Gemma Anderson-Tempini

Mycology: Drawing Fungi at Kew Gardens The term "Mycology" was first used in 1836 by M.J. Berkeley, who later donated his entire fungal collection to Kew Gardens. Due to the importance of this collection, the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew appointed their first mycologist, M.C. Cooke, to care for, study, and expand the collection. Today, it stands as the largest and most comprehensive fungal collection in the world. Before the development of the microscope (e.g., during the Linnaean taxonomy era), fungi were grouped rather crudely according to their external shapes. Concepts of fungal relationships have changed dramatically over the years as our understanding has evolved. While browsing the Wellcome Trust Image Library, I discovered an old engraving of the Grotto of Antiparnas that reminded me of forms I had previously observed in certain fungi. This inspired me to redraw the grotto landscape, replacing its features with mushroom specimens from the Mycology Collection at Kew. Kew's collection is still primarily organized by morphological concepts, except when new genera are introduced. After redrawing the grotto using mushrooms, I created a diagram of the composition, identifying each specimen in the work. Each specimen was drawn directly from life onto a copper etching plate at true scale. Specimens Featured in This Work: 1. Daldinia concentrica – Popularly known as King Alfred's cakes 2. Cordyceps gunnii (formerly Sphaeria gunni) 3. Amanita muscaria – Fly agaric, with an interesting history in Viking culture 4. Herb hort 5. Amanita muscaria (second specimen) 6. Schizophyllum commune – A widely distributed fungus 7. Tuber aestivum – A type of truffle 8. Daldinia concentrica (second specimen) 9. Armillaria mellea – Honey fungus, also known as "the gardener's curse" for its parasitic nature 10. Stemonitis ferruginea – A slime mold, now classified in Kingdom Protozoa rather than Fungi

Drawing in Natural Science: Jerwood Visual Artist in Residence 2010

Astronomy: Drawing the Moon and Sun Drawing the Moon After drawing the sun through a telescope at the University of London Observatory (ULO) during the summer, I waited patiently for winter when I would have the opportunity to draw the moon. In October, after the clocks had gone back, I went to ULO at 6 PM on a Tuesday evening. The weather forecast predicted clear skies, but it was clouding over when I arrived. I waited, hoping the sky would clear, but it remained cloudy, so I joined the Astronomy third-year BA course instead. The students were tracking stars, nebulae, and planets using computer programs. I asked some of the students about their experience of drawing through the telescope during their first year. Most agreed that drawing helped them remember and locate celestial objects, and they enjoyed the experience. I visited ULO a second time in November. Although it was cloudy again, the sky cleared for about an hour and a half, giving me the opportunity to observe the moon using the 1852 telescope. The astronomy technician opened the dome and positioned the telescope to observe the moon. I climbed a ladder, covered one eye, and began drawing. I couldn't really see what I was doing because it was dark, so I concentrated on observing the moon and hoped that the marks I was making on the copper plate were cohesive. The longer I observed, the more details I could see, and as I drew, I began noticing similarities between the forms of the moon and forms I had previously drawn in minerals. After about an hour, clouds covered the sky again, making further observation impossible. Visit to the University of London Observatory - August 11, 2010 I arrived at ULO at 11:30 AM. Situated on a main road near Mill Hill Broadway train station, it consists of a charming series of domed white buildings. I had arranged a meeting with the observatory manager. We discussed the observatory, the work and research conducted there, and I explained that I would like to draw sunspots first and then the moon, which led to an interesting conversation about observation, scale, and form. Peter showed me around the observatory and asked me to guess which era each telescope was from. This was fascinating as each was very different: one from the 1960s with a Kubrick-esque aesthetic, and one from 1862 reminiscent of the Great Exhibition, both very beautiful. There was also a more modern American model that lacked the investment in design and quality of the others, being more focused on producing digital imagery. Finally, we entered the largest dome housing the biggest telescope—a giant instrument with a moving floor, an observation couch, and panels of glowing buttons. I was thoroughly impressed. Afterward, I sat with Peter and Steve (an astronomer) to discuss the shift from analog to digital imagery in astronomy—the transition from the individuality of analog records with their human experience and imperfections to the standardization and homogeneity of digital records. We noted how this change has reduced the need to concentrate and spend time observing through telescopes, as images can now be accessed quickly and easily in digital formats. Steve mentioned that he sometimes asks students to draw to encourage them to really look, and I agreed that drawing requires careful observation, concentration, and time, which helps in remembering what you see, thereby serving as a mnemonic aid. We discussed how removing students from the direct experience of drawing from telescopes reduces the potential for unexpected discoveries that occur during experiential learning and the firsthand engagement that helps sustain interest in any subject. We concluded our conversation by discussing virtual engagement and the dangers of interacting with the world primarily on a virtual level. After our discussion, Steve set up a telescope for me to observe the sun—which appeared as a glowing red ball with considerable sunspot activity around its edges. I observed and drew a sunspot as it changed over the course of an hour and a half. It was interesting to do this while talking with Steve, as he was interested in the changes I had noticed and could clearly identify them from my drawing.

