Vox Meditantis

Joan Beauchamp Procter (1897-1931), Britain’s pioneering female Curator of Reptiles, discusses her revolutionary zoo design using vita-glass technology, groundbreaking research on Komodo dragon behaviour, and scientific methodology dismissed as “feminine intuition.” Despite chronic illness limiting her career to age 34, her holistic approach to animal welfare anticipated modern conservation biology by decades.

Welcome, Joan. Thank you for joining me today. I must say, it’s particularly moving to speak with you here, beside the reptile house you designed – a building that still stands as a monument to your vision nearly a century later.

Oh, the pleasure is entirely mine. Though I confess, it’s rather surreal to think of my little house lasting so long! When we were planning it in 1926, I was simply trying to solve the problems I saw before me – reptiles languishing in dreadful conditions, dying from lack of proper lighting, temperature regulation, and understanding. The building may bear my name now, but it was truly a collaboration with so many brilliant minds, including dear Peter [Chalmers Mitchell] and the engineers who made my rather ambitious ideas possible.

Let’s begin with your childhood. You’ve mentioned that you kept rather unusual pets from a young age. Tell me about that.

Unusual! Yes, I suppose a Dalmatian lizard accompanying one to the breakfast table might be considered slightly unconventional. But from the time I was ten, reptiles simply made sense to me. While other girls played with dolls, I was captivated by the perfect mechanics of a snake’s movement, the way a lizard’s tail could regenerate, the ancient wisdom in a tortoise’s eyes. My family were wonderfully supportive – my grandfather William Brockbank was an amateur botanist and geologist, so perhaps the scientific inclination ran in the blood.

I remember my sister Christabel giving me a beautiful book on British reptiles and amphibians for my thirteenth birthday. That book became my bible. I studied every page, memorised every species. By sixteen, I’d convinced my parents to let me have a young crocodile – took it to school one day, which caused quite the sensation!

That’s quite remarkable. But your path wasn’t straightforward, was it? Chronic illness prevented you from attending Cambridge.

Ah yes, the great irony. Here I was, desperate to study the natural world formally, and my own body wouldn’t cooperate. I’d been plagued by chronic intestinal problems since childhood – there was only one blessed six-month period in Switzerland when I was twelve where I felt truly well. The illness was… relentless. Constant pain, surgical procedures, periods where I could barely function.

But you know, it’s curious how adversity can redirect one’s path in unexpected ways. Unable to sit in lecture halls, I began corresponding with George Boulenger at the Natural History Museum. That correspondence became a mentorship that shaped everything that followed.

Tell me about that relationship with Boulenger. How did it develop?

George Albert Boulenger was, quite simply, a brilliant man who saw potential where others might have seen only a young woman with peculiar interests. I’d written to him with questions about reptilian anatomy, and instead of dismissing my queries, he engaged with them seriously. By 1916, when I was just nineteen, he invited me to join him at the Museum as an unpaid assistant.

I shall never forget the moment I presented my first paper to the Zoological Society – on the variation of the pit viper. I was nineteen years old, the youngest person ever to do so, and quite possibly the only woman in that room. The subject enthralled me because pit vipers possess heat-sensing organs – essentially, they can “see” temperature variations. Understanding how they hunt prey became a window into evolutionary adaptation that few had explored systematically.

That’s fascinating. Can you walk me through your technical approach to studying the pit viper? I’d love to understand your methodology.

Certainly! The key was recognising that the pit organs – those depressions between the eye and nostril – weren’t merely vestigial structures, as some believed. I began by dissecting preserved specimens, mapping the neural pathways from these organs to the brain. Using microscopic analysis, I could trace how sensory information was processed.

But the real breakthrough came from observing live specimens. I designed controlled temperature experiments, placing heat sources at various distances and angles whilst observing the snakes’ strike patterns. What I discovered was that these creatures could detect temperature differences as small as 0.2 degrees Celsius – imagine the precision! They weren’t just “sensing” warmth; they were creating thermal maps of their environment, essentially hunting by infrared vision decades before we had such technology.

The quantitative data was compelling: strike accuracy increased by 47% when the heat differential exceeded 2 degrees, and response time averaged 0.15 seconds from thermal detection to strike initiation. This wasn’t instinct – it was sophisticated sensory processing that rivalled anything in the vertebrate world.

That level of precision is astounding. How did your colleagues receive this work?

With considerable… scepticism, initially. You must understand, in 1916, the notion that a young woman – barely out of her teens – could contribute meaningfully to herpetological research was, shall we say, challenging for some to accept. There were whispers that my “intuitive understanding” of animals was simply feminine fancy rather than rigorous science.

I recall one particular conference where a distinguished gentleman suggested that my observations were merely lucky guesses, that women possessed some “natural affinity” with creatures but lacked the analytical capacity for true scientific inquiry. It was infuriating, not because of the personal slight, but because it diminished the hours of meticulous observation, the careful data collection, the hypothesis testing that underpinned every conclusion.

That must have been incredibly frustrating. How did you prove them wrong?

By doing better science than they did. When the results were incontrovertible, when other researchers began replicating my methodologies and confirming my findings, the whispers gradually gave way to respect. But it took years – and frankly, I suspect some never truly believed a woman could match their intellectual rigor.

