What was the inspiration behind curating this specific collection of miniature ships?
I’ve been at the museum for about four years. One of the things that first struck me was the breadth and depth of our ship collection. It’s a fascinating collection because it covers everything from builders’ models for the construction of full-scale ships to presentation models given to wealthy ship owners to toys that were played with and toys for, shall we say, gentlemen that were pricey and never banged around. It’s a pretty amazing collection.
In the museum world, sometimes when you reconfigure a space, you put some things out on exhibit to fill a space, have it look good, and see people’s response. We put out a selection of about 10 of these little ships and the response was fantastic — the public spent more time in the space with the ships than almost anywhere else. That told me that there would be a lot more interest in that collection, which drove us to develop the exhibit.
I think every kid is amazed by these little models. Every adult is amazed at how they’re put together. Everybody brings something different when they look at these ships and how the exhibit connects to them personally. We went from displaying 10 ships to more than 50. That’s a big jump in size. We brought out the very biggest one that we own, which is a 13-foot model ship. We brought out the big guns, as it were.
Who owned these artifacts before they came to the museum?
The vast majority of them, those that were not builders’ models, ended up with people who were somehow connected to the model. That sounds self-evident, but several of them were built by people as a hobby.
We have a model of a cruise ship that a 12-year-old boy built because he was on that ship. It was a scratch build as opposed to being from a kit. As people pass away, these things are often left to the next generation. It was something important to Mom, Dad, or Uncle Charlie, but the inheritors don’t know what to do with it. That’s often how things come into our possession, which is wonderful. I’m always so appreciative, whether it’s coming from a collector or from the family, that they see that bringing it to a museum is a good thing.
Over the course of my career, I’ve run into people who resent museums because they take things out of the antiques food chain and it never comes out again. I think that’s a little nearsighted. By coming into a public collection, an item can be exhibited. In the case of Small but Mighty, it will be up permanently. This will hopefully inspire generations of collectors.
I mentioned the 13-foot model earlier. This is a model of the USS Indianapolis, a ship built here in Philadelphia which is, of course, why we have the model in our collection. It has an interesting story. The USS Indianapolis was the ship that took the atomic bomb to an air base in the Pacific, where it was then loaded onto one of the two planes to drop on Japan, ending World War II. It was a secret mission, and as a result, the ship was not recorded in the logs as to where it was going or what it was doing. The ship was torpedoed after delivering the bomb and it sank. The men were in the water for some time because the ship was not immediately reported as missing because it had been a top-secret mission. It’s sad to say that this is the biggest single shark attack in recorded history.
I bring this up because if you or your readers are fans of the movie JAWS, they might remember this story from Quint, the grizzled captain of the Orca. He tells the story of being on the USS Indianapolis.
Our model of that ship was built by a guy who was fascinated by it. He built it all from scratch. It’s gigantic. When it fully functioned, it had turrets that turned and lights that went on. He took pictures of the actual ship being constructed and studied it. Now, remember, this was World War II. Military intelligence observed what he was doing and raided his house. They took his cameras, movie projector, and all his pictures. His wife was German and she would send letters back to Europe. The military were concerned that the two of them were spies and that they were spying on the USS Indianapolis to get details to send back to the Nazis. It turned out that was not the case. He was actually very patriotic. He loaned the model out to raise money for the war effort. The model was in The Franklin Institute for a time during the war. Eventually, the family gave it to us, along with letters he wrote to the Navy noting that they gave everything back but the movie projector and that he now had no way to watch his home movies. Their comment back was that they needed it for the war effort. It’s a great story.
How does the museum ensure the preservation of these delicate miniature ships?
It’s a huge challenge and an interesting one. Like anything in the museum world, there’s a whole rainbow of answers to that question.
I was just talking about this with our curator. There is an interesting sort of transformation — and that’s a poor choice of words, but I’ll use it for the moment — that happens the minute an object crosses from the outside world into a museum. It suddenly transforms from the profane to the sacred. I say that jokingly, but it’s kind of true.
