Some of the stories I could tell about the Crabtree collection don't belong in print, or anywhere other than in the darker recesses of my senile brain. I will say that I think much of the hype that surrounds those models is justified and much of it isn't.
The workmanship on the best of the Crabtree models (e.g., the Venetian galleass and the French galley) is among the finest I've seen anywhere. The "Armed Brig," as we started calling it back in the early '80s, is no more or less remarkable than any of several hundred others that have been built from the same, utterly inaccurate plans that were published in Mechanix Illustrated back in the 1920s. (They supposedly represented the Continental brig Lexington, and they've been thoroughly discredited.) Crabtree was an extraordinarily talented artisan; he wasn't much of a researcher. (To be fair, few if any ship modelers in those days were.) He also, like any other ship modeler, improved as he gained experience. A close examination of the models makes it pretty clear that some were built decades after others.
In the little book I wrote for the museum (back in 1982, if I remember right) I described the Crabtree collection as "a pioneering effort." I'll stick with that verbiage. In terms of historical accuracy they most emphatically do not represent the state of the art as of 2004 - but to expect them to do so would be unreasonable. In my opinion they should be viewed as fascinating and even inspiring works of art , and manifestations of a most unusual character. So far as the models themselves are concerned, I'll leave it at that.
I will make note of one other point, though. A good bit of the credit for the Crabtree Gallery's reputation belongs to the exhibit designer, Bob Brushwood, and the longtime curator Harold Sniffen. The two of them came up with the idea of displaying the models in a darkened room with dramatic, gold-tinted lighting, and Brushwood figured out how to make it work. The models would be worth looking at under any circumstances, but the lighting makes the gallery.
I recall one illuminating (pardon the expression) incident when I worked on the models, back in the early '80s. That was when we were working on the color photos for the book. Since the models were coming out of the cases anyway, we took the opportunity to do some conservation work on them. (They didn't need much, but the clear creosote that Mrs. Crabtree had applied to them over the years, supposedly as a preservative, had done some damage.) One day I had the Dutch yacht model in the curatorial work room, sitting on a block of foam rubber under ordinary florescent lights. Several staff members stuck their heads in on their way to lunch and asked, "Where'd the model come from?" When I responded, "That's a Crabtree model," they couldn't believe it. The difference, of course, was the lighting.
Whoever the current curator in charge of ship models at that museum is, he or she will have my sympathy when those models come out of their cases - and when they go back in. I particularly remember the dozens of oars on the Venetian galleass. In looking idly at the model in its case I'd sometimes wondered how the oars were attached. When we took the model out of the case I discovered that they weren't. Getting them back into position more-or-less symetrically was an interesting challenge, since only one side of the case could be opened. I remember sitting on a stool with my arms reaching under the model, staring into a mirror that one of the curatorial technicians was holding on the other side of the case. Why Crabtree didn't pin those oars into place is beyond my comprehension.
Enough. Those are the more-or-less good memories. Let's try to forget the others - like the time we found termites in one of the cases....