Let’s talk about your move to London Zoo and your most famous work. How did you come to design the Reptile House?

Edward Boulenger – George’s son – was curating reptiles here, and we’d struck up a friendship based on our shared passion for innovative animal husbandry. In 1923, when he moved to develop the new aquarium, I was offered his position. The timing couldn’t have been better; the existing reptile facilities were positively medieval.

The challenge was enormous: create the world’s first purpose-built reptile house that prioritised animal welfare whilst serving educational purposes. I spent months studying each species’ natural habitat requirements – temperature gradients, humidity levels, lighting spectra, territorial needs. The revolutionary element was the vita-glass we incorporated.

Tell me about vita-glass. That was quite cutting-edge technology.

Oh, it was absolutely revolutionary! Standard window glass blocks ultraviolet radiation completely, but reptiles require UV-B light for calcium metabolism and vitamin D synthesis. Without it, they develop metabolic bone disease, become lethargic, fail to reproduce.

Francis Lamplough had developed this special glass composition that transmitted ultraviolet wavelengths whilst maintaining structural integrity. We were among the first to implement it architecturally. Each vivarium was designed with specific angles to maximise UV exposure whilst creating thermal gradients – basking spots reaching 35°C whilst cool areas remained at 18°C, mimicking natural conditions.

The results were immediate and dramatic. Reptiles became more active, fed better, grew faster. Breeding rates improved significantly. But perhaps most surprisingly, they became more docile. The stress of inadequate environments had been manifesting as aggressive behaviour.

That brings us to your most famous relationship – with Sumbawa, the Komodo dragon. Tell me about that special bond.

Ah, Sumbawa. My dear, dear friend. When those first two Komodo dragons arrived from Indonesia in 1927, they came with quite the reputation – thirty feet long! Faster than a motorcar! Stronger than an ox! Complete nonsense, of course, but the public was terrified.

I knew immediately that understanding their behaviour would require direct observation, not sensationalist speculation. Sumbawa was the smaller of the two, perhaps three metres in length, and she was clearly unwell when she arrived. Dehydrated, stressed from the journey, refusing food.

How did you approach gaining her trust?

Patience. Consistency. Respect. I began by simply sitting near her enclosure for hours each day, allowing her to become accustomed to my presence. No sudden movements, no loud noises. I observed her natural rhythms – when she was alert, when she rested, what seemed to cause stress or comfort.

Gradually, I began offering food by hand. Initially, she was too nervous to feed, but hunger eventually won over caution. The breakthrough came when I realised she responded to vocal cues. I would call her name softly, and her head would turn toward my voice. Within weeks, she would come when called – a behaviour no one had documented in monitor lizards before.

The scientific community was quite sceptical of your claims about Komodo dragon tameness, weren’t they?

Sceptical? That’s rather diplomatic! They thought I’d lost my mind entirely. Here I was, claiming that these “fierce dragons” were as tame as dogs, that they showed genuine affection, that they could be trained to walk on a lead.

I remember that Scientific Meeting in 1928 where I brought Sumbawa to demonstrate. The gasps when we entered the room! But there she was, calmly eating chicken and eggs from my hand whilst I stroked her head and spoke to her. The photographic evidence was undeniable – here was a supposedly vicious predator interacting peacefully with small children, allowing herself to be petted like a domestic animal.

From a scientific perspective, what were you learning about reptilian cognition and behaviour through these interactions?

Something quite profound, actually. The prevailing view held that reptiles were essentially automated responses to stimuli – no complex cognition, no emotional capacity, no individual personality. My work with Sumbawa and the other dragons challenged that completely.

I documented clear evidence of recognition – not just of food sources, but of individual humans. Sumbawa would react differently to familiar keepers versus strangers. She displayed what could only be described as curiosity, investigating new objects or changes to her environment methodically. She also demonstrated what appeared to be anticipatory behaviour – moving toward the door when she heard my voice approaching, even before I was visible.

That is astonishing. Were you documenting this systematically?

Absolutely. I kept detailed behavioural logs – feeding responses, social interactions, environmental preferences, physiological measurements. Temperature regulation patterns, growth rates, seasonal variations in activity. What emerged was evidence of far more sophisticated nervous system function than anyone had imagined.

For instance, Komodo dragons demonstrate thermoregulatory precision within one degree Celsius – they actively seek specific thermal environments based on digestive requirements, reproductive status, time of day. That’s not instinct; that’s cognitive processing of multiple variables.

Let me ask you about your most significant scientific paper – your 1922 study of the pancake tortoise. This was groundbreaking work.

Malacochersus tornieri – though we called it Testudo loveridgii then. Arthur Loveridge had been sending specimens from Tanganyika, and they were unlike anything in the fossil record. Completely flat shells, highly flexible, almost paper-thin in places.

The question was: how? Traditional tortoise shells are rigid domes, perfect for protection but limiting mobility. These creatures had evolved a completely different strategy – flexibility over armour. They could squeeze into rock crevices barely larger than their body diameter, becoming virtually inaccessible to predators.

Walk me through your investigative methodology on that project.

I had access to twenty-three preserved specimens plus two live ones at the Zoo. The key was understanding the developmental biology – how does a tortoise shell become flexible rather than rigid?

