Dan Ostermiller, a native of Colorado-born in 1956, was deeply immersed in the world of taxidermy from a young age, thanks to his family legacy. His father, a renowned taxidermist, had travelled the globe for his craft, performing surgeries on animals in Africa, India, Alaska, and Canada. Dan’s upbringing was steeped in taxidermy, and it eventually became a passport to adventures around the world.
Dan’s formative years were spent working alongside his father in Berthoud, Colorado, during the 1930s. It was an arduous apprenticeship, with mannequins resembling animals minus the nose, eyes, and ears. Dan honed his skills, crafting three animals a day, which translated into six eyes and ears and three noses. This intensive training fostered exceptional hand-eye coordination and speed in his work.
Paul Rhymer, a sculptor hailing from Maryland, inherited his passion for taxidermy from his father, who was also a skilled taxidermist. The craft was passed down through generations, continuing the tradition.
For Tim Cherry, a Canadian-born artist born in 1965, taxidermy became an integral part of his life as it harmonized with his love for outdoor pursuits like guiding in the Yukon during the summer and fall. It provided an idyllic lifestyle for a young man who cherished the wilderness, hunting, and fishing.
Gerald Balciar, an artist from Colorado born in 1942, had a unique start in taxidermy. After graduating from a rural Wisconsin high school, he embarked on a full-time career in taxidermy. His mentor employed the traditional method of using animal bones, providing Balciar with a physically demanding apprenticeship that involved working on animal legs and skulls.
Tim Shinabarger riding in Wyoming’s Washakie Wilderness. Courtesy: fineartconnoissur
In Montana, sculptor Tim Shinabarger, born in 1966, discovered his calling in taxidermy at the tender age of 10. He saw it as a pathway to the adventurous life he aspired to lead, akin to explorers like Carl Akeley, Robert Rockwell, James L. Clark, Louis Paul Jonas, and William R. Leigh. This early realization solidified his desire to embrace the world of taxidermy, driven by a scientific curiosity that resonated with his heart.
Each of these artists had unique journeys into the realm of taxidermy, influenced by their family legacies, outdoor passions, or a deep-seated longing for exploration and scientific inquiry. Their diverse backgrounds and motivations enriched the field of taxidermy, allowing them to leave their own artistic imprints on the craft.
How Taxidermy Became an Art
There is a famous photograph taken by Carl Akeley (1864-1926) in East Africa,now Somalia. He stands in front of the tent, one hand tied, the otherin a sling. His brow furrowed, his hair knotted, he looks darkly atthe leopard hanging by his hind legs beside him. Soon the leopard came out of the tall grass and pounced on Akeley, who fought it to the death with his bare hands. Not a typical artist CV to say the least. In addition to his wild, often brutal adventures, Akeley’s contributions to our knowledge of wildlife live on in natural history museums across the country. Widely considered the father of modern taxidermy, Akeley developed lightweight hollow-body dolls that he molded into action poses with precise muscles. His taxidermied animals were placed in dioramas filled with plant material from the animal’s homeland and placed against a background painted on a curved wall, giving the scene the illusion of distance and space.
“In the old days,” says Cherry, “you’d go on safari to find whatever the museum needed for its collection. It was romantic: animal skins would be brought back, someone would carve a mannequin and mount them, then the painters would come in. When I went to museums, this way of collecting animals was slowly dying out. I don’t know of any museum that has a taxidermy staff anymore.”
Indeed, when Rhymer, who worked as a taxidermist at the Smithsonian Institution, retired in 2010 to carve full-time, his position was not filled. But he doesn’t seethe end of it: “Taxidermy is still exciting,” he says. “But most museums offer services if needed.” Gone are the days of huge hunting trips. Now, when museums need a replacement specimen, they callzoos to see if there are recently deceased animals they can catch.
Making the Leap
It is interesting to think about how one heeds the call to become an artist, which often means turning away from a stable source of livelihood. For Balciar, it came after 11 years at Jonas Brothers Furs in Denver, a company he joined after leaving his first taxidermy shop in Wisconsin. At the Jonas Brothers, she met Ken Bunn (1935-2020). “He was the first animal sculptor I knew”, notes Balciar. “I remember the first year of work in 1962, when Ken Bunn was there and was already doing wax for museums. I followed his career and it seemed like his career was a lot more fun than what I was doing.
