Best Model Ever

Inevitably, when model folk gather in any quiet venue and begin their habit of sharing tall tales, the subject of great models comes up.  Museums are full of such things—the Museum of Arts and Sciences at Daytona Beach has a dandy model of a Cuban sugar mill—but the discussion rarely aims at huge dioramas, acres of model railroad scenery, or immense models of airplanes or battleships.  The aim of the chatter often, even usually, is to define the very nature of a ‘great’ model.  Tricky stuff, this, the idea that there is some magic elixir that bestows on a scale model the aura of jim-dandy-ism.  Gob-smackery in a jar, as it were.   Okay, okay, I’ll go first:

A decade or so ago I was part of a gathering of large scale model cars at one of our country’s  hoity-toity classic car shows.  Somehow, through chicanery and slight-of-hand promises, the organizers managed to lure Louis Chenot and his famous 1:6 scale Duesenberg.  You probably know the model, a scratch-built, all metal working model.  You might not know that the man who spent ten years building the model was a retired watch-maker with, presumably, time on his hands. (Yuk yuk yuk). After he demonstrated for me the working safety latches on the four doors of the phaeton body (the latches clicked twice, once to latch and a second time to prevent the door from flying open unexpectedly), I asked the great man—in his eighties at the time, and reluctant to suffer fools gladly—I asked him what was the most difficult part of the project.  He gave me some jumble about researching the dimensions and finding a prototype that he could measure, but as he warmed to his subject, he sized me up and took a chance on an actual answer:  The toughest job he had was picking the color, followed closely by the problem of painting the body.  Considering the fact that his straight-eight engine actually ran (as in rotated under its own power and drove the rear wheels through the three-speed transmission) I was impressed with his ability to overlook what must have been considerable stress and strain to give me the answer I was fishing for.  Anyhow, the car and the man were memorable in the best possible way, and both are legends in their own time.  And Mr. Chenot was patient, very, very patient.

At the same show, and part of a contest of sorts, was another model.  This was of a 1:8 scale model of an Indianapolis roadster—a Watson, if memory serves—that nearly missed the show, arriving only hours before the show field opened and our contest began.  We Pocher folk were ensconced in a tent right on the main drag of the classic car field, where we were trodding on the same fairway grass as the big boys.  Needless to say, it was a big day for Pocher guys, and a big day for Yours Truly, and the Watson was, to be fair, an Odd Ball.  Weird.  Strange.  Different.  You probably get the picture.

For some strange reason, when any group of models get together somebody insists that a winner should be picked.  This cannot be rationally explained, but it is surely the fact and, therefore, a fact of life.  Putting me in charge of the judges of this rodeo was just foolishness, but in for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying goes.  The judges had to be knowledgable, and they surely were:  A magazine publisher, a classic car restoration shop owner, and, well, me.  What could go wrong?  I may have been the ringer of the group in that I was the only person among us who had any knowledge of Pocher models, but on the other hand, models have to live among all sorts of people who don’t know the details of their kind, so maybe it made sense to judge a contest of Pochers with ‘disinterested’ judges.  Open minds.  No preconceived ideas.

After a quick pep-talk on looking closely (put on your glasses) and explanations of the models (yes, these guys built these things and yes the doors open but don’t touch anything) we were, as the kids say, locked and loaded.  Off we went.  There were about 20 models to be judged and each of us had a clip board (provided) and a scoring sheet (blank paper).  We wandered around for about half an hour, and then met to discuss our choices.  Here’s the great part of this story.  We decided to have some categories (best paint, best interior, best engine) and of course, Best in Show.  I have to admit, I was worried.  The F40 with its polished-up factory paint job was a hit with one of the judges,  and an abandoned, derelict barn find charmed another, but when it came down to actually selecting the BoS, there was unanimous agreement.  Unfortunately, the Duesenberg was not part of the contest, so it was back to the drawing board.  After that slight delay, the decision was made, and it, too, was unanimous:  The Indy Watson roadster.  Say what?  Go figure. 

 It may have had something to do with the way the model buzzed.  Well, maybe not an actual buzz, but a vibration.  Maybe more of an aura.  It caught your eye the moment you entered the tent.  It drew viewers like sugar draws ants.  It turned out that the builder was a sculptor who had suffered a mishap which had deformed his hands, making it hard for him to grasp anything.  The young man explained that, as a rehabilitation therapy, he decided to try to build a model of a car that a neighbor was working on.  The only tools he had were what he used for sculpting.  No drill press, no lathe, no mill.  Just files and blades.  He hand-built everything on the model.  He carved all of the aluminum fins and details of the engine.  He carved the wood forms for the aluminum body panels.  He formed the body panels.  Paint was, as they say, the least of his worries.

Best model ever?  Who knows.  He had no measurements and worked from photos so there must have been discrepancies. Far as I know, there were no internal engine components.  I know there were no doors.  I also know the model was visually stunning.  To make the point, the model was displayed with a large photo of the prototype suspended behind it.  It showed the car at the same angle.  Lightening in a bottle.  Pretty good for a first-timer.

David Cox