Using X-ray equipment provided by Sir John Bland-Sutton – revolutionary technology at the time – I could examine internal bone structure without destroying specimens. What I discovered was that large areas of the carapace and plastron simply lacked bone entirely. Instead of the solid ossification you’d expect, there were fenestrations – windows, essentially – covered only by keratin and skin.

By comparing juveniles with adults and cross-referencing with normal tortoise development, I determined that pancake tortoises arrest their bone development at what would be considered an adolescent stage in other species. It’s essentially neoteny – retaining juvenile characteristics into adulthood.

What were the quantitative findings?

The central plastron showed 60% less bone density than comparable species. Flexibility measurements indicated these tortoises could compress their vertical profile by up to 35% without injury – imagine the engineering implications! The trade-off was significant: reduced protection but dramatically increased escape capabilities.

I have to ask – do you ever wonder what you might have accomplished with more time?

Oh, constantly. There was so much I wanted to explore – captive breeding programs for endangered species, comparative studies of reptilian intelligence, the role of environmental enrichment in zoo animal welfare. I’d begun preliminary work on what we might now call conservation biology, though the field didn’t exist as such then.

The Komodo dragon breeding program was just beginning when… well. We’d established that these animals could thrive in captivity when properly cared for. The logical next step was reproduction, ensuring sustainable populations without depleting wild stocks. That work wouldn’t be completed until decades after my death.

If you could correct one misconception about your legacy, what would it be?

That my success with animals was somehow mystical rather than scientific. This notion that women possess “natural intuition” with creatures – it’s patronising rubbish that diminishes the rigorous observation, systematic methodology, and analytical thinking that underpinned everything I accomplished.

Yes, I loved my animals. Yes, I formed emotional bonds with them. But love doesn’t teach you about thermal regulation or metabolic requirements or reproductive cycles. That knowledge comes from careful study, hypothesis testing, data collection, peer review – the same scientific process employed by any serious researcher.

Looking back, do you have any regrets about your scientific approach?

Perhaps I was too focused on individual animal welfare at the expense of broader conservation questions. I was so determined to prove that reptiles could thrive in captivity that I may have underemphasised the importance of habitat preservation. The work I was doing – successful breeding, behavioural studies, medical care – was groundbreaking, but it was essentially reactive. We were learning to care for animals after removing them from their natural environments rather than protecting those environments in the first place.

If I’d had more time, I would have liked to shift toward what we might call ecosystem thinking – understanding reptiles within their natural communities, advocating for habitat protection alongside captive management. But that would have required a longer view than my circumstances permitted.

Your reputation was sometimes dismissed as feminine sentimentality rather than scientific expertise. How do you respond to that now?

It’s infuriating because it misses the point entirely. The emotional connection I formed with my animals wasn’t a weakness – it was a source of observational data that more “objective” researchers missed completely. When you truly know an individual animal, you notice subtle changes in behaviour, appetite, social interaction that might indicate illness, stress, or environmental inadequacies.

My so-called “intuition” was actually hypervigilant observation informed by deep biological knowledge. I could predict when Sumbawa was about to shed her skin because I’d observed the subtle changes in her behaviour patterns for weeks prior. I could identify illness in snakes before clinical symptoms appeared because I knew their individual baselines intimately.

The dismissal of this approach as “feminine” reveals more about the limitations of traditional scientific methodology than about my capabilities. Rigorous objectivity has its place, but so does sustained, empathetic observation. The combination produces more complete understanding than either approach alone.

What would you want modern conservation biologists to know?

That individual animal welfare and species conservation aren’t opposing goals – they’re complementary approaches to the same fundamental challenge. The work we did at London Zoo – creating environments where reptiles could express natural behaviours, reproduce successfully, live healthily – that knowledge directly supports field conservation efforts.

But I’d also want them to remember that every species is part of a complex web of relationships. You cannot save Komodo dragons without protecting their prey species, their nesting sites, their entire ecosystem. The holistic approach we were beginning to develop in zoo management needs to extend to landscape-level conservation.

Any advice for young women entering STEM fields today?

Trust your observations. Document everything meticulously. Publish your findings, no matter how unconventional. And never, ever let anyone dismiss your work as intuition when you know it’s based on rigorous scientific investigation.

But also – don’t be afraid to form emotional connections with your research subjects. Empathy can be a powerful scientific tool when combined with intellectual rigor. Some of my most important discoveries came from truly knowing individual animals rather than treating them as anonymous data points.

Finally, how do you hope to be remembered?

As someone who proved that understanding animals – truly understanding them – requires both scientific methodology and genuine care. That the boundary between “pure” and “applied” science is artificial when you’re working with living creatures. That conservation begins with individual animal welfare but must extend to entire ecosystems.

And perhaps, that a woman with unusual interests and chronic illness could still contribute something meaningful to human knowledge. If my work inspired even one young person to study the natural world with both rigor and compassion, then it was worthwhile.

Letters and emails

Following our engaging conversation with Joan Beauchamp Procter, we’ve received an overwhelming response from readers eager to explore her pioneering work further. We’ve selected five letters and emails from our growing community who want to ask her more about her life, her work, and what she might say to those walking in her footsteps.

