Baudin’s Voyagers and The Art of Science

Over two weeks we’re sharing summaries of and extracts from some Wakefield Press gems, in blog posts put together by work experience student Maddy. (And yes, we briefly had two Maddys in the office! Never enough Maddys, we say.)

 

Cover of The Art of Science by Jean Fornasiero, Lindl Lawton and John West-Sooby

 

The Art of Science tells of the rich history around Nicholas Baudin’s Voyagers from 1800 to 1804. Flip through the pages and join explorers as they discover and chart Australia. Beautiful scientific drawings illustrate exquisite flora and fauna, as Baudin’s voyagers collected over 100,000 specimens.

One of the most lavishly equipped scientific explorations to ever leave Europe, Baudin’s expedition uncovered the beauty in the Australian outback.

 

View of our anchorage in North West Bay, D’Entrecasteaux Channel, 29 Nivose, Year 10 (19 January 1802) Archives nationales de France, série Marine – 5JJ51

View of Anchorage in North West Bay

 

From The Art of Science

Red-necked pademelon by Charles-Alexandre Lesueur

 

From The Art of Science by Jean Fornasiero, Lindl Lawton and John West-Sooby

Grey Stinkwood from a drawing by Pierre-Joseph Redouté

 

From The Art of Science by Jean Fornasiero, Lindl Lawton and John West-Sooby

Aracana sp. (? ornata) by Charles-Alexandre Lesueur

About the authors

Jean Fornasiero is Emeritus Professor of French Studies at the University of Adelaide and a Fellow of the Australian Academy of the Humanities. Lindl Lawton is Senior Curator at the South Australian Maritime Museum. John West-Sooby is Professor of French Studies at the University of Adelaide.

About the book

This book was published to coincide with the touring exhibition The Art of Science: Baudin’s Voyagers 1800–1804. This exhibition showcases more than 350 works from the Lesueur Collection held by the Museum of Natural History in Le Havre, Normandy, France. The exhibition has toured nationally, visiting Adelaide, Launceston, Hobart, Sydney and Canberra, before finishing up in Perth. It opened at the Western Australian Museum in September and runs until 9 December 2018. See more here.

The book is available at our bookshop on 16 Rose Street, Mile End or online.

Click here to view an extract.

Happy browsing.

The interesting case of Lesueur and the wombats

The Art of Science is one of those books that has something for everyone. The beautiful images created by Baudin’s artists on the voyage to New Holland in 1800–1804 are fascinating for history buffs and art lovers, young and old. Here, art historian Sasha Grishin explains the evolution of depictions of wombats, from sketches during the voyage to final printed plates.

Art of Science wombats no. 1

Oseological study of wombats, Vombatus ursinus
Charles-Alexandre Lesueur
Grey wash, ink and pencil on paper – 23.6 x 37.2 cm
Muséum d’histoire naturelle, Le Havre – n° 80 268

Over the past three decades, the story of Baudin, his artists Charles-Alexandre Lesueur and Nicolas-Martin Petit, and their expedition to Australia in the opening decade of the nineteenth century, has moved from being an obscure curiosity to a well-known, well-researched and much-discussed episode in early Australian colonial history – and a significant event in first contact art. Lesueur and Petit could be described as ‘accidental artists”. They were nominally appointed as ‘assistant gunners’ for the voyage, but once the three official artists absconded to the Ile de France (Mauritius) in April 1801, six months into this epic journey, Lesueur and Petit became the official pictorial chroniclers for the expedition.

Thanks to exacting archival work, primarily by Jacqueline Bonnemains, we know a great deal about the lives of the two artists. Born within six months of each other, they were aged in their early twenties when they joined the expedition. Charles-Alexandre Lesueur was apparently self-trained and had a medical condition that saved him from military service, while Nicolas-Martin Petit appears to have received some training in the studio of the famous neoclassical artist Jacques-Louis David. Both artists learned on the job, acquiring as the voyage progressed new skills that were commensurate with the activities of natural science artists. This was especially true of Lesueur, who developed a very close relationship with one of the expedition’s zoologists, François Péron. After the deaths of the other appointed zoologists, Stanislas Levillain and René Maugé, Lesueur also fulfilled the role of assistant senior zoologist.

Despite the challenges encountered by the expedition, an enormous amount of material was collected, with many tens of thousands of specimens, including live animals, brought back to France. Thousands of drawings were also made. In 1807, three years after the Géographe returned to France, Péron and Lesueur steered to fruition the publication of the first volume of the Atlas of the Voyage de découvertes aux Terres Australes with 41 lavish plates. Petit did not live to see this publication, as he died in 1804, shortly after his return to France, of complications following a minor street accident.