Many a time I’ve been in a household where they plunk something down in front of me and its elements are hanging on by a thread, it’s falling apart. The next thing we know, it’s in the museum where we’re holding it with white gloves, and it’s being packed in acid-free material. Is it the same object, or did it somehow undergo this miraculous transformation?
That’s an interesting thing about museums. What we do with objects is really try to ensure their stability. Not too much light or too much heat — it’s really the excesses that are the risk. I have colleagues who would certainly disagree with that statement and say that the object must be within an inch of its life in a climatically controlled space. Few museums exist at that level. In my mind, it’s a matter of keeping objects from extremes, and that is my counsel to collectors. It’s about keeping these items out of extremes, putting things in attics and basements is not the best idea.
The antiques trade loves that story — since Uncle Joe died, it’s been in a box in the basement — but that always makes me feel trepidation. Was it in a mildewed corner and been reduced to a pile of goo? Or, has the box in the basement been in a nice place where it will — to use a phrase in the collecting world — still be mint in box?
Why do you think ships and sailing, especially these historically significant vessels, continue to fascinate generations of children and adults alike?
I think it’s a combination of things.
Without getting too woo-woo, we have an innate connection to the water. It’s a dominant topographic feature of the planet. We can swim in it but not forever. Even the best long-distance swimmer is not going to traverse the Atlantic Ocean. I was always intrigued by the phrase “swimming is the act of not drowning”. I think that’s part of the reason.
I also think it’s that sense, particularly with toys, of envisioning yourself being there. The story of a little toy soldier who gets washed down the drain, sails on the paper boat, and gets eaten by a fish.
In particular with warships, it’s the notion of imagining yourself on that vessel. With pond models, you’re actually sailing it. It vicariously gives you the sense of being on that ship. It’s the imagination that all good toys, and these models, inspire in people.
One of the items in the exhibit is a Märklin battle cruiser. Märklin is the gold standard of toys of its generation. It’s a beautifully made toy, just exquisite. The story goes that it came out of a toy store in Philadelphia where it had been in the window. It was very expensive when it was new. What strikes me when you look at it is that the winding key for the mechanism is very obvious. I think of the model railroad enthusiasts with American Flyer and Lionel — two rails versus three. The three-rail folks say they never see that third rail. I think it’s the same thing with the Märklin — they never see that big, obvious key. They just put themselves on that ship, and what doesn’t seem to fit disappears from their mind, and they’re actually in that moment.
What do you hope people will take away from their time at the exhibit?
The historian in me very much likes when we can get visitors up to the edge of a cliff, and the edge of that cliff is where they step off. It’s a strange metaphor, but hear me out. The metaphor of stepping up to the edge of that cliff is about wanting to learn more. It’s deciding what aspects of what they saw that they want to learn more about. Maybe they will want to dive in and learn the story of the USS Indianapolis. Or, go home and watch JAWS. Maybe it’s that they want to dive into the story of the guy being a suspected spy. Or, maybe it’s that they want to dive into learning how to create a scratch-built model.
We obviously want visitors to have an appreciation for the incredible diversity of these models and their myriad uses — from sitting on a desk to being taken outside to float on a pond or being pulled on wheels across the floor of the parlor in Victorian times — and be intrigued and engaged. But, what I really would like is for the public to walk out of the exhibit having seen something that’s going to make them want to look a little further, dig a little deeper, and engage a little bit more in whatever element intrigued them.
They may not be interested in a model of a tugboat, but they could be fascinated by the story of the Savannah, the first nuclear-powered above-water civilian ship — not a submarine or military ship. That’s a great story to dig deeper into, and when that happens, I think we will have succeeded as an organization.
Learn more about Small but Mighty!: Models, Toys and Miniature Ships at the Independence Seaport Museum.