Taxidermist Tim Bovard on working with your hands in a virtual world – Radio Free

How did you initially discover your passion for animals, and how did that passion lead you into taxidermy and the museum world?

I’ve been interested in animals since I was very young. I grew up in Claremont, where I could ride my bike up to the foothills and run around and see lizards and snakes. I had various animals as pets. And then, in elementary school, I got into trying to salvage parts of animals I might find.

My dad was a chemistry professor at Claremont College. One of the biologists who worked with him loaned me [J.W.] Elwood’s instruction books on taxidermy. When I was 11 years old, I found a roadkill skunk up in the mountains; I followed the instructions from the book and put it all together. I even added glass eyes. [My parents understood my interest]—there’s zoology in the family, science in the family. My grandfather, John F. Bovard, was the first one to do a description of the cats out of the La Brea Tar Pits in 1907. My great-grandfather and two of his brothers were some of the founders at USC.

After my junior year of high school, I [visited] a local taxidermist and said, “If you have work that needs doing, I’d love to come out a couple days a week, and you wouldn’t have to pay me,” and so on and so forth. I worked for them all through the summer, and when we got to the fall, they asked me to continue. I had a work-study program, so my whole senior year, I spent three days a week with them, gaining more experience. This was a commercial studio, mostly for hunters and fishermen, run by a husband and wife. The wife was definitely more the artist and the husband more the businessman. They made a good team. As soon as I graduated, I started working for them full time.

I wanted to work in a museum, or at least in an educational capacity, so I went back to school and got an Associate of Science degree out of Citrus College. I took some courses at Cal State Fullerton, and then I transferred to the University of Idaho in 1982. In the summer of 1982 I did an internship working in the habitats department at the Natural History Museum, which was the section of the museum that did dioramas. I met the director at that point, Dr. Craig Black, and worked with Jim Olson and Charles Fisher; they had me work on scale models for our future bird hall, which eventually I would help build. They stayed in contact while I finished up my degree program. At one point, they had me come down to assist with a project. And then they said, “Hey, we don’t have a taxidermist on staff. We’d like to offer you the position.”

That’s the story of my fascination with animals, but it’s not just about animals, right? It’s a lot of geology, quite a bit of botany. When we’re building a diorama, we have to ask, “What do we have, reference-wise, for the foreground and background?” Then we have to have a dialogue with a background artist about what they’re going to paint. And what I’ve done with plant molds. Over the years, my volunteers and co-workers and I have produced hundreds of thousands of leaves.

When I started out, we had a model-maker, an exhibit designer, and a background artist on staff. Over time, those people left. Since the ’90s, it’s just been me and my volunteers. The reason we’ve been able to keep this whole thing going is that John Rowley originally designed our dioramas with sash windows back in the 1920s, so I can walk up to them, open them up, and easily clean, enhance, or add to [the dioramas]. We can do it efficiently, and it doesn’t take a big team.

What does your work look like on the day-to-day level? Does the Natural History Museum assign you specific animals or biomes to depict, or do you have free rein?

I would say it’s a combination. Usually it’s a case of, what do we have, animals-wise, that we could build a diorama around? Then from there, do we have to go out in the field and get plant molds or that kind of thing?

Sometimes we have a specific story to tell. For one exhibit, the museum wanted to highlight the chaparral as a fire climax community. We had an Amazon rainforest to highlight, of course, the loss of huge amounts of it. We had another walkthrough diorama area that featured a marsh up in Canada, a waterfowl nesting area—of course, we’ve lost over 90 percent of our wetlands here in California. And then we had our condor mountain highlighting the fact that condors had almost disappeared, but over time with captive breeding, we’ve brought them back. There are so many species that we’ve successfully brought back, but that are still dealing with major habitat loss, which is what we try to demonstrate with our dioramas.

You mentioned collaborating with artists to facilitate the creation of background and props for each diorama. I’d love to learn more about that collaboration process.

In the past, of course, we had more people involved in a diorama. Often, in the early days, they would make a scale model of what that diorama was going to be so that they could show it to a possible sponsor, because people donated money for many of them. Up until the ’80s, there were also collecting trips that might be sponsored—not just for animals, but for plant material and all that.

Once we have all the specimens, an artist will do sketches of what the background might be, and we’ll look at those to know what would be possible for the foreground. Then we’ll decide on elements that will serve as a tie-in between the foreground and the background. In a dense rainforest situation, you might have walls of leaves. Where you’ve got more of a scenic situation, maybe you have a drop off—like with our Grand Canyon group or the Snow Leopard group in the Reframing Dioramas hall. You might have rocks, you might have a gully, you might have grass blades—you need something that’s going to carry the person’s eye from the foreground to the background, so it really looks like you can walk right in. That’s the challenge of doing a diorama. During that foreground process, we’ve got to have a group of people [helping]. In today’s world, I’m using my volunteers.

In some cases, we may need to have specimens in a certain position because of their condition. [For example, if we’re] using something that’s been previously mounted, it’s locked in place and I can’t just put it anywhere, whereas if I’m doing everything from scratch, then I have more fluidity.

You’ve hinted throughout our conversation that the taxidermy landscape has changed significantly since you first started working for the museum. Previously, for example, the museum had more personnel involved—but at the same time, there’s a tangible interest in taxidermy workshops and mentorship amongst young people today. I’m curious to hear your insights on how this field has changed over the years, and what you think the future holds for it.

