Sketches in the Margins

Before women were granted titles like botanist, zoologist, or researcher, many found their way into science quietly — through the tip of a pencil or the stroke of a brush. In the pages of botanical journals, on the walls of scientific societies, their illustrations bloomed. Leaves, petals, fungi, and seeds — all rendered with painstaking accuracy — served as evidence not just of the natural world’s complexity, but of women’s often unacknowledged expertise.

Scientific illustration has long been dismissed as peripheral — technical, decorative, certainly not the ‘real’ science conducted in laboratories or lecture halls. The dominant narrative positions illustration as a passive, supporting act rather than the backbone of scientific discovery. And historically, that made it an acceptable place for women — somewhere near the action, but never quite in it.

For generations, this was the quiet loophole. Barred from universities, research expeditions, and scientific institutions, women channelled their curiosity and intellect into art. It wasn’t just decoration; it was documentation, analysis, and scientific contribution, hidden in plain sight.

Take the story of Mary Anne Stebbing. As detailed in the article Passionate pioneers – increasing access to botanical artwork by women artists, Stebbing was more than the wife of a respected zoologist. She was a scientific illustrator and botanical expert in her own right. In 1904, when women were finally admitted to the Linnean Society of London — one of the world’s oldest biological societies — a painting was commissioned to mark the occasion. Stebbing was initially included, seated alongside her male colleagues, visually acknowledging her role and the broader presence of women in science.

But by the time the final portrait was unveiled, Stebbing was gone. An empty chair sat in her place — a quiet, symbolic erasure that reflected far more than artistic preference. It captured the uncomfortable truth: even as women crept closer to scientific recognition, they were still being painted, written, and remembered out of the official record.

Through the lens of the Creative Women’s Association, this isn’t just a curious historical footnote — it’s a reminder of how systems politely excluded women while quietly benefiting from their work. Botanical illustration was, for many women, an unofficial credential. It demanded deep scientific knowledge — of plant anatomy, taxonomy, observation — all critical components of rigorous science. Yet their names rarely made it onto research papers or institutional rolls.

But these women weren’t passive figures in the margins. Their illustrations were acts of quiet defiance — proof that they understood the science, whether or not they were formally invited to the table. Sketch by sketch, they documented, interpreted, and preserved the natural world. Their work not only advanced scientific understanding but also left an indelible record — even if history initially tried to erase them.

Today, initiatives like the Biodiversity Heritage Library are working to restore these women to their rightful place in scientific history. Digitising thousands of botanical illustrations, many by female artists, these archives are helping to unearth the hidden contributions of women who illustrated their way into science. The work remains as precise, as beautiful, and as scientifically vital as ever — only now, their names are finally being spoken alongside it.

Of course, the metaphor of the ’empty chair’ lingers. Gender gaps in STEM persist. Women’s labour, especially in creative or support roles, is still undervalued. But the legacy of these botanical illustrators — their precision, their determination, their refusal to be erased — reminds us that the margins were never empty. They were full of women sketching, observing, and building the foundations of science, even when the world refused to see them.