[GRIZZLEA]

In ultima vreme, v-am indicat de mai multe ori ( in topicul "De pe Net" ), un link catre un editorial care apare lunar in situl "Modeling Madness". Titlul rubricii este "Modeler's Mussings".
Aceste editoriale sunt scrise de un nene, Lee Kolosna, care pe langa talentul lui modelistic (este in principal avionist pasoptist), Overlordul l-a daruit si cu un mare har de a asterne pe hartie multe din gandurile care mai mult sau mai putin subconstient, ne bantuie si ne framanta pe noi toti.
Sunt ani de zile de-acum, de cand citesc cu mare interes scrierile lui si recunosc ca astept intotdeauna cu nerabdare pe "cel proaspat".
Pana la urma, adevarul este ca acest hobby nu ne face doar o turma de lipitori si asamblatori de "jucarele"... Dincolo de asta a creat in noi si cu noi, o lume aparte paralela cu "realitatea" fiecaruia si de multe ori "etansa" fata de aceasta. Poate... o lume mai buna, pe care fiecare din noi cu sufletele noastre de copii mai mult sau mai putin "necrescuti", incercam sa ne-o creeam si sa SOCIALIZAM in ea !
Deci, aceasta lume a noastra "virtuala" sau nu, si-a dezvoltat propriile ei probleme, concepte, interdependente si teoretizari... Iar acest grozav nene Kolosna este fermecator prin faptul ca le da glas cu atat de multa dedicatie si naturalete. De cele mai multe ori, citesc in scrierile lui multe din gandurile mele... poate inca nearticulate...

M-am gandit ca poate v-ar interesa si pe voi, fratiorilor, aceste scrieri. Problema este ca in respectivul site, nu exista o arhiva cu editorialele vechi. Se pastreaza timp de o luna doar cel curent, apoi este inlocuit de cel proaspat.
Am mai gasit pe la mine prin PC, salvate inca patru mai vechi pe care vi le adaug mai jos. Daca interesul vostru va fi suficient de mare, va promit ca am sa caut un vechi CD ratacit, pe care mai am cu siguranta inca 15-20.

Sper ca va fi si pentru voi o lectura instructiva si placuta.
Io cred ca tot ce imbogateste si inobileaza acest hobby, nu poate sa fie decat binevenit pentru noi !

[GRIZZLEA]

Likes and Dislikes



The first time, back in 1979, I heard the song “Rock Lobster” by the B-52s, I thought it was one of the stupidest songs I had ever heard, right up there with “Afternoon Delight”, “Muscrat Love”, and “The Night Chicago Died” for sheer idiocy and rank amateurism. Twenty-five years later, I hear the song and think how brilliant it is in regards to beat, chord progression, instrumentation, and lyrics obviously dumbed down by smart people. Much like the best of the great works done by the guys of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, the inanity comes from an intelligence purposely poking fun of itself and all other works in the genre. It’s great because it is so dumb, but in a very clever way.

Of course, there are many who are reading this right now that will instantly say, “I hate that song.” Fair enough – it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. Fortunately for the world, we all don't share the same tastes in food, music, art, and yes, scale modeling. After all, variety is the spice of life.

One thing that always fascinates me is the process involved in choosing a subject to build. I know lots of modelers who absolutely detest modern military aircraft. “Boring gray jets” they will say, as they build yet another P-51 or Spitfire. I don't know why the talk is so often vitriolic – it’s just an airplane for goodness' sake, but there seems to be some sense of aesthetic outrage that is instilled by just the mere sight of an F-15. I know that Bf 109 aficionados point to the variety of camouflage paint jobs that the aircraft wore as one of the main reasons for its popularity with modelers, but I would argue that the F-104 Starfighter, in all its service with various air forces of many different nations, shows a similar variety of paint schemes. Yet many Bf 109 modelers wouldn't be caught dead building an F-104 model, and vice versa. It’s not really a big deal, I just find it interesting how personal taste, for whatever reason, evokes such a strong reaction.

I cheerfully admit that I possess unreasonable biases about certain airplanes just like everyone else. While I deeply respect modelers that build World War I aircraft, the aircraft themselves don't spark my interest. I might have built one such model in my entire life, a deHavilland DH.2. Similarly, I don't share the automatic lust that seems to affect so many modelers with World War II Luftwaffe subjects. I have nothing against them per se, it’s just that given the choice to build a model of an F-86 or a Fw 190, the Sabre is going to win every time. I also have strange likes and dislikes even within similar types. I love early US jets, but am lukewarm regarding early British jets like the Meteor or Vampire. I don't know why that is. Funnily enough, I love the EE Lightning and think the Vulcan is pretty cool, too.