Drawing in Natural Science: Jerwood Visual Artist in Residence 2010

Lichen I found a map by G.M. Wheeler that immediately reminded me of lichen formations. I have always been interested in the anatomical relationships between the ramifying forms of landscapes (when observed from above) and those of plant and animal structures. I asked Mark Nesbitt where I could find lichen in London and, unsurprisingly, received the reply: "Lichen is difficult to find in London because the air quality is very poor." He advised me to try Epping Forest in East London. I visited Epping Forest and searched the woodland for the kind of lichen specimens I was seeking. The etching I created was drawn from pieces of lichen found in Epping Forest, arranged in the same composition as Wheeler's map. The etching is hand-painted with Japanese inks.

Geology: Drawing from the Rock Room at UCL I have been drawing from the Rock Room in UCL's geology department for a considerable time, making it my first destination when exploring drawing activities in this field. Throughout the halls and teaching rooms of the department, there are numerous engravings and drawings by Lewis depicting volcanoes, geological maps, and microscopic imagery of unusual minerals. These images inspired me to research the history of geological illustrations, leading me to discover the wonderful works of John Emslie, J. Hulley, and William Hamilton, among others. I found a drawing of brain hemoglobin by R. Hooper that strongly resembled a particular hematite specimen I had seen at UCL. This similarity prompted me to recreate the brain drawing (a zoological specimen) using hematite (a mineral specimen) due to their anatomical resemblances. This work would not have been possible without my experience exploring the Rock Room collections over the past year. When looking at a landscape, I could recall the forms of minerals I had previously drawn or examined and vividly imagine how the scene could be recomposed by replacing large-scale features with small-scale mineral forms. I showed these images to curator Emma Passmore, and together we sourced specimens that resembled forms in the landscapes. I began drawing some stalagmites to compare with John Emslie's "Comparative Mountains of the World," but as I drew them, I realized they looked more like strange calcified trees than mountains, which changed the direction of my work. Later, I found flint arrowheads that more closely resembled Emslie's mountain study.

Archaeology: Drawing Flint I arrived at Professor Ulrike Sommer's office on the 4th floor of the UCL archaeology department on August 4th. The space was filled with books and boxes of artifacts. When I asked Ulrike to show me some archaeological drawings, she quickly produced a collection of archaeological dig drawings on waterproof graph paper and explained what the markings indicated. My first impression was that some of them resembled drawings of the epidermis of skin. As we examined drawings of flint, Ulrike explained how each different mark showed points of impact or where objects had been modified by humans over time. It was fascinating to realize that drawing a piece of flint from an archaeological perspective means looking in a completely different way and using very specific mark-making techniques. Together, we visited an archaeology student who was having difficulty drawing flint. We examined a piece together and discussed how from an archaeological perspective, the drawing should not include details of the flint's natural qualities, but only the modifications and impacts made by humans. We had a brief critique of the student's drawing and examined some flint specimens in detail. Ulrike told me that flint was the most interesting and important subject to draw in archaeology and that no other medium can convey the same information as drawing. Beyond arrowheads and axes, I became very interested in "problematic flint" after reading Robert Plot's records of curious pieces that resembled an owl's head and a human foot. Later that day, I returned to see Ulrike and told her about Plot's oddly shaped flints. Though she wasn't familiar with those specific specimens, she showed me another unusually shaped flint that was her favorite. It was remarkable, and I realized I needed to find my own strange flint to draw—both in my usual style and from an archaeological perspective. I contacted the paleontology department at the Natural History Museum and received a quick reply confirming they had "problematic flint" in their collection. The following week, I arrived with a copper plate to work on. The paleontology department housed all kinds of treasures, including forged fossils and huge corals, but I was specifically interested in a drawer containing limb and animal-shaped flints. After several visits, I managed to assemble some of the most characterful flints into a strange figure, much to the amusement of the paleontology staff.

Drawing in Natural Science: Jerwood Visual Artist in Residence 2010

Drawing in Natural Science: Jerwood Visual Artist in Residence 2010

Drawing in Natural Science: Jerwood Visual Artist in Residence 2010

Drawing in Natural Science: Jerwood Visual Artist in Residence 2010

Through this project, I have explored the continued relevance and practice of drawing across various scientific disciplines. Despite advances in digital technology, drawing remains an essential tool for observation, understanding, and knowledge creation in fields from mycology to astronomy. The process of drawing forces close observation and creates a unique relationship between the observer and the subject—whether it's a fungus, a mineral, an archaeological artifact, a plant specimen, or a celestial body. This relationship builds knowledge in ways that differ significantly from digital methods, fostering deeper connections and memories. By reinterpreting historical scientific illustrations through drawing contemporary specimens, I have sought to highlight both the continuity and evolution of scientific visualization. The anatomical resemblances between seemingly unrelated subjects—hematite and brain tissue, lichen and maps, bark and landscapes—reveal underlying patterns that connect the microscopic and macroscopic worlds. This project demonstrates that drawing remains not just an artistic endeavour but a vital scientific practice—a point emphasized by specialists across all the fields I explored. Even as new technologies emerge, the act of drawing continues to offer unique insights and ways of knowing that cannot be replicated by other means.