The drawings and paintings from the Baudin expedition present a particularly interesting case of ‘pictorial records in transition’. They not only mark the changing skill levels of the artists and their developing technical facility, they also reveal changes in their philosophical and aesthetic attitudes over the period of several years that separated the moment of first observation from the final pictorial realisation presented to the public. The purpose of the drawings also evolved: early illustrations were designed primarily for Baudin’s personal journal, whereas later illustrations were intended for a formal atlas published with Imperial patronage to commemorate the expedition. Although the design of many of these published illustrations can be attributed to a particular artist, Lesueur or Petit, the final work was a collaborative product that bore the impact of different artistic talents and competing ideologies.

A case in point is plate XXVIII in the 1807 Atlas, reproduced as plate 58 of the second edition Atlas published in 1824. This is an impressive hand-coloured copper engraving titled ‘Nouvelle-Hollande: Ile King/Le Wombat (Phascolomis Wombat N.)’. The author of the drawing is indicated on the engraving as Lesueur, but the engraving itself was executed by Choubard, while the whole project was supervised by Jacques-Gérard Milbert – one of the original artists who had set out with Baudin, but who had quarrelled with the commander and remained on the Ile de France. (In his journal, Baudin described Milbert as having ‘uselessly occupied’ his position.) This collective attribution thus raises a number of questions. To what extent is this engraving actually the work of Lesueur? When should it be dated? And what should we make of the information it conveys?

The exact chronology of Lesueur’s dealings with wombats on the Baudin voyage is a little unclear, but can to some extent be determined. Wombats were encountered by the French party throughout their voyage and on several occasions wombats travelled on board their ships. Several wombat drawings and sketches by Lesueur’s hand survive, a number of which appear to have been done on a visit to Sea Elephant Bay on King Island in late December 1802. It was likely at this stage, or shortly afterwards, that Lesueur executed two osteological studies of wombats examining their bone structures whilst in motion as well as careful studies of their skulls and claws. It was also here, in all probability, that Lesueur developed the image of the full-face frontal resting position of the wombat that would serve as a model for the wombat on the left-hand side in the final engraving. This wombat first appears in the pencil and ink sketch (80 072) that also features studies of wombat paws and Lesueur’s annotation ‘left rear foot seen from underneath’. The second incarnation is a larger watercolour, ink and pencil drawing (80 071), where the sketch has been enlivened with colour. In both instances, the wombat appears with its eyes closed, suggesting that the model may well have been a dead wombat. In the top right-hand side of the watercolour drawing there is a pencil outline of a second wombat that is shown in profile. These are zoologically accurate depictions relating to now extinct subspecies of wombats that were once abundant on King Island, but that are thought to have been exterminated by early settlers. Possibly related sub-species of wombats survive to this day on Flinders Island. There is also a curious additional sheet (80 070) with pencil and ink drawings, where Lesueur is playing with different arrangements of his wombat drawings, one showing a female wombat with four joeys. One could speculate that these were done aboard ship on the return journey, when the artist was working up his illustrations.

Art of Science wombats no. 3

Sketches of wombats in various positions
Charles-Alexandre Lesueur
Pencil and ink on paper – 22.5 x 34.5 cm
Muséum d’histoire naturelle, Le Havre – n° 80 070

The next transformation in Lesueur’s design was quite radical and was executed after his return to France in 1804. This is a large watercolour and pencil drawing on vellum (80 069-1), obviously executed with the publication in mind. Although the basic shapes of the two wombats of the earlier study (80 071) have been retained, the wombats have now been radically reinterpreted and enlivened. The docile frontal wombat has come to life with open eyes, her front paw, as in sketch 80 070, resting on a stone to give a sense of elevation, and four young wombats shown scrambling out of her pouch in front of her. Zoologically, this makes little sense as wombats usually have only a single joey, or, on rare occasions, two, so this joyous family of New Holland is a departure from scientific observation in favour of the sentimental animal pictures that were a developing trend in European nineteenth-century art. The other wombat has now become a striding male that somewhat purposelessly heads towards his mate. Lesueur, to dress up his design, has invented a narrative, but one that may not possess strict zoological accuracy in the life cycle of this docile, nocturnal creature.