Lucinda Archer, 42, Veterinary Behaviourist, Melbourne, Australia:
Joan, I’m intrigued by your behavioural documentation methods with Sumbawa. Given that video recording wasn’t available, how did you ensure accuracy in capturing rapid reptilian movements and micro-expressions? Did you develop any notation systems or timing techniques that modern animal behaviourists might still find useful?

Ah, what a perceptive question from a fellow behaviourist! You’ve touched upon one of the greatest challenges I faced – how does one capture the fleeting subtleties of reptilian behaviour when modern recording technology simply didn’t exist?

The absence of cinematography forced me to develop what I called “structured observation protocols” – essentially, a systematic approach that combined precise timing methods with detailed notation systems. I borrowed techniques from industrial motion studies that were becoming popular in the 1920s, particularly the work of Frank and Lillian Gilbreth. They were using stopwatches and photographic sequences to analyse human motion in factories, and I adapted their principles for reptilian behavioural analysis.

For timing, I employed multiple precision stopwatches – typically three running simultaneously to ensure accuracy. One measured total interaction duration, another captured specific behavioural sequences, and the third recorded intervals between repeated actions. The key was synchronisation: I’d start all three with a distinctive sound – often a small bell – that would also serve as a reference point for the animals, whose hearing response I could then incorporate into my observations.

But the real innovation was my notation system. I developed a symbolic shorthand based on anatomical positioning and movement vectors. For instance, “H↑45°” meant head raised forty-five degrees, “T→L” indicated tail movement toward left, “FL-ext” showed front-left limb extension. Each symbol was time-stamped to the nearest half-second using pocket watch coordination.

For rapid movements – particularly with the monitors and pit vipers – I used what I called “anticipatory positioning.” By studying each individual animal extensively, I could predict behavioural sequences and prepare specific observation focal points. If Sumbawa typically performed a particular head-weaving pattern before feeding, I’d position myself optimally and prepare my notation sequence in advance.

The challenge with micro-expressions, as you so aptly put it, required intense attention to anatomical detail. I mapped every muscle group visible in each species and assigned numerical codes to subtle positional changes. A snake’s labial scale movement might be coded as “LS1-2mm” indicating a two-millimetre displacement of the first labial scale. This required considerable anatomical knowledge, but it enabled me to document expressions that other observers might dismiss as immeasurable.

I also developed what I called “behavioural baselines” for each individual animal – essentially, detailed profiles of their normal resting positions, typical response latencies, and characteristic movement patterns. Any deviation from these baselines became immediately apparent, even without mechanical recording devices.

Would modern animal behaviourists find these methods useful? I suspect the principles remain sound, even if the technology has advanced beyond recognition. The systematic approach to observation, the importance of individual baseline establishment, the synchronised timing protocols – these fundamentals of rigorous behavioural documentation transcend any particular era’s technological limitations.

In fact, I’d argue that the absence of recording technology forced a level of observational acuity that modern researchers might find beneficial to cultivate. When you cannot replay a moment, you must observe with absolute precision the first time. That discipline – the intense, focused attention required for real-time behavioural analysis – I believe it would enhance rather than hinder contemporary studies.

Rodrigo Cifuentes, 29, Conservation Geneticist, São Paulo, Brazil:
You mentioned beginning captive breeding work with Komodo dragons before your death cut it short. If you’d had access to modern genetic sequencing and artificial reproductive technologies, how might you have approached maintaining genetic diversity in small captive populations? Would you still prioritise behavioural compatibility over genetic distance?

Joan’s expression brightens considerably at Rodrigo’s sophisticated question, clearly delighted by the complexity of the genetic concepts he’s raised.

Ah, Rodrigo! What a insightful question from São Paulo – and how it makes me yearn for the tools you describe! You’ve touched upon something I could only dream of in my era: the ability to peer directly into the hereditary material itself, rather than inferring its workings through observable traits alone.

She leans forward, her scientific enthusiasm evident.

In the 1920s, our understanding of heredity was rudimentary by your standards, though revolutionary for ours. We’d only just rediscovered Mendel’s laws at the century’s turn, and the concept of chromosomes carrying heritable “factors” – what you now call genes – was still quite novel. We knew nothing of DNA structure, of course, and the very notion that you could sequence an entire genome would have seemed like pure fantasy!

But if I’d had access to genetic sequencing and artificial reproductive technologies for the Komodo dragons… I believe my approach would have been fundamentally different from what you might expect.

Rather than prioritising genetic distance over behavioural compatibility, I would have argued for a more nuanced integration of both factors. You see, in my experience with Sumbawa and her companions, I observed that temperament and social adaptability varied tremendously between individuals, even among closely related animals. These behavioural traits seemed heritable – calm parents tended to produce calm offspring – but the inheritance patterns were complex, not simple Mendelian dominance.

With modern genetic tools, I would have wanted to map what we might call “temperament loci” – genomic regions associated with stress response, social bonding capacity, and environmental adaptability. My hypothesis, based on decades of observation, is that successful captive breeding requires animals that can not only survive physically but also reproduce psychologically. An animal under chronic stress from captivity will not breed successfully, regardless of its genetic diversity credentials.

