There is a particular kind of beauty that only comes from things that have ended.
I have always been drawn to it — the stillness of a creature preserved at the exact moment between presence and absence, the way a well-made piece of taxidermy holds something that feels almost like breath. It is not morbid, not to me. It is reverent. It is the oldest form of remembrance we have.
Taxidermy art has existed for centuries, long before it became a fixture of Victorian parlours and natural history museums. Indigenous cultures across the world preserved animals as sacred objects — totems, offerings, symbols of the hunt and the cycle of life. The Egyptians mummified cats and ibises not out of sentiment alone, but out of devotion. To preserve a creature was to honour it. To say: this mattered.
The Victorians, with their characteristic flair for the theatrical, took taxidermy somewhere stranger and more wonderful. They dressed squirrels in tiny waistcoats. They posed kittens at tea tables. They built entire dioramas of frogs playing billiards. It sounds absurd — and it is, delightfully so — but underneath the whimsy was the same impulse: a refusal to let beautiful things simply disappear.
What Makes Taxidermy Art Different from Taxidermy as a Craft
There is taxidermy done for hunting trophies, and then there is taxidermy done as art. The difference is not always in the technique — it is in the intention.
Taxidermy art asks: what does this creature mean? It considers composition, context, narrative. A preserved moth pinned to a board is a specimen. The same moth placed inside a shadowbox with antique lace, a crystal, and a hand-lettered label becomes something else entirely — a relic, a meditation, a small altar to the strangeness of existence.
This is what I make. Not trophies. Not scientific specimens, though I have deep respect for that tradition. And not only taxidermy in the traditional sense — some of my most beloved pieces fall into the world of entomology: preserved insects, beetles, moths, and other creatures displayed with the same reverence and intention. Whether the subject is fur or chitin, the question is the same: what does this creature mean, and how do I honour it?
Gothic Taxidermy: Where the Aesthetic Meets the Philosophical
Gothic taxidermy decor occupies a specific and wonderful niche. It is not the cheerful farmhouse deer head. It is not the ironic hipster fox. It is something older and more serious — art that takes death as its subject without flinching, and finds in it not horror but elegance.
The gothic aesthetic has always been preoccupied with mortality. From medieval memento mori paintings to Victorian mourning jewellery to the contemporary dark art movement, there is a long tradition of making beautiful things out of the fact that we are all, eventually, going to die. Taxidermy fits naturally into this tradition. A preserved creature is the most literal possible memento mori — a reminder that was once alive, and is now something else, something that will outlast us.
In my work, I pair preserved specimens with materials that share this quality: aged wood, antique lace, dark velvet, hand-forged metal. The result is something that feels like it belongs in a cabinet of curiosities, or a scholar's study, or the private collection of someone who understands that the most interesting things in life are the ones that make you think about death.
How to Live with Taxidermy Art
People sometimes ask me if it is strange, living with preserved creatures. I find the opposite to be true. There is something grounding about it — a reminder that I am part of the same cycle, that the boundary between living and not-living is thinner and more interesting than we usually allow ourselves to think.
If you are new to taxidermy decor, I would suggest starting with something small. A single shadowbox. A preserved insect in a frame. Something that fits on a shelf or a windowsill, where you will see it every day and slowly stop being surprised by it, and start simply appreciating it.
The pieces I make are designed to be lived with. They are finished on all sides — the back lined with black velvet, lace, and the Morbid Oddities logo — because I think art should be beautiful even when no one is looking. They are sealed and stable, meant to last decades. They are not curiosities to be hidden away. They are meant to be seen.
A Note on the Creatures I Work With
Every specimen I work with has a story. I do not take that lightly. The creatures in my pieces are treated with the same care and attention I would give to any material I consider precious — because they are precious. They are irreplaceable. They are the whole point.
If you have questions about a specific piece — what it is, where it came from, how it was preserved — I am always happy to talk. That conversation is part of what I make.
Browse the current collection of taxidermy art and preserved specimen shadowboxes in the Morbid Oddities shop.