After decades of taxidermy, Shinabarger, who undoubtedly used some of Bunn’s sculptural bases in his work, came to the same conclusion. But it wasn’t until he was actually working with clay that he made the leap; the moment his hands worked the clay into his first sculpture, he knew it was time to move on. “The most important thing I got out of taxidermy was learning anatomy,” he recalls. “How to measure an animal and take that information and create sculptures.”
But Fine Arts is a big leap from taxidermy. To facilitate his thinking, Shinabarger contacted the artist community and found sculptor Hollis Williford (1940-2007) of Loveland, Colorado. Williford introduced him to books written by artists Robert Fawcett and John F. Carlson. Soon he was immersed in a new way of thinking and seeing. “Hollis taught me that an artist must have something to say, that every work of art must have a reason.”
On Cherry’s 19th birthday, she flew to Boston to meet the famous taxidermist and mannequin sculptor Forest Hart. Cherry wanted to learn from a famous mammal taxidermist, but something much better happened: Hart picked Cherry up at the airport, saying he was on his way to a New York foundry to cast his first bronze, and would Cherry come? “Walking through the foundry, I fell in there
A door with a sculpture,” Cherry recalls. “After the foundry, we went to museums and art galleries in New York and the Salmagundi Club. This trip started my whole career.”
“My first idea of what sculpture was,” says Ostermiller, “was with Louis Paul Jonas, who was working with a friend of my father’s. Louis developed these small animal sculptures, but he also did a life-size bronze called The Grizzly’s. Last Stand, which my father took me to see it several times at the Denver Art Museum, it was so impressive. Seeing this and his miniature taxidermy got me thinking and I started to understand sculpture. I didn’t think of myself as a sculptor until I saw Louis’ scraps.” Ostermiller was 18 when he no longer saw the creativity in taxidermy and gave up. He also sought out a community of sculptors and found a foundry in Loveland. By 1977, he was casting sculptures and visited since then.looked back.
Breaking Away
“My first pieces were very detailed,” explains Cherry. “But I fell in love with Art Nouveau and started carving stone.” He worked with Fritz
White, who encouraged the use of simple forms and the look of polished stone, which Cherry then transferred to his bronze work. “Taxiderm is a tool in the toolkit,” he says. “You always return to your roots and knowledge. My challenge is that I want to stylize my animals and patterns, but I have to make sure that the animal is what it is, no matter how much I stretch and go in an abstract direction. .
“I used to be very realistic,” says Balciar. “I remember putting eyelashes on an antelope. But I knew it wasn’t the right way. I realized, “I’m just doing a model, a show.” It was like taking a photograph instead of a painting.” So he began to omit the irrelevant, and while it took him years to develop his iconic style, Balciar says he continues to evolve: “If you give me another 150 or 200 years, I will have evolved into the abstract.”
Towards the end of Carl Akeley’s life, he experienced a major change of heart. After many expeditions and the killing of hundreds of animals, which he used to create dioramas designed to inspire wonder and, ironically, the desire to save the animals he killed, Akeley advocated for wildlife sanctuaries where the animals could. be protected from hunters and poachers.
Even today’s sculptors who practiced taxidermy have a deep respect for nature and an understanding of life through death. “I hunted quite a bit when I was young,” says Ostermiller. “That’s how I met Tim Cherry, who hunted grizzlies in the Yukon Territory in the late ’80s. But I got tired of the killing. I understand the conservation aspect of hunting. For me personally, I’m not interested in killing another animal. “
So what is the best training for a young aspiring nature sculptor? “Go to the zoo,” says Balciar. “Read books and study animals.” Balciar does not carve animals with which he has had no personal experience. When he decides on his next topic, he sorts through several books to learn all he can. “If you want to get your hands on the bones of an animal, call a taxidermist. But do your own research, because that’s when you’ll learn the most.”
“Taxidermy,” Shinabarger points out, “is just an animal standing there; it doesn’t really say anything. As sculptors, we bring an aesthetic.” Perhaps the best advice is Ken Bunn’s guiding principle: “I think a great work of art tells the viewer that something has raged inside the artist, that he really ‘set fire’ to the creation process.”
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