I would have developed what we might call a “dual-matrix approach.” First, maintain genetic diversity through careful lineage management – your modern techniques would have made this infinitely more precise than my crude pedigree charts. But simultaneously, I’d have selected for what I call “captive adaptation genes” – variants associated with reduced cortisol production under human contact, enhanced social tolerance, and flexible foraging behaviours.

The critical insight from my work was that Komodo dragons are not the solitary, aggressive creatures everyone assumed. In proper social groupings with adequate environmental enrichment, they displayed complex social behaviours – cooperative feeding, territorial negotiations, even what appeared to be play behaviour among juveniles. These social capacities seemed essential for successful reproduction.

With genetic sequencing, I would have investigated whether the prosocial behaviours I observed were linked to specific genetic variants. If so, maintaining these variants within the captive population would be as crucial as preserving overall genomic diversity. Perhaps more so, actually – what use is genetic diversity if the animals cannot successfully reproduce due to behavioural incompatibility or chronic stress?

The artificial reproductive technologies you mention would have been transformative, but I would have used them cautiously. My experience suggested that maternal behaviour in reptiles is more sophisticated than previously recognised. Female Komodo dragons showed distinct individual differences in nesting site selection, egg protection behaviours, and response to environmental disturbances during incubation. Simply producing offspring through artificial means without understanding these maternal contributions might have compromised offspring viability.

I suspect I would have advocated for what we might call “guided natural reproduction” – using genetic insights to inform breeding decisions while preserving as much natural reproductive behaviour as possible. Perhaps identifying genetically optimal pairs, but then creating environmental conditions that encouraged natural courtship and mating behaviours.

You know, looking back, I wonder if we in the 1920s had an advantage in some ways. Without the ability to manipulate genetics directly, we were forced to work with the whole animal – its behaviour, its environmental needs, its social requirements. Modern conservation might benefit from that holistic perspective, even with all your sophisticated genetic tools.

The question isn’t whether we prioritise genetic diversity over behavioural compatibility – it’s how we achieve both simultaneously. With your modern capabilities, I would have dreamed of creating breeding programs that maintained maximum genetic diversity whilst selecting for animals psychologically adapted to captive environments and human interaction. The key insight from my Komodo work was that “tameness” wasn’t weakness – it was a sophisticated behavioural adaptation that actually enhanced reproductive success under human care.

That integration of genetic science with behavioural understanding – that’s where the real conservation breakthroughs would lie, don’t you think?

Sui Mahmud, 35, Science Museum Curator, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia:
Your work bridged the gap between academic research and public education through zoo displays. How did you balance the sometimes competing demands of rigorous scientific methodology versus making your findings accessible to the general public? Do you think this tension still exists in science communication today?

Ah, what an insightful question, Sui! You’ve identified one of the most challenging aspects of my work – and indeed, one that continues to vex science communicators today. The tension between scientific rigour and public accessibility was a constant companion throughout my career, though perhaps the stakes felt different in the 1920s.

When I first began designing exhibits for the London Zoo, I was acutely aware that I was serving multiple masters simultaneously. The scientific community expected precision, accurate taxonomy, and evidence-based claims about animal behaviour. The visiting public, however, came seeking wonder, entertainment, and stories they could understand and remember. Children wanted to see “dragons,” whilst parents hoped for educational value that might justify the expense of admission.

The balancing act required what I called “layered accessibility.” Take our Komodo dragon displays, for instance. At the most basic level, visitors saw large, impressive lizards that looked suitably “dragon-like” to capture imagination. The accompanying signage told a simple story: these creatures came from remote Indonesian islands, grew to tremendous sizes, and possessed formidable hunting abilities.

But embedded within that accessible narrative were precise scientific observations. I documented their thermoregulatory behaviours, their social interactions, their dietary requirements in exact detail. The general public absorbed the exciting surface story, whilst visiting scientists could observe the rigorous data collection underlying our husbandry practices.

I developed what I termed “progressive revelation” – presenting information at multiple levels of complexity simultaneously. A child might simply marvel at Sumbawa’s size and apparent docility. A secondary school student might read about monitor lizard anatomy and evolution. A visiting herpetologist could access detailed behavioural logs, feeding records, and environmental data that I maintained meticulously.

The physical design of exhibits supported this approach. Large, clear viewing areas allowed for immediate visceral impact – the “wow” factor that drew crowds and sustained public interest. But I also incorporated smaller observation windows positioned at different heights and angles, enabling more detailed study of specific behaviours. The vita-glass installations weren’t just about animal welfare; they demonstrated cutting-edge scientific technology in action, making visitors unconsciously participants in ongoing research.

However, I’ll confess there were moments when this balancing act felt impossible. The scientific community occasionally dismissed my public engagement work as “popularisation” – a term that carried rather pejorative connotations, suggesting oversimplification or sensationalism. Some colleagues worried that making our research accessible diminished its gravitas or scholarly credibility.

Conversely, the press sometimes sensationalised our findings beyond recognition. When I published observations about Komodo dragon social behaviour, newspaper accounts transformed careful descriptions of interspecific tolerance into tales of “tame dragons” that ignored the considerable safety protocols we maintained. The public’s appetite for spectacular stories occasionally threatened to overwhelm the nuanced realities of scientific observation.