I've built several F4U Corsair models in my career, but to be truthful, I'd rather build a Hellcat instead. Nothing personal against them -- it’s just that I don't share what is often a fanatical lust by some modelers for the type. What also surprises me is my disinterest in some aircraft that I should, given my taste in similar aircraft, should positively adore. One of those is the A-1 Skyraider. I don't why it is, but the airplane just leaves me cold.

There have been times when just building a model of an airplane will turn my head around 180 degrees. I like US bombers, but for a long time I didn't like the B-25. Again, it was an irrational attitude to have, but I just didn't. I finally got a chance to build an old Monogram B-25H kit and it totally changed my outlook for the better towards the Mitchell. The same thing is true for the F-16 Fighting Falcon. I never really cared for it, even though I'd seen them dozens of times performing at airshows. I was once given a model kit of an F-16 to build by my young son as a Father’s Day present, so I had to build it to let him know how much I appreciated his gift. I gritted my teeth as I started, but after a little while I began to enjoy myself and soon came to appreciate the capabilities of this amazing little jet. I now go to airshows and look forward to crawling all around the Vipers and seeing them zoom around in the air. The F-16 has become my “Rock Lobster”. Perhaps I should break down and build a Skyraider and see if the same thing happens with that airplane.

What I find interesting though is the fact that while my attitude changed when I built the F-16, similar experiences with building Corsairs or Bf 109s have not resulted in a similar turnaround in affection. Again, I don't know why this is, but then again I intensely dislike Brussel Sprouts and I ate them endlessly when I was a kid because my mother insisted they were “good for me”. I still hate them and will refuse to eat them on general principle now that I am an adult and don't have my mother hovering over me.

So, what do I know that I unquestionably love? I thought that the B-17 and P-47 were my two favorite propeller-driven aircraft, but recent experiences building P-38 models have been absolutely delightful. It may very well be that the P-38 Lightning has jumped to the top of my list of all-time favorite aircraft. As far at jet-powered subjects, my love for the F-4 Phantom is well documented, and it started the very first day I was treated to a demonstration of the aircraft by the Thunderbirds. It is an appreciation for the type that has never dimmed, even after thirty years.

I'm constantly amazed at how many different aircraft types have been created over the hundred years that mankind has taken to the air. I'm also fascinated how the majority of modelers tend to gravitate towards military subjects, and within that grouping a few World War II era fighters command the lion’s share of modelers’ devotion. We are fortunate in having so much variety, as well as so much repetition. We have multiples of popular subjects like Spitfires, Mustangs, and Zeros in many scales and from different manufacturers. That our interest in these subjects never seems to wane is a testament to the strength of our attraction and the desire to reproduce in miniature over and over and over again. We are also blessed to have kits of oddballs like Skynights and Wyverns and Uhus.

We build what we build because we choose to. It’s that simple. As Fred Schneider, lead singer of the B-52s so wisely sang:

We were at the beach
Everybody had matching towels
Somebody went under a dock
And there they saw a rock

It wasn't a rock -- it was a rock lobster!

Lee Kolosna

Aceasta postare a fost editata de DRAGOS: 04 September 2006 - 09:45 AM

[GRIZZLEA]

Language



As a boy, while most of my peers were reading Hardy Boy mysteries, I was reading paperback books with titles like, “Greatest Fighter Missions” and “The Luftwaffe War Diaries” and “The Long Arm of America”. Even at a young age, my model geek underpinnings were starting to develop in earnest. I loved reading the adventures of brave men in aerial combat. The interesting thing about those books was the over-excited comic-book style of prose, with breathless descriptions of how the ace pilot

…kicked the left rudder pedal as he wheeled his massive Corsair around to bring the crosshairs of his gunsight on the fleeing Japanese Zero. Streams of hot lead belched from his guns as he watched dozens of small explosions pepper the side of the doomed fighter. The next instant, a huge fireball ensued as the wreckage plunged into the sea, with no signs of a parachute. Score another victory for the US Navy!

This ten-year-old sure ate that stuff up. But one thing I had trouble with is pronouncing the names of all those Pacific battled sites: Peleliu, Lae, Leyte, Ie Shima. The one that gave me the most fits was Guadalcanal. Try as I might, I couldn't imagine how it was properly pronounced, eventually ending up with an internal compromise something along the lines of ga-GAN-shu-all. It stayed that way for years, until one day I asked my mother, who was a school teacher, how to say it. GWAD-al-can-al, she said. I thought about that for days, wondering how I had gotten it so wrong.

It’s something that stays with me today – a keen awareness that I'm not pronouncing something correctly. I see it happen all the time in the modeling community, and it takes many forms beyond the usual DEE-kal versus deck-als controversy. We modelers mispronounce and mislabel a lot of stuff, it seems.

First, for all of our worldliness, we have a hard time pronouncing the names of the manufacturers