Art of Science wombats no. 3

Two adult wombats, Vombatus ursinus (Shaw, 1800), with four young coming out of the mother’s pouch
Charles-Alexandre Lesueur
Muséum d’histoire naturelle, Le Havre – n° 80 069-1

It is at this stage in the process that the professional engraver Choubard, under Milbert’s supervision, has intervened (80 069-2). Although the artist’s design has been closely observed, the image has been reversed in the printing process, thus changing the momentum in the interrelationship of the figures. On a more subtle level, the wombats of Choubard and Milbert have become slightly feline-like. Lesueur’s wombat ears have been reinterpreted and the eyes have been opened even further to produce a somewhat mutant antipodean creature, somewhere between a cat, a small bear and a European badger. Despite Lesueur’s conscientious efforts, the engraving therefore introduced to the French public not only an animal that was largely unknown to Europe, but also one that was different from anything found in Australia. It was not until more than half a century later and John Gould’s majestic publication, The Mammals of Australia, that a zoologically accurate image of a wombat appeared in Europe.

Art of Science wombats no. 4

New Holland: King Island. The Wombat. (Phascolomis Wombat N.)
Engraving by Choubard from a drawing by Charles-Alexandre Lesueur under the supervision of Jacques Milbert
Engraving on paper – 25 x 36 cm
Muséum d’histoire naturelle, Le Havre – n° 80 069-2
Plate XXVIII of the 1807 Atlas

Charles-Alexandre Lesueur’s illustrations of the exotic fauna of New Holland are, in the words of a recent commentator, ‘renowned for their extraordinary precision and painstaking skill in conveying the feel and touch of the live animal or bird – the kangaroo’s fur, the echidna’s quills’. However, the wombat engraving and others like it are also indicative of a certain level of invention by a collective group of artists involved to some extent in the construction an exotic fantasy. When François Péron died of tuberculosis in 1810, Lesueur hoped to continue their project with subsequent volumes, but the task of completing the publication of the voyage account was entrusted to Louis Freycinet instead. Lesueur thus became disillusioned and, fearing the loss of his modest pension, took up the lucrative invitation to go to America as a draughtsman naturalist in August 1815. He stayed away for 22 years, only returning to his native Le Havre in 1837. In 1845, he became curator of the newly established Muséum d’histoire naturelle. Lesueur died at Le Havre on 12 December 1846.

The Art of Science is available for purchase here. The exhibition of these images is touring Australia. More details here.

Baudin’s names in Australia

One of the most familiar impacts of the voyages of Flindes and Baudin around Australia is the names that they gave to places. While many of Flinders names are still in use today, Baudin left very few place names in his wake. Jean Fornasiero, Peter Monteath and John West-Sooby explain why in Encountering Terra Australis.

Encountering Terra Australis

Detail of Laurie & Whittle’s New map of the World showing Terra Australis as known in November 1800, State
Library of New South Wales

One of the most distinctive and recognisable symbols of any nation is the outline of the country its citizens inhabit. Determining the shape of Terra Australis was a process in which mariners over many centuries played a role. Even after Flinders and Baudin, who in the end were unable to fulfil their respective goals, the map was not entirely complete – parts of the coastline had still been filled in with only a tremulous hand. But it was thanks to the joint efforts of Flinders and Baudin in 1802 that the one large piece then missing from the Australian puzzle was finally added – namely, the stretch of coastline that corresponds roughly to the coast of present-day South Australia. It was not merely a matter of filling in the details of an unknown stretch of coast; it was also a matter of confirming once and for all that they were dealing with a single, massive continent. Baudin and Flinders were among those who had speculated that there might be a strait running from the unknown coast in the south to the Gulf of Carpentaria in the north, separating New Holland from New South Wales. Together, on 8 April 1802, they established from each other’s experience that no such strait was to be found.

Encountering Terra Australis

General chart of Terra Australis or Australia, Matthew Flinders, A Voyage to Terra Australis (1814)

Baudin seemed well placed to emerge the winner of the race to finish the map, having been the first to set out on his mission. But we now know only too well that his advantage was soon lost and that his lasting contribution to the definitive map was relatively small. Moreover, the tragic end to his life and the eventual settlement of Australia by the English ensured that he would not have the opportunity to compete with Flinders when it came to naming the continent whose shape he had helped to define. There have been so few opportunities in history to name a new land that Baudin and the French might be considered to have lost heavily on that score. Baudin’s death also cost him naming rights for the geographical features that he identified in the rough charts made during the voyage.