I believe this tension persists today, though perhaps with different pressures. In the 1920s, we lacked the sophisticated understanding of science communication that modern museums possess. We had no visitor studies, no systematic approaches to measuring learning outcomes, no theoretical frameworks for public engagement. We proceeded largely through trial and observation – appropriate methods for a reptile curator, perhaps!

But what we did have was something I fear might be diminishing: time. My position allowed for sustained, long-term relationships with individual animals and gradual public education. I could spend months observing subtle behavioural patterns, then slowly introduce these findings to the public through demonstrations, talks, and carefully designed exhibits.

Modern museum curators face pressures I never experienced – corporate sponsorship requirements, attendance targets, political considerations about controversial scientific topics. The commodification of wonder, if I may put it that way, introduces commercial imperatives that can compromise scientific integrity.

Yet I also observe tremendous advantages in contemporary science communication. Modern museums have sophisticated educational research supporting their programming. Interactive technologies can demonstrate scientific principles in ways I could never achieve with static displays. The understanding of diverse learning styles and cultural accessibility far exceeds what we knew in my era.

My advice to modern science communicators would be this: never underestimate your audience’s capacity for sophisticated understanding, but also never assume that complexity must be inaccessible. The public’s genuine curiosity about the natural world is as strong now as it was in my day. What they need are authentic guides – scientists who can speak passionately about their work whilst respecting the audience’s intelligence and diverse backgrounds.

The key insight from my experience was that genuine engagement requires genuine expertise. I could make reptile behaviour accessible precisely because I understood it deeply, not despite that understanding. Superficial popularisation fails both science and the public. True science communication emerges from the intersection of rigorous knowledge and genuine care for one’s audience – whether they’re fellow researchers or curious children encountering their first Komodo dragon.

That integration of excellence and accessibility – that’s where the real educational magic happens, don’t you think?

Marty Shepherd, 51, Environmental Ethics Professor, Portland, Oregon, USA:
What if you’d been born into today’s world of accelerating climate change and mass extinction? Given your holistic approach to animal welfare, would you have focused your career on field conservation rather than captive management, or do you believe ex-situ breeding programs are even more crucial now?

Marty, what a profound and rather sobering question you’ve posed. If I’d been born into your world of accelerating climate change and mass extinction… the scale of the crisis would have fundamentally altered my entire approach to conservation work.

In my era, we were blissfully ignorant of the magnitude of change approaching. Yes, we noticed some environmental degradation – industrial pollution, habitat clearing for development – but nothing prepared us for the concept of planetary-scale climate disruption. The very notion that human activity could alter the Earth’s entire atmospheric composition would have seemed fantastical to most of my contemporaries.

If I’d understood that we were entering what you now call the sixth mass extinction, with species disappearing at rates one hundred to one thousand times faster than natural background extinction , I believe my career priorities would have been fundamentally different. The comfortable assumption that captive breeding was a luxury – a way to study animal behaviour whilst providing public education – would have been shattered by the recognition that it might be the only thing standing between countless species and oblivion.

But here’s what strikes me about your question: I don’t think I would have abandoned ex-situ conservation for field work entirely. Instead, I would have argued for what we might call “emergency triage conservation” – a coordinated approach that recognises both approaches as absolutely essential components of a crisis response.

Consider the Komodo dragons. In my time, their population was stable on their native islands. But in your world, those islands are experiencing rising sea levels, increasing temperatures, and ecosystem disruption that threatens their entire habitat. Under such circumstances, captive breeding programmes aren’t merely educational tools – they’re genetic lifeboats, preserving evolutionary potential whilst we desperately attempt landscape-scale conservation.

I would have developed what I call “anticipatory conservation breeding” – programmes designed not just to maintain current genetic diversity, but to prepare species for the environmental conditions they’ll face decades hence. This would require unprecedented integration of climate science, population genetics, and behavioural ecology.

For instance, if Komodo dragons need to adapt to higher temperatures and altered prey distributions, captive breeding programmes should select for heat tolerance and dietary flexibility whilst maintaining overall genetic diversity. We’d be essentially conducting evolutionary rescue in real-time – guiding species adaptation to survive conditions that natural selection alone cannot address quickly enough.

But I would also have recognised something that perhaps your generation sometimes overlooks in its urgency: individual animal welfare and species conservation are not competing priorities – they’re synergistic approaches to the same fundamental challenge.

Animals under chronic stress do not reproduce successfully. Species maintained in inadequate captive conditions lose behavioural flexibility, genetic fitness, and the very adaptations that made them successful in the wild. My work with Sumbawa demonstrated that properly maintained captive animals – animals allowed to express natural behaviours and form appropriate social bonds – actually develop enhanced resilience and adaptability.

In a climate emergency, this becomes even more critical. We’re not just preserving species – we’re preparing them for reintroduction into environments that may be radically different from their historical habitats. This requires animals that are behaviourally sophisticated, stress-resistant, and capable of rapid learning. That’s not possible without exceptional captive management that prioritises animal welfare alongside genetic conservation.

I would have advocated for massive expansion of conservation breeding facilities, but coupled with equally massive investment in habitat protection and restoration. The key insight is that these approaches must be temporally coordinated: we preserve species ex-situ whilst we desperately attempt to stabilise ecosystems in-situ, then reintroduce populations as habitat conditions improve.

