Merinder's House

In the corner between two centuries, in the middle of a war that tore Europe apart and rewrote maps and destinies, three remarkable men emerged. They were commissioned by Sir Joseph Banks to circumnavigate the country we now know as Australia, and to draw and document the flora and fauna around its coastline.

Matthew Flinders was in charge of the expedition, a Lincolnshire man. He married John Franklin’s aunt, was captivated by Robinson Crusoe and probably realised, even then, that he would be disappointed by human nature and the legitimised deceit of powerful men. Flinders lies in the no-man’s land where, if you are forced to retain your integrity amid human folly, you stand alone, for no-one is brave enough to stand with you. Flinders’ cat accompanied him on all his voyages, a symbol of quiet diplomacy and tact. Like Flinders, he became the victim of unscrupulous men who lived only with their fears.

The artistic genius of the expedition was an Austrian, Ferdinand Bauer. The colours in his paintings of plant life are so extraordinary, they are almost more beautiful than the plants themselves, and he discovered their essence. He only sketched them in the field. He reproduced the colours later from an intricate numerical coding system and, I suspect, from a lateral mind. Like his contemporary Goethe, he found a place somewhere between precision and imagination, between art and science, and produced the impossible.

Robert Brown had studied, at one point or another, both art and medicine, in a time when an interest in one did not preclude the other. He became a botanist, a logical slot between two worlds, and eventually founded the botanical department at London’s Natural History Museum. When I asked about the department at the Museum’s front desk, I was told it contained very little of interest, and I discovered that its slot had been replaced by a theme park dedicated to Charles Darwin, a more fashionable scientist. Brown catalogued the plant life of Terra Australis, and gave names to Bauer’s images. On their return, the two joined their colours and words into a monumental publication which sapped their strength, and which the world did not appreciate.

The publications of all three men were commercial failures. Their genius languishes largely in museum store cupboards, but their story is one to inspire all those who dare to read between the lines. Perhaps, one day, the story will bring the images back out of the cupboards.