Many French names still survive in parts of Australia that the Baudin expedition charted. However, in most cases these are the names used by Péron and Louis Freycinet on the maps published in the official account of the voyage, and not those originally given by the commander himself. To make matters worse, Péron and Freycinet themselves featured prominently in the resulting nomenclature, while Baudin’s own name was as pointedly omitted from the map as it was from the written record of the voyage. Admittedly, Baudin might well have adopted a similar approach, had he been given the chance. There was little in the way of flattery or homage to his officers in his  original nomenclature; one can therefore imagine that Baudin’s faithful companions, such as Riédlé or Maugé, would have received more recognition from him than the likes of Péron and Freycinet.

Be that as it may, circumstances would probably have forced Baudin, like Péron, to revise his nomenclature to account for other considerations than personal point-scoring. The same bureaucratic and political factors that influenced Péron’s choices would certainly have weighed heavily on the commander in his review of the names in his drafts. After all, the official cartographers at the Ministry of Marine would have had some say in the matter. It is also a constant fact of life that Ministers change and that the new incumbents require some form of flattery to ensure that funds continue to flow. Baudin did not have to face that particular dilemma; it was Péron, and later Freycinet after Péron’s death in 1810, who had to deal with the political obstacles that impeded publication of the voyage’s map and official account.

One of Péron’s strategies was to name a relatively large number of features after prominent political figures of Napoleon’s regime. Some of these were the cause of a certain amount of embarrassment even before the Freycinet map of Terra Australis appeared – particularly the twin gulfs of what is now South Australia, which were named after Napoleon and his by then repudiated spouse, Josephine. However, since it was Flinders who had first charted and named the two gulfs, he had every reason to object, as he later did, to the ill-inspired nomenclature of Péron and Freycinet.

Baudin was, of course, long gone before controversy erupted over the political ramifications of the French nomenclature. Péron had not just chosen to name the French expedition’s discoveries after political figures, but he had also assigned politically inspired names to Flinders’ section of the unknown coast. As if this were not bad enough, of these names Napoleon’s was the one that was guaranteed to cause the deepest offence to the English. When the first volume of Péron’s account appeared in 1807, the English reacted most angrily to the naming (and implied claiming) of the entire unknown south coast as Terre Napoléon.

It is hard to imagine that Baudin would have been party to this, even under pressure. From the conversations and exchanges of information between Flinders and Baudin, we know that both captains were scrupulous about noting what the other had done – and that this was to serve as the basis for their final maps. Flinders found it hard to believe that this etiquette had been breached and that his own discoveries on the south coast had deliberately been ignored by Péron, whom he would have known well from the stay in Port Jackson. The case against Péron was, in fact, so damning that Freycinet felt the need to remedy the situation in the second edition of the Voyage de découvertes aux Terres Australes, published in 1824 – although he took care to distance himself from the controversy, attributing the original nomenclature to Péron alone. In defence of his deceased colleague, however, Freycinet stated that Péron had not intended to claim as discoveries the features he wrongfully named; he had simply not known the names Flinders had given, since the English map was published much later, in 1814. Once Flinders’ names were known, the French accepted them without question.

… It is thus unlikely that the two captains [Flinders and Baudin] would have fallen into disagreement over the delicate issue of prior rights. In fact, in naming generally, they adopted similar practices. Their charts bore homage to celebrities, often maritime figures, as in the case of Cape Borda on Kangaroo Island, named by Baudin after the eighteenth-century French naval officer and mathematician. The French expedition’s major discoveries were also commemorated in other ways. The captain’s ship, for instance, provided the inspiration for the naming of Geographe Bay in Western Australia. To prominent landmarks Baudin often gave names that corresponded to their physical appearance. This was also a conventional category, in that it signalled recognisable features to future explorers – a practice illustrated by Baudin’s ‘Ile du dragon’ (Dragon Island) off the Victorian coast, now known more prosaically as Lawrence Rock.

Baudin’s names sometimes went a little further than mere appearance. The steep columns he saw at Cape Hauy in Tasmania led him to adopt the name ‘Cap des Organistes’ (Organists’ Cape) in an attempt to describe the grandiose nature of the spectacle, with its tall columns reminiscent of organ pipes, rather than just evoke the sheerness of the cliffs. In another category, Baudin also conformed to conventional usage by conferring names that reflected incidents on board ship. Of course, he could not refrain from adding the occasional dash of his characteristic humour and sarcasm – though, not surprisingly, the humorous names disappeared entirely from the list of Péron’s names, which overwhelmingly favoured the use of clusters of philosophers and scientists. While the commemoration of such celebrated figures is an interesting heritage that reminds us of the scientific nature of the Baudin expedition, it does not entirely compensate for the loss of such colourful names as those that Baudin gave to parts of Geographe Bay: ‘Anse des Maladroits’ (Cove of the Clumsy – today Wonnerup Inlet – where Baudin’s longboat was grounded) or ‘Cap des Mécontents’ (Cape of Discontent – now Cape Naturaliste – where Baudin reprimanded Sub-Lieutenant Picquet for his failure to land).