But I must confess, Marty, that the scale of the crisis you describe would have been profoundly daunting. In my time, conservation felt optimistic – we were improving conditions for animals, expanding knowledge, building better facilities. Your generation faces the crushing reality that even heroic efforts might not be sufficient to prevent catastrophic biodiversity loss.

Yet that would only have intensified my conviction that every individual animal matters. In a mass extinction event, every breeding pair, every successful reproduction, every behavioural adaptation represents precious evolutionary potential preserved against impossible odds. The work becomes not just scientifically profound but morally imperative.

So to answer your question directly: yes, I would have focused more heavily on field conservation than I did in my actual lifetime. But I would have argued that ex-situ breeding programmes are more crucial now than ever before – not as alternatives to habitat protection, but as essential components of emergency species rescue during the most critical period in Earth’s biological history since the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs.

The challenge would have been integrating these approaches at unprecedented scale and speed, whilst maintaining the scientific rigour and animal welfare standards that make conservation breeding truly effective rather than merely symbolic.

Chunyan Pang, 38, Biomedical Engineer specialising in adaptive materials, Singapore:
I’m struck by your description of the pancake tortoise’s flexible shell structure. From an engineering perspective, did you ever consider how these biological solutions might inspire human technologies? If you were working today, would you be interested in collaborating with materials scientists to develop bio-inspired flexible armour or protective systems?

Oh, Chunyan, what a brilliant question! You’ve highlighted what truly captivated me about Malacochersus tornieri – the pancake tortoise – and its revolutionary approach to protection through flexibility rather than rigidity. If I were working today, I would be absolutely thrilled by the engineering applications of these biological solutions!

The pancake tortoise’s shell represents one of nature’s most elegant engineering compromises: how to achieve protection whilst maintaining extraordinary mobility. Traditional tortoise shells are essentially rigid domes – excellent for withstanding compressive forces but severely limiting movement. The pancake tortoise evolved something completely different: a flexible, articulated system that could compress, bend, and conform whilst still providing essential protection.

The key innovation lies in the microstructure. Where conventional tortoise shells develop solid bone plates, the pancake tortoise maintains large fenestrations – essentially engineered voids – covered only by keratin and connective tissue. This creates what modern engineers might recognise as a sandwich composite structure with strategic perforations. The load-bearing cortices handle compression and tension, whilst the porous middle layer provides damping and energy absorption whilst dramatically reducing weight.

If I were collaborating with materials scientists today, I would be absolutely thrilled to explore bio-inspired applications. Consider the engineering principles we documented: the pancake tortoise can compress its vertical profile by up to 35% without structural damage – imagine applying that to flexible armour systems that need to conform to complex geometries whilst maintaining protective capability.

The hierarchical structure we observed would be particularly relevant for contemporary protective materials. The shell demonstrates multiple levels of flexibility: macro-scale articulation between plates, meso-scale flexibility within individual plates through the fenestration pattern, and micro-scale energy absorption through the porous bone structure. Modern manufacturing techniques – particularly 3D printing and advanced composite fabrication – could replicate these multi-scale design principles.

I’m particularly intrigued by your work with adaptive materials, Chunyan. The pancake tortoise’s shell isn’t just passively flexible – it demonstrates what we might call “programmable deformation.” Under light loads, the shell remains relatively rigid for normal protection. But under extreme compressive forces – such as when squeezing into rock crevices – it undergoes controlled, reversible deformation that allows the animal to access spaces barely larger than its body diameter.

The key insight from my research was understanding the trade-offs involved. The pancake tortoise sacrifices some ultimate strength for dramatically enhanced adaptability. In engineering terms, it optimises for specific loading scenarios rather than maximum resistance. This suggests applications in protective systems that need to handle diverse threat profiles – perhaps body armour that remains lightweight and flexible for mobility but can rapidly stiffen under impact.

Working with modern materials scientists, I would have been eager to explore how the biological principles we documented could inform smart materials development. The pancake tortoise’s shell responds dynamically to applied forces – the fenestrated structure allows controlled deformation under pressure whilst the intact cortices provide structural integrity. That’s essentially a biological version of what you modern engineers call “auxetic materials” – structures that become thicker perpendicular to the applied force.

I suspect the most promising applications would involve protective systems that need to balance multiple conflicting requirements: flexibility for normal operation, protection against impact threats, and weight constraints. Military applications certainly, but also industrial safety equipment, sports protection, even architectural applications where structures need to adapt to varying environmental loads whilst maintaining protective function.

The biological inspiration suggests designs that incorporate strategic weakening – controlled failure points that allow benign deformation under specific loading conditions whilst maintaining structural integrity under others. The pancake tortoise’s fenestrations essentially represent engineered stress concentrations that enable predictable, beneficial deformation patterns.

But I must emphasise something crucial, Chunyan: the biological system succeeds because it’s optimised for the specific environment and threats the pancake tortoise actually faces. Any engineering application would need to carefully consider the actual performance requirements rather than simply copying the biological structure. The beauty of bio-inspiration lies not in direct mimicry but in understanding the underlying design principles and applying them to human challenges.

