John James Audubon was flawed. Should he get credit for his good work?
For better and worse, the name Audubon has become almost synonymous with birds. The reason, of course, is John James Audubon, whose “Birds of America” project, published from 1827 to 1838, catalogued more than 400 birds in life-size prints. The works captured the avian world in a breadth and detail never before seen, turning its French American creator into a celebrated naturalist.
In recent years, questions have been raised about Audubon’s legacy, starting with the ethics of his work — the Audubon Society has conceded that he “most certainly committed” plagiarism and academic fraud. He also was an enslaver and a critic of emancipation, and sent stolen human remains to an anthropologist who used them to study racial differences.
Given this complicated biography — ably explored by naturalist Kenn Kaufman in his new book, “The Birds That Audubon Missed: Discovery and Desire in the American Wilderness” — should Audubon still get “credit for the good work he did, while acknowledging all that was wrong?” Kaufman asks.
Many conservation organizations are asking that question too and arriving at dissonant conclusions about whether to keep the Audubon name. Similar controversy surrounds the names of birds themselves. The American Ornithological Society, which standardizes the English-language common names of birds in the Americas, recently announced that eponymous names (those that include the name of a person) will gradually be phased out in favor of descriptive names, thus putting an end to a practice particularly prevalent in the era of settler expansion. For instance, Scott’s oriole was named in 1854 after Gen. Winfield Scott, who had nothing to do with ornithology but plenty to do with the Trail of Tears, the genocidal forced relocation of Native Americans over which he presided.
Kaufman informs these debates by going to the heart of that era. His book is a must-read for birders curious about so much that lies hidden behind the names in our pastime; it illuminates the personalities, rivalries and shortcomings of the men (no women) of European ancestry (no others need apply) who set out to outdo one another and make a name for themselves by finding and naming birds — and why some birds were overlooked in the process.
In telling these tales, Kaufman sometimes meanders. He quickly settles on Audubon as his main focus, but he has a slight tendency to go down rabbit holes. For instance, he delves into the theory that Audubon was in fact “the Lost Dauphin,” a son of Queen Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI of France, who may have — or if this theory is correct, may not have — died in prison during the French Revolution. Audubon did not claim this title, but Kaufman nonetheless spends several pages wondering if it might be, a digression that some readers may find intriguing but others may see as extraneous.
But this is just a quibble in a book that brings together such a vast amount of information and presents it in such an engaging way. “The Birds That Audubon Missed” isn’t a dry history; it’s as alive as the birds it describes, thanks to the personal aspect Kaufman weaves into the narrative. In addition to offering his own birding adventures as a living-color counterpoint to the past, Kaufman, best known for his field guides and other books such as “A Season on the Wind” (2019), scatters illustrations through the text — some are by Audubon and some are by Kaufman, who boldly attempts to create new paintings in the style of Audubon. The effort highlights just how much Kaufman longs to feel something of what these naturalists of yesteryear experienced. That is where “The Birds That Audubon Missed” excels; the real beauty of the book is expressed in its subtitle, in the moments when Kaufman gives in to that longing for discovery and whispers of desire:
“When I watch a flock of sandpipers lift off from a coastal lagoon and climb into the sky, it lifts my soul — not only because of the beauty of their flight, but also because I know they might not touch down for a thousand miles.
Scientific knowledge of the migrations of these birds, based on years of research, doesn’t take away from the sense of magic; it makes it stronger.”
A little later, in a passage where he describes curlews as “children of the wind,” you can almost feel yourself carried aloft with these large, dramatic shorebirds as they crisscross the globe in their seasonal wanderings. These musings culminate in a fitting conclusion: that the era of great discovery never ends if all discovery is personal. One’s own revelatory experiences in the natural world are what truly matter.
The fundamental — and unavoidable — problem with “The Birds That Audubon Missed” lies in its “great white men” focus. Kaufman acknowledges from the outset, and mentions occasionally throughout, that this is a particular brand of history stemming from a time that minimized, ignored and discounted anything that didn’t originate from an extremely narrow band of humanity. Indeed, that constitutes one of the criticisms of eponymous bird names. White explorers took credit for “discovering” birds that may have been well known to Indigenous people and then slapped some White friends’ or patrons’ names on them; some of these names we blithely continue to use.
“Our perceptions are shaped by the names and definitions we apply to things,” Kaufman notes of birds that were misunderstood because they’d been labeled and pigeonholed (pun intended) incorrectly; what’s true biologically is even more so culturally. A book exploring the Indigenous knowledge of our avifauna — one that, say, gave primacy to the Choctaw biskinik and its place in that culture, rather than defaulting to the English name of that woodpecker, the yellow-bellied sapsucker — would be welcome. But that’s another book, one that with history’s focus on the dominant narrative might be exceedingly difficult to put together.
Kaufman does an admirable job of exploring the history that’s before us. He didn’t set out to render a verdict on the naming controversies, but he does answer his own question: If we can move beyond hagiography, we can at least acknowledge what Audubon did, for good and ill. And if, as some claim, losing the names means erasing history, then Kaufman’s book is one way to cure this alleged amnesia.