While there is no definitive record of place-names comparing the names conferred by Baudin with those that finally appeared on Freycinet’s charts, it is clear that both lists draw to a similar extent on the conventional categories. The differences are to be found in the relative frequencies of certain categories, but these can be telling. Péron and Freycinet used more proper names, whereas Baudin’s nomenclature reflects a more evenly balanced use of the various naming principles. On the other hand, his use of descriptive names was no more conventional than the man himself. This fact alone may have caused him later problems with the official cartographers, had he lived to supervise his map.

Click here to read more about the fascinating voyages of Flinders and Baudin, and the legacy they left behind.

Encountering Terra Australis cover

The Ultimate Wakefield Press Christmas Gift Guide

Alright, let’s keep this snappy. You guys need gift ideas, and we’ve got a book for every possible need.* So welcome to the patented Ultimate Wakefield Press Christmas Gift Guide.**

For adventure-packed holiday reading, try the Steve West thrillers, centring around an ex-AFL star geologist with a heart of gold. Start with Prohibited Zone, set around the Woomera Detention Centre, then move on Ecstasy Lake, which is about a literal goldmine in the middle of the desert.

For fiction fans, Cassie Flanagan Willanski’s Here Where We Live has been making waves online and is a big awards contender. Every single reader has loved this short story collection. Or go for our Miles Franklin longlisted bestseller The Hands, by Stephen Orr. This story of a family surviving on a drought-stricken cattle farm is beautiful, heart-breaking, but not without hope.

Prohibited Zone Christmas Gift GuideEcstasy Lake Christmas Gift GuideHere Where We Live Christmas Gift GuideThe Hands Christmas Gift Guide

For art loversThe Art of Science is proving to be a winner over the holiday season. Showcasing the art (and history) of Nicolas Baudin’s expedition to Australia at beginning of the 19th century, these illustrations will make you see familiar animals with entirely new eyes. Or there’s always Dogs in Australian Art. Got a relative who loves dogs or Aussie art? Present: sorted.

For the foodie in your life, and especially the locavores, you have to have a look at Helen Bennetts’s newly released Willunga Almonds, which recounts the history of this humble nut in Australia alongside mouthwatering but easy recipes. Or there’s the CWA’s Calendar of Cakes, which will see you covered for cake recipes throughout 2017.

Art of Science Christmas Gift GuideDogs in Australian Art Christmas GuideWillunga Almonds Christmas Gift GuideCalendar of Cakes Christmas Gift Guide

 

For the biography buff, you can’t go past Red Professor, the biography of Fred Rose. Shortlisted for the Prime Minister’s Awards, and the catalyst of a lot of ‘were they/weren’t they’ conversations about possible Communist Party members in Australia, the press are saying that this one’s set to be a classic. Or pick up a copy of An Unsentimental Bloke, the National Biography Award-winning account of the life of the great writer C.J. Dennis.

For gardeners, Trevor Nottle’s Endless Pleasure is the ultimate compendium of garden collectables, showcasing weird and wonderful types of secateurs, hoes, spades – even tyre swans and man traps. Or get back to basics with Lolo Houbein’s One Magic Square. No one else has managed to make it so easy for so many people to grow their own food.

Red Professor Christmas Gift GuideUnsentimental Bloke Christmas Gift GuideEndless Pleasure Christmas Gift GuideOne Magic Square Christmas Gift GuideThere are so so many more possibilities, and for the actual Ultimate Wakefield Press Gift Guide you should go to our website. Still, if you can’t find what you’re looking for here, send us a line with your beloved’s Christmas gift requirements, and we’ll send you some suggestions.

Just another Christmas service from the Wakefield team!

 

* Not actually every possible need. Just some needs. Or maybe needs that you didn’t realise you had. Look, I’m trying to get at the fact that we don’t have highly specialised books about, say, how to fly helicopters. You should probably get training for that though, really.

** Not actually patented. Ain’t no one got the money for that.