On the last day of the horticultural and botanical library conference I attended in New York recently (see last post), there was a session entitled “Hidden Collections—unveiling treasures through research.” The first speaker was Régine Fabri, head of the library at the Botanic Garden Meise in Belgium who presented her preliminary work on the history of the vasculum (see photo above). Most botanists are familiar with this tool of the trade, basically a metal box to hold specimens collected in the field, but most, like myself, haven’t given it much thought now that portable plant presses and plastic bags have pretty much replaced it. However, Fabri has taken it on with a passion. She discovered that the first reference to such a device was in 1704, when it was called a candle box, and this was probably its origin, a repurposing of a water-proof metal container for candles, with a door wide enough to lift them in and out. As with plants, botanists gave it a Latin name, vasculum, meaning container.
By the 19th century, the vasculum had become signature equipment for botanists, and Fabri presented numerous paintings and drawings of plant collectors with their boxes. She also had photos of Darwin’s vasculum as well as those of Joseph Dalton Hooker and John Torrey. This last we later saw in the New York Botanical Garden (NYBG) library since it is part of their collection. Fabri ended by noting the vasculum’s decline. A 1910 scientific supply catalog offered two different models in an array of seven dimensions. Today, one type is available in only one size. However, there are many beautifully decorated antique versions on the market if you are interested, and Fabri left us wanting more with a photo of her own collection.
The next presentation was in a very different vein. Brent Elliot, the retired Royal Horticultural Society librarian, drew on the resources of this institution for his research into the different associations of the word “nature” in Britain and America. He focused on how the 19th-century garden cemetery movement played out in the two countries. In America, cemeteries like Green-Wood in Brooklyn, New York and Mount Auburn in Boston provided parklike settings for graves, with their creators emphasizing the idea that these sites were natural areas in which to remember and honor departed loved ones. In Britain however, such cemeteries were seen not as natural but as human-made works of art, with an emphasis on the contrivances of landscaping used to create a peaceful atmosphere. Elliot showed wonderful photographs and engravings of many of these sites in both countries to illustrate his theme, providing a great blend of art and textual analysis.
The third speaker was Florence Tessier, botanical librarian at the National Museum of Natural History (MNHN) in Paris. She spoke about Marie Fortier (1844-1931) who created artificial “herbaria” from silk. She was a student in the laboratory of practical botany at the MNHM and made silk flowers as a way to teach botany. At the time, these were popular adornments for women’s dresses, and there were many ateliers in Paris creating them with time-consuming cutting and shaping processes. Fortier learned these skills and applied them in a very different way by arranging whole flowers and flower parts on herbarium sheets and labeling them. As Tessier notes, Fortier’s work probably grew out of an idea that developed during the last days of the French monarchy. François Le Vaillant, who made two expeditions to southern Africa between 1781 and 1784 collected animal skins, particularly of birds, and plant specimens as well. When he returned to France he became critical of the way flowers were presented in just two dimensions in botanical illustrations and herbarium specimens, compared to vivid taxidermied birds. He had seen the beautiful artificial silk flowers that Joseph Wenzel had created for Marie Antoinette and wanted to use Wenzel’s expertise to produce three-dimensional plant displays for the botanical museum in the king’s garden in Paris. Unfortunately, it’s impossible today to know what Wenzel’s productions looked like. Unlike wax flowers preserved in some economic botany collections and the glass flowers of Leopold and Rudolf Blaschka, we don’t have any remains of the project, swept away along with so much else during the French Revolution. But stories of his plan may very well have inspired Fortier, working as she did in the same museum and with the silk flower industry still thriving in Paris.
Fortier’s sheets were sold in sets through an arrangement she had with the publisher Hachette; they cost one to ten francs per plant, and in all 110 were created. After her contract with Hachette ended, she decided to work on her own and had regular sales to Paris primary schools from 1886 to 1908. When this arrangement no longer proved lucrative, the sets were sold as drawing lesson aids. Fortier also created a diorama for a forestry museum in Vincennes, outside of Paris. Tessier presented photos of Fortier’s beautiful specimens, emphasizing that they were made as works of science, but also have great aesthetic appeal. Tessier herself has obviously fallen in love with them, and with her subject. She has found that there are examples of Fortier’s flowers at Madrid’s Instituto Cardenal Cisneros; they were bought in Paris by a Spanish botanist to use in Madrid’s secondary schools, and they have been preserved. So Tessier’s work also had an impact outside of France.