I am in the middle of another difficult period of change. My transplant is doing poorly. I have an appointment with the transplant service for intake tomorrow. I am deeply humbled and honored to have four people come forward as living donors, and I hope something will work out. I am also in the midst of the third job change in the last two years, and will be without a salaried income for the first time in a long time. I'm prepared for it, but the whole thing is very stressful. I feel threatened in life and in my body. I am safe nowhere.
In the midst of this, I think of ship models. Why would anyone build them? Why do I build them? As I am forced, again, to stare at the near approach of my death, what is the point of assembling plastic toys? They will hardly be a lasting legacy. They are not worthy of being put in a museum, have no historical or intrinsic value, and no special meaning for my family in proportion to the space and maintenance they require. In these senses, ship models are the embodiment of the pointlessness and transience of life. They are plastic mandalas. Of course, except for eating, sleeping and reproduction, one can ask those questions of every activity. Unless we are going to devalue life itself, the apparently aimless activities of every day are the essence of life. So why ship models? Why not planes, or cars? And why models at all?
The simple answer to 'why ships' is that I like them. Something about the simple brutality of purpose and purpose-driven form of a warship appeals to me. They are graceful even as they are deadly. I have a long personal history with ship models. My father and I built a George Washington ICBM submarine model when I was about 6. Of course he did almost everything. He would work in the very early mornings, around 530 or 6 am, and since I was up at that time I would watch. He used liquid styrene cement, and bought a simple set of Testor's primary enamel colors. As a result, everything not left grey on that sub was bright white, green, yellow or blue. No muted, military tones, no gun metal, no flats, no dull coat, none of the myriad of tricks I've learned since. I'm sure if I saw that model today I would think it was primitive, but to the age 6 me it was the most real and perfect model ever.
We built the SS United States in 1967, when he was learning home dialysis in Seattle. He did a much more realistic job on that, and I had that model for years, until it finally broke. He used a razor to scratch clean the lines on the tennis courts, something I thought was amazing. He had been on the ship on its maiden voyage in 1953. I built on my own the USS Long Beach, and then things took off. In 5th through 7th grade I built every commercial plastic ship model available. I was earning money by cutting the lawn, and every 2-3 weeks I could afford one ship. I can recall buying many of them at Kiddie City in Ardmore, PA, and the USS Arizona at the Strawbridge's downtown.
After my father died before 8th grade began, I began building wooden ships. I bought the wood for the first one at Davis's in Narberth one day in the fall. I built a destroyer. US destroyers are named after dead servicemen. I named mine the Theodore T. Tsaltas, after the only person I was close to who had died. That first, primitive, wooden ship answers part of why. I wanted to please my father. He had never approved of any model I ever built, always finding little faults. While this was hurtful it did drive me to try again and harder. I wanted to earn his approval through my eyes, which I have always considered weaker than his because I am less demanding.
I built more than 300 scratch-built, wooden ship models in the next 18 months, all in 1:600 scale out of balsa. I literally filled my entire room with them. I built them in fleets, starting a new fleet when my modeling skills had progressed enough to make my prior efforts look bad. And then I burned them all, one fleet after another. Ultimately I burned every one of them. More on that in a bit.
I turned away from modeling for many years. I was singing and studying, and in college and med school I didn't have room or time. Only when I got married did I make one again, and I reached back for the Revell Arizona model I had made and loved as a child. I did a much better job on it, and it was part of our decor for years, until one day our small son took it down to play with, meaning it got destroyed. Rather than yell at him (he knew he shouldn't have done it) I gave it to him. It sat on his bureau for years, a treasured item, and he in turn has built some marvelous models. Now he builds them professionally as a set designer and constructor.
I learned about resin kits on the internet, and that is wehn modeling life really blossomed. I had never worked with resin and metal, and that was quite a learning experience. I have now been working in CA resin, white metal and brass as well as styrene for 21 years. In that time I have built something like 25 models, although I have only 18. Some I have given away, others tossed out for their flaws. I remain a demanding and critical builder even if I am gentler than my father. My wife has heard plenty of cursing from my model room.
I have given history as a partial answer to why I build models. The real answer, the emotional answer, is they bring me peace. I bring order out of chaos. A box full of apparent plastic and metal junk turns into a ship. It's like cooking, where directions (a recipe) are followed to convert inedible raw ingredients into food. And bringing order out of chaos helps quiet the riot of feelings that live inside me all the time. My burning of my ships is an expression of that emotional chaos, of Eomer shouting 'Death, death, death! Death take us all!' but also singing as he killed.
As an adult, real hell is always near. No need to imagine a lake of fire or see horror movies. Real hell is a letter from the IRS, or a suit, or a call from your boss, or a child in trouble. There is plenty of hell around us all. I don't need to burn anything to see and feel the flames. Models are a chance to bring order and peace, they require concentration and precision, they are a patch of cleanliness in the midst of a chaotic world and a filthy soul. My world, my soul. And I love them for that.
Here are a couple of pictures of what I've built the past few years, my avatars of peace.
