. Two sad stories of feathered friends lost forever but it showed the negative side of our interaction with the natural world. Have lessons been learned? Partially at best, I would say. Audubon wanted the wild turkey (the hen was pictured earlier) to be America's national bird and it was given pride of place as the very first plate printed for the book series. The heavy ground bird also appeared on Audubon's personal seal and calling card. After a serious risk of extinction, a recovery programme was put in place and thankfully succeeded. An estimated seven million wild turkeys roam free today. Yes, they do actually fly, albeit at a low altitude over short distances. The bird lends its name to a bourbon whisky brand and features on the motif. I'm sure it's powerful stuff! Audubon is credited with being the first enthusiast to carry out bird ringing in America. Identifying species in the wild is a tricky business fraught with mistakes. Sometimes the same bird ended up being named twice or juveniles were falsely put forward as new types. To a large extent, these false results helped lead us to where we are today. As they say, the pioneers take the arrows while the settlers get the land. However, Audubon is thought to have gone beyond the usual beginner's blundering and the possible embellishment of details in a desperate attempt to cement his scientific standing. Indeed, it is speculated in some quarters that he went the whole hog and actually fabricated the so-called Bird of Washington (pictured below). This winged warrior - presented as the largest eagle in North America and named after the first president of the United States - stood proudly upon the first painting encountered by visitors to Audubon's 1826 exhibition in Edinburgh.
Yet there was never any physical evidence put forward to verify the Bird of Washington's existence. A genuine miscalculation or a cheeky attempt to make a fast buck? The issue perplexes historians to this day. The standard set of bird names we reference today is the end result of a process refined over many years. Common names could differ depending on where you were in the English-speaking world and many of the titles doled out by Audubon were subsequently altered. Nevertheless, more than 20 species described by him still go by this name today. One such example is Bewick's long tailed wren. Thomas Bewick was a highly regarded English naturalist and a master wood engraver. He famously produced the volumes A History of British birds between 1797 and 1804. Bewick and Audubon met in 1827 and shared a mutual admiration. You can pick up a reprint of the Bewick series for around a hundred quid. Nicole did just that when we visited a second-hand book emporium in Alnwick, Northumberland. I suspect an Audubon second edition may be a tad pricier! The scientific milieu of the 19th century was highly elitist and Audubon's lack of formal academic schooling put him at a distinct disadvantage in this highly competitive environment. No doubt he was rough around the edges in some respects but it's certain he also ran up against pure snobbery. I'm sure if his particular skills had been required as part of a vital war effort then he would suddenly have found himself accepted among the elite. The actual book exhibit - as opposed to individual prints pinned on the wall - was a sight to behold. It twas a weighty tome and an illustration of a white heron beamed out from the display case. Subscribers had the option of binding numerous prints into a set of four themed volumes. The material on display was devoted to water birds. Each page was approximately one meter tall and 70 centimetres wide. The whole family was involved in the printing enterprise. Son Victor acted as his fathers London agent and supervised the production. Young John reproduced his dad's illustrations on a smaller scale for The Little Work - the runaway success of which enabled the purchase of an extensive estate in New York. Oil painted copies of the master drawings were also sold to generate additional profits.
Following Audubon's death in 1851, the family fortunes declined and the original watercolours were flogged to help pay the bills. Audubon had branched into mammal illustrations in the mid-1840s but failing eyesight, followed by dementia ended his career. The engraved copper plates were deemed relatively worthless at the time and offloaded merely for their scrap value. Only 78 are reckoned to survive. What price would a more substantial set attract today? I think we can categorise Audubon as a flawed genius and many of his original works can be viewed at the internationally acclaimed museum bearing his name in Kentucky. A mere taste was on offer here today in Edinburgh, 3782 miles from Audubon's home state (as the Bird of Washington flies, allegedly!). That said, a huge amount of information was presented and the camera shots I took of the information panels certainly helped me solidify my understanding of the subject matter, as well as providing invaluable notes for the creation of this blog post. A veritable smorgasbord of bird facts. The exhibition was one of the best I had seen in a long time. Thoroughly recommended. We needed to experience fresh air and answer the call of hunger (which pretty much encapsulates the life of a bird). A stroll down Chambers Street to South Bridge presented several food options and we sought refuge in a burrito restaurant. What a remarkable day!
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