Hand Numbered

If you've ever walked the comparative anatomy halls of a natural history museum, where bare skeletons of all manner of creature stand starkly side by side - the spindly assembly of a lithe African antelope next to the massive bone blocks of a 4-ton hippopotamuses - you might notice, upon closer inspection, that each and every bone in any given skeleton is identified by a neat, hand-written number. On older skeletons, this handwriting can be the graceful, faded script of a quill pen; newer acquisitions might sport a more bold, rapidograph print. However the marks were made, they serve the purpose of cataloguing each animal - and all of it's osteo-anatomy - within a given museum's vast archives. Upon donation to the institution, each animal specimen is given a unique string of digits, just like the call number on a library card - but unlike a library book with a single card inside it's cover, a single skeleton contains a few hundred bones... each of which need to be numbered, lest the pieces become separated at any time and risk mingling with other specimens.

I have always admired the elements of design and order that these specimen numbers impart on the raw surfaces of the bones they identify; and recently, to my great delight, I had the opportunity to be the mark-maker myself. On an afternoon last week, working in the department of mammalogy at the Harvard Museum of Comparative Zoology, I was tasked with inscribing the bones of a marten skeleton with it's assigned specimen acquisition ID: MCZ 64353. Trusty Rapidograph pen in hand, I made my way down each vertebrae, along each long leg bone, across each scapula and jaw, until I was left with needle-fine ribs, fragile hyoids, and bits of phalanges too delicate for any amount of ink. It was a sublimely meditative task, and simultaneously extremely thrilling.

Below, a pine marten, in the flesh and fur that it's skeleton usually wears.