“The best thing I could get would be a client that says, ‘Red fox … do anything you want to it.’ “ Dennis Harris sits at the bar, and halfway through his Coke, he is deep in discussion. “Instead of, you know, ‘standing, head turned left …,’ “ he continues. I nod in agreement as the wiry, long-haired 44-year-old continues. “The greatest taxidermy pieces are produced when the client gives you no limitations … where the client lets you go with it.”
Mr. Harris is a taxidermist. He also considers himself an artist, although he doesn’t seem surprised when I question his legitimacy in the eyes of the traditional art world. As Harris puts it, taxidermists are “fighting an uphill battle of being socially incorrect.”
Though never formally trained as an artist, he casually speaks of the artistic merits of his work, touching upon such aspects as design conception, balance and composition—all integral elements in creating a wildlife display. Harris regularly employs sculpture, painting and drawing. The only difference, he argues, is in his choice of materials, which consist of skin, foam, clay and glass eyes.
Most taxidermists begin in their garage through trial and error, and Harris is no exception. In a discipline that offers little official training, many candidates learn on the job, working for free. In fact, Harris taught himself by reading books, watching videos and through correspondence, until he was able to begin working full-time at age 19. He says his love of wildlife was cultivated when he was still a mischievous Detroit youngster who liked to hunt and kill small animals.
As Harris grew, so did his area of expertise.
“Most [taxidermists] do tend to gravitate toward one type of species or specialty after a short time in the business. My strongest suit is African small to big game.” He enjoys working with bobcats, servals, genets, caracols, bat-eared foxes, monkeys, coyotes and raccoons, to name a few. In fact, there aren’t many African or North American animals he hasn’t mounted.
After a few cigarettes, Harris segues into a description of the intricate process of mounting an animal, beginning with sculpting the foam block to the desired form, following muscle and circulatory patterns, applying paste to the still hairless shape, and then moving, or “taxing,” the dampened animal skin—bunching and collecting it at certain positions on the body to create a life-like and natural look.
Well-versed and articulate, the outspoken Harris steers our conversation through topics that often come up when discussing taxidermy. He talks about the ethical issues of killing an animal for trophy—”I’m sorry [an animal] has to die, but wildlife is a renewable resource”—and about the efforts the hunting industry makes in the name of animal conservation—”We want our wildlife to grow and to be there, or else we’re out of a job.”
He also talks about the economic benefits to third-world countries as a consequence of putting a price on an animal’s head. “Big-game hunters have made the animals valuable because they are valuable only as something to be hunted.”
The pace is quick, and his arguments are well thought-out. It isn’t until Harris happens upon the subject of beauty that he begins to slow down and attempts to describe the debate that has stimulated discussion in both the traditional and “outsider” art worlds for many years. Harris questions the taxidermy industry’s perceptions of beauty and the idea that there is an ideal animal form to which taxidermists are expected to subscribe in day-to-day practice. He says it’s not uncommon to receive skins with unusual markings or fur patterns and rubbings, and having to minimize the interesting variations in his specimens frustrates him.
“There’s been a reduction in the importance of what an animal is,” he says. “Taxidermy can be a very artistic, creative presentation of wildlife, or you can make it just to make money.”
Welcome to the art world.