Todays post is by my new flatmate Lauren Clancy, whose studies in English Literature, and work in theatre production make her an ideal candidate to write on the spectacle of the Musée de la Chasse et de la Nature.
Having first seen some of Walter Potter's Victorian ‘Museum of Curiosity’ tableaux at The Museum of Everything last year, I’d developed a seed of morbid curiosity for taxidermy, although it still feels strange to say the word aloud. I can’t say I’d enjoyed the exhibitions, not like I enjoy Impressionist art, but I’d relished the atmosphere of the place. Who wouldn’t? Walter Potter made it possible to imagine guinea pigs playing cricket, or tiny rabbits going to school. This is the stuff that dreams are made of.
En route to what had been described to me as a Parisian eccentric’s taxidermy collection, I was expecting a rickety old Marais house with trophy dead animal finds arranged in glass cases or hanging from dusty beams. But situated in a beautiful, spacious 17th century building, the Musee de la Chasse et de la Nature is far from rickety. The foyer area is all stone floors and tasteful loos, jacket-ed reception staff and white walls. There’s even a leaflet rack of other touristy things you may like to go on to see after you’ve looked a bear in the face. Boat ride, anyone?
I visited mid-week, and it was wonderfully quiet. At the top of the stairs, the banisters of which feel like scales underneath your hand, you don’t quite know which way to go; there are no hints you’re about to see anything weird. I turned left and arrived nez à nez with the bear. A huge polar bear, who looks like he walked into the room just in front of you, a fellow visitor. He’s not in the middle of the room, not quite in a corner. He’s just there, towering a good half-a-person over you.
Along with the bear, you share the room with an impressive selection of paintings and furniture. Although the paintings kind of blend into the walls with a bear standing next to you, and dried thistles on the chairs remind you this is not the kind of place to sit down. So you continue, exploring the museum’s vast, interlocking rooms with ever-increasing bravery.
There are cases of ornate rifles; walnut bureaus you discover can be opened when no one’s looking; secret drawers not labeled but perhaps left ajar by someone before you. These are filled with animal droppings, locks of fur. There’s a tiny room in which you notice that the ceiling is covered in an intricate cloth of feathers, and sculpted faux owl heads stare down at you from every angle.
Like a psychological thriller, like a good, immersive piece of theatre, this experience took me somewhere. And it is wholly theatrical. Like an Ibsen play, it makes you feel as if you are spying upon the most intimate moments of a household, walking through a time-dead space, completely safe and unnoticed. I for one momentarily forgot that taxidermy is still ‘un-PC’, to coin the phrase of my guidebook. Because for me this place is not only beautiful; it contains that precious mix of science and art, which is imperative to the life of both fields.
En route to what had been described to me as a Parisian eccentric’s taxidermy collection, I was expecting a rickety old Marais house with trophy dead animal finds arranged in glass cases or hanging from dusty beams. But situated in a beautiful, spacious 17th century building, the Musee de la Chasse et de la Nature is far from rickety. The foyer area is all stone floors and tasteful loos, jacket-ed reception staff and white walls. There’s even a leaflet rack of other touristy things you may like to go on to see after you’ve looked a bear in the face. Boat ride, anyone?
I visited mid-week, and it was wonderfully quiet. At the top of the stairs, the banisters of which feel like scales underneath your hand, you don’t quite know which way to go; there are no hints you’re about to see anything weird. I turned left and arrived nez à nez with the bear. A huge polar bear, who looks like he walked into the room just in front of you, a fellow visitor. He’s not in the middle of the room, not quite in a corner. He’s just there, towering a good half-a-person over you.
Along with the bear, you share the room with an impressive selection of paintings and furniture. Although the paintings kind of blend into the walls with a bear standing next to you, and dried thistles on the chairs remind you this is not the kind of place to sit down. So you continue, exploring the museum’s vast, interlocking rooms with ever-increasing bravery.
There are cases of ornate rifles; walnut bureaus you discover can be opened when no one’s looking; secret drawers not labeled but perhaps left ajar by someone before you. These are filled with animal droppings, locks of fur. There’s a tiny room in which you notice that the ceiling is covered in an intricate cloth of feathers, and sculpted faux owl heads stare down at you from every angle.
Like a psychological thriller, like a good, immersive piece of theatre, this experience took me somewhere. And it is wholly theatrical. Like an Ibsen play, it makes you feel as if you are spying upon the most intimate moments of a household, walking through a time-dead space, completely safe and unnoticed. I for one momentarily forgot that taxidermy is still ‘un-PC’, to coin the phrase of my guidebook. Because for me this place is not only beautiful; it contains that precious mix of science and art, which is imperative to the life of both fields.
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