If I were working today, I would advocate for what we might call “functional biomimetics” – understanding not just how biological structures work, but why they evolved those specific solutions. The pancake tortoise’s shell represents millions of years of evolutionary optimisation for a very specific set of constraints. Modern materials science has the tools to apply those same optimisation principles to completely different applications – that’s where the real innovation potential lies.

Imagine flexible armour systems that could protect against ballistic threats when rigid but allow normal human movement when relaxed. Or architectural materials that could absorb seismic energy through controlled deformation whilst maintaining structural integrity. The pancake tortoise’s approach to balancing protection and mobility could revolutionise how we think about adaptive protective systems entirely.

That integration of biological understanding with engineering application – that’s where the most exciting discoveries await, don’t you think?

Reflection

Sitting with Joan Beauchamp Procter in the shadow of the reptile house she designed, I’m struck by the profound disconnect between her actual contributions to science and how history has chosen to remember – or forget – her work. Through our conversation, what emerges is not the quaint story of a woman with an unusual hobby, but the portrait of a rigorous scientist whose innovations anticipated modern conservation biology by nearly a century.

Her emphasis on systematic observation protocols and “structured behavioural documentation” reveals a methodological sophistication that contradicts dismissive contemporary accounts of her work as mere “feminine intuition.” The detailed technical approaches she described – from her multi-stopwatch timing systems to her symbolic notation for reptilian micro-expressions – demonstrate a level of scientific rigour that was apparently invisible to many of her male colleagues. This invisibility wasn’t accidental; it was a deliberate diminishment of work that didn’t fit conventional academic hierarchies.

Perhaps most significantly, Procter’s integration of animal welfare with scientific research prefigured approaches that wouldn’t become mainstream until decades after her death. Her insistence that stress-free animals provided better scientific data, her recognition that individual personalities affected research outcomes, and her holistic approach to captive management all anticipate contemporary understanding of animal cognition and welfare science. Yet because this work bridged “serious” taxonomy with practical husbandry, it was marginalised as less scholarly – a gendered dismissal that reveals how scientific hierarchies can obscure genuine innovation.

The historical record remains frustratingly incomplete regarding many aspects of her work. Her detailed behavioural logs and breeding records have largely been lost, making it impossible to fully assess the scientific value of her contributions. Some accounts suggest she may have been more collaborative in her innovations than she indicated, particularly regarding the vita-glass technology and reptile house design. The extent to which her close working relationship with Sir Peter Chalmers Mitchell influenced her career trajectory – and the rumours that surrounded it – remain matters of speculation rather than documented fact.

What strikes me most powerfully is how Procter’s interdisciplinary thinking resonates with today’s conservation challenges. Her understanding that individual animal welfare and species conservation are synergistic rather than competing priorities directly addresses current debates about ex-situ breeding programmes. Her anticipation of climate adaptation needs, her recognition of behavioural flexibility as a conservation asset, and her integration of public engagement with rigorous research all speak to contemporary conservation biology’s most pressing concerns.

The questions from our readers revealed the enduring relevance of her work across multiple disciplines. From Lucinda’s interest in observation methodologies to Rodrigo’s genetic conservation questions, from Sui’s concerns about science communication to Marty’s climate crisis scenarios and Chunyan’s biomimetic applications – Joan’s work continues to inspire and inform modern scientific thinking across fields she never could have imagined.

Perhaps most poignantly, her reflection on what she might have accomplished “with more time” serves as a sobering reminder of how many scientific contributions have been truncated by circumstances beyond the researcher’s control. Her death at 34 represents not just a personal tragedy but a significant loss to scientific understanding. How many other Joan Procters have we lost to illness, discrimination, or simple historical neglect?

As we face unprecedented environmental challenges requiring exactly the kind of integrative, welfare-conscious, behaviourally-informed conservation approach that Procter pioneered, her story becomes more than historical curiosity – it becomes a call to recognise and value the kinds of holistic thinking that transcend traditional disciplinary boundaries. Her legacy suggests that the most important scientific innovations often emerge not from pure research in isolation, but from the messy, compassionate intersection of rigorous methodology and genuine care for the subjects of our study.

Joan Beauchamp Procter’s voice reminds us that science advances not through the accumulation of abstract knowledge alone, but through the patient work of individuals who combine intellectual rigour with deep empathy – and who refuse to accept that these qualities are incompatible with serious scientific contribution.

Who have we missed?

This series is all about recovering the voices history left behind – and I’d love your help finding the next one. If there’s a woman in STEM you think deserves to be interviewed in this way – whether a forgotten inventor, unsung technician, or overlooked researcher – please share her story.

Email me at voxmeditantis@gmail.com or leave a comment below with your suggestion – even just a name is a great start. Let’s keep uncovering the women who shaped science and innovation, one conversation at a time.

Editorial Note: This interview is a dramatised reconstruction based on extensive historical research into Joan Beauchamp Procter’s life, work, and scientific contributions. While her documented achievements, methodologies, and innovations are accurately represented, the conversational format and specific responses are imaginative interpretations designed to explore her scientific thinking and legacy. Some technical details and personal reflections have been extrapolated from available historical sources, contemporary accounts, and the broader context of early 20th-century herpetology and zoo science. Readers interested in Joan Procter’s documented life and work are encouraged to consult primary sources and academic histories of London Zoo and early conservation biology.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved. | 🌐 Translate