Derived from the Greek words for arrangement or order, taxis, and skin, derma, the word taxidermy literally means the arrangement of skin. The practice of stuffing and preparing skins of animals and birds, however, has never been a dispassionate and pragmatic process of assembly.

The reasons for displaying a dead animal are as various as the fauna put on view: to flaunt a hunter’s skill, to immortalise a cherished pet, to collect an archive of the world, to commemorate an experience, to document extinct or endangered species, to decorate a wall, to amuse, to educate, to fascinate, to horrify, to delight, and even to deceive. A sportsman trophy is a very different object than Martha, who was displayed alongside other extinct birds at the Smithsonian Institute: the last American passenger pigeon, a species shot to extinction by nineteenth-century hunters. And both are different again from Misfits, a disconcerting series of taxidermied animals by the internationally acclaimed contemporary artist Thomas Grünfeld, which includes such composite animals as a cross between an ostrich and a cow. A fetish, a symbol, a piece of art: do these animals still belong to nature? And what does it says about our own values and convictions if we deny stuffed creatures their status as "natural" just because they have become ravished and ravishing beasts.

The environment has perhaps never been more talked about: it is the leading news story, it shapes a political party’s platform, it is documented, photographed, written about, discussed, and protected. But what is nature? What does it mean to be natural?

The current ecological perspective emphasizes nature as a source of intrinsic value, truth, and authenticity. Nature is unique, nonreplicable, untouched and uncorrupted by human desires. In short, nature has come to represent everything that our urban modern society is not. While a walk through a city park can be pleasant, real nature is far beyond city limits. It is Out There, surrounded by alpine meadows, rivers, and forests that we find refuge from the turmoil of urbanism, commercialism, and mass production. Out There, nature will save our souls. But is this vision of nature as untouched eden just a stance of anti-urbanism, anti-industrialism, and frequently anti-humanism? That is to say, are we talking about nature or our own convictions about who we are and who we dream ourselves to be.

The maverick nature-writer Jennifer Price claims that this idea of nature as untouched wilderness beyond city limits is in fact the great American nature story: "we cherish nature as an idea of wilderness while losing track of the real nature in our very houses." If nature loses its natural status as soon as humans brush against it, what are we really saying? The more we claim "real" nature is Out There, the more those stretches of wildness become domesticated parks, ultimately meaningless without human cultural politics. Can nature still be nature if it no longer refreshes our spirits?

In his majesterial analysis of the human myths and memories which shape how landscapes are viewed and appreciated, Simon Schama states that "even the landscape that we suppose to be most free of our culture may turn out, on closer inspection, to be its product." The particular landscapes that Schama is describing are those created by Ansel Adams, perhaps the nature photographer who captured most fully the great American nature story: pristine wilderness, untouched, uninhabited.

In contrast, taxidermied animals could never be mistaken as free from cultural engagement and manipulation. In fact, most could be a poster child for environmental doomsayers: mere fossilised shells of natural beauty stuck together in a lame attempt to reanimate what has been irreversibly destroyed. But while they may not save anyone’s soul, in their own often mangled, wizened, and dilapidated way, taxidermied beasts have a lot to say about our definitions of the natural world. Whether as a source of delight or revulsion, taxidermy reveals as much about our collective daydreams and desires as it does about death and domination: sometimes the most unlikely objects offer the most eloquent commentaries.