Ted
In the midst of this, I think of ship models. Why would anyone build them? Why do I build them? As I am forced, again, to stare at the near approach of my death, what is the point of assembling plastic toys? They will hardly be a lasting legacy. They are not worthy of being put in a museum, have no historical or intrinsic value, and no special meaning for my family in proportion to the space and maintenance they require. In these senses, ship models are the embodiment of the pointlessness and transience of life. They are plastic mandalas. Of course, except for eating, sleeping and reproduction, one can ask those questions of every activity. Unless we are going to devalue life itself, the apparently aimless activities of every day are the essence of life. So why ship models? Why not planes, or cars? And why models at all?
The simple answer to 'why ships' is that I like them. Something about the simple brutality of purpose and purpose-driven form of a warship appeals to me. They are graceful even as they are deadly. I have a long personal history with ship models. My father and I built a George Washington ICBM submarine model when I was about 6. Of course he did almost everything. He would work in the very early mornings, around 530 or 6 am, and since I was up at that time I would watch. He used liquid styrene cement, and bought a simple set of Testor's primary enamel colors. As a result, everything not left grey on that sub was bright white, green, yellow or blue. No muted, military tones, no gun metal, no flats, no dull coat, none of the myriad of tricks I've learned since. I'm sure if I saw that model today I would think it was primitive, but to the age 6 me it was the most real and perfect model ever.
We built the SS United States in 1967, when he was learning home dialysis in Seattle. He did a much more realistic job on that, and I had that model for years, until it finally broke. He used a razor to scratch clean the lines on the tennis courts, something I thought was amazing. He had been on the ship on its maiden voyage in 1953. I built on my own the USS Long Beach, and then things took off. In 5th through 7th grade I built every commercial plastic ship model available. I was earning money by cutting the lawn, and every 2-3 weeks I could afford one ship. I can recall buying many of them at Kiddie City in Ardmore, PA, and the USS Arizona at the Strawbridge's downtown.
After my father died before 8th grade began, I began building wooden ships. I bought the wood for the first one at Davis's in Narberth one day in the fall. I built a destroyer. US destroyers are named after dead servicemen. I named mine the Theodore T. Tsaltas, after the only person I was close to who had died. That first, primitive, wooden ship answers part of why. I wanted to please my father. He had never approved of any model I ever built, always finding little faults. While this was hurtful it did drive me to try again and harder. I wanted to earn his approval through my eyes, which I have always considered weaker than his because I am less demanding.
I built more than 300 scratch-built, wooden ship models in the next 18 months, all in 1:600 scale out of balsa. I literally filled my entire room with them. I built them in fleets, starting a new fleet when my modeling skills had progressed enough to make my prior efforts look bad. And then I burned them all, one fleet after another. Ultimately I burned every one of them. More on that in a bit.
I turned away from modeling for many years. I was singing and studying, and in college and med school I didn't have room or time. Only when I got married did I make one again, and I reached back for the Revell Arizona model I had made and loved as a child. I did a much better job on it, and it was part of our decor for years, until one day our small son took it down to play with, meaning it got destroyed. Rather than yell at him (he knew he shouldn't have done it) I gave it to him. It sat on his bureau for years, a treasured item, and he in turn has built some marvelous models. Now he builds them professionally as a set designer and constructor.
I learned about resin kits on the internet, and that is wehn modeling life really blossomed. I had never worked with resin and metal, and that was quite a learning experience. I have now been working in CA resin, white metal and brass as well as styrene for 21 years. In that time I have built something like 25 models, although I have only 18. Some I have given away, others tossed out for their flaws. I remain a demanding and critical builder even if I am gentler than my father. My wife has heard plenty of cursing from my model room.
I have given history as a partial answer to why I build models. The real answer, the emotional answer, is they bring me peace. I bring order out of chaos. A box full of apparent plastic and metal junk turns into a ship. It's like cooking, where directions (a recipe) are followed to convert inedible raw ingredients into food. And bringing order out of chaos helps quiet the riot of feelings that live inside me all the time. My burning of my ships is an expression of that emotional chaos, of Eomer shouting 'Death, death, death! Death take us all!' but also singing as he killed.
As an adult, real hell is always near. No need to imagine a lake of fire or see horror movies. Real hell is a letter from the IRS, or a suit, or a call from your boss, or a child in trouble. There is plenty of hell around us all. I don't need to burn anything to see and feel the flames. Models are a chance to bring order and peace, they require concentration and precision, they are a patch of cleanliness in the midst of a chaotic world and a filthy soul. My world, my soul. And I love them for that.
Here are a couple of pictures of what I've built the past few years, my avatars of peace.
 |
| Sevastopol |
 |
| USS Utah |
 |
| HMS Tiger |
 |
| SMS Seydlitz |
 |
| HMS Indefatigable |
Ted
Thank you. I now understand your motivation for building models. I’m wondering if the ability to control something when you can’t control your body—something I relate to—is also comforting. Also you seem to appreciate things that are as close to perfection as we can get.
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