At one point, probably like some others, I thought it might die down—but I don’t really feel that way anymore. I’m sort of the classic taxidermist—I’m an older white guy, and I’ve been doing this since I was a kid—and I know a lot of people who fit that profile. But when I worked at the shop way back in the ’70s, the best taxidermist there was definitely the wife. I think gender-wise, the slate’s open for more jobs now. When I first got to the museum, a lot of the staff were men. Today, I would bet we have more women on staff than men—and if not, we’re very close. Our President and Director, [Dr.] Lori [Bettison-Varga], is a woman, and she does an excellent job. Interestingly, most of my volunteers through the years have been women, mainly young women. And you’re probably aware of [award-winning taxidermist] Allis Markham, who was a volunteer for me starting back in 2011, and then worked with me as a staff member before starting her own studio where she teaches classes on a regular basis.

I think what’s helped taxidermy carry on is the diversity of people involved. Allis isn’t your typical old-school taxidermist. She rarely does anything for hunters and fishermen; she’s mostly working for educational institutions and nature centers and that kind of thing. Her students might be vegan, they might be vegetarian, they don’t hunt, they don’t fish, so most of her animals are salvaged. It’s always surprising to me when I talk to them. [Some of them] are teenagers; [some] are older than me, in their 70s. Many have had an interest in taxidermy going way back, but they were discouraged from [pursuing it]. The reason I’m sitting here as a taxidermist in front of you today is that my family didn’t freak out. Some of my friends’ families would not have let me do this. “Playing around with a dead animal? That’s just wrong.” My family was like, “Ok, Tim.” I was always, of course, a little different. And my friends thought that was interesting, luckily.

I think [the modern fascination with taxidermy] has to do with the fact that so much of what we do is virtual. We’re having a meeting virtually, which we wouldn’t have done years ago. But taxidermy is hands-on. You’re taking something real and trying to bring back the illusion of life. And people are intrigued by that. That’s why dioramas continue to be fascinating—even though they’re replicas of nature, they look real. A diorama is three-dimensional, so somebody can stand there and look at it as long as they want. They can discover those 10 little birds I have secreted away, if they take the time. My goal with dioramas is to add multiple layers to discover. When you’re in nature, that’s the way it is—the more your eye develops, the more you see.

As you described, so many people have an interest in taxidermy but feel that there’s some barrier to entry. Breaking into the field does seem like an intimidating feat, especially given the training and materials that are required. What would you recommend for those who are looking to get involved but aren’t sure where to start?

[Finding specimens] is sort of a tough thing. In some cases, people may have a family member who hunts or fishes. I do regularly get specimens from people who hunt birds, who are not normally going to save the skins of the birds. I’ll skin the bird and give them back their meat—and then I can use that bird for educational purposes. I also have a friend who’s a falconer, and he’s regularly doing abatement and depredation work on invasive species—removing animals that are causing some sort of disturbance. I used to [do taxidermy] on pigeons, because they’re common and I knew people who trapped them. In some states it’s ok to pick up a bird if it flies into a window—but the problem is with that is, you’ve got to make sure what you’re doing is legal. Many of the birds out there are migratory birds, so you can’t possess them.

Sometimes pet shops will lose birds or reptiles. There are people who are bird breeders, and they regularly have mortalities. Back when I was an apprentice, bird farms would give me parrots and other birds I wouldn’t have otherwise been able to get. There’s also Taxidermy.net, which has specimens for sale—although you have to know your state laws. There are some specimens you might be able to buy in another state, but not in California.

There are sources, but it’s going to take some perseverance to find them. That’s one reason people often go to Allis—she’s got a name out there, so she has sources for specimens.

What do you suggest for people who are seeking education or job opportunities?

I occasionally have seminars, but they’re usually pretty short. I do take volunteers, but I usually have a list of people who want to work for me. Allis is the leading person in this area; a lot of her business is training, although I realize it costs money. There are also people in other areas who do classes.

There are listings on Taxidermy.net. Some junior colleges offer specimen prep courses. Those who are really interested in a deep dive can try to get a job in a commercial studio, if they’re willing to work hard and learn. [Taxidermy] is all about learning. I tell my students that I don’t know it all—I never will. Every specimen is different.

Out of all the specimens you’ve worked on, do you have a favorite?

[My favorite specimen is] whatever I’m currently working on—it could be a little squirrel, it could be a quail or a hummingbird. On the other hand, working on big stuff [is exciting]. I really enjoyed updating our lion diorama with what I felt was a more realistic look. Instead of featuring the typical lion pride—Ma, Pa, and a couple of cubs—in the center of the diorama, I wanted a pair of females headbutting. We have cats at our house, and we see them doing that all the time, so I had that in my mind for a while. The next year, we added another female grooming and a male in the back scratching his ear, which most people probably don’t even see. Over the years, people who have looked at that diorama have said, “Tim, you need an MGM lion in the center.” And I’m like, “I thank you for your input, but that’s not what I had in my vision.” Males are important—they’ve got to be there to breed. But the continuity of that pride is female based, so that’s a special one to me. Chris the gorilla is another favorite. Who gets to work on gorillas? Not too many people, but I’ve done a few, and maybe I’ll do one more before I’m done.

I do taxidermy for exhibits [where specimens are displayed in cases], such as our Age of Mammals exhibit and our bird hall—but my favorites are the dioramas, just because I see dioramas as trying to capture places in their totality, and we need those places. Hopefully, what people get out of my work is we gotta have the places, or we don’t have the animals.

This content originally appeared on The Creative Independent and was authored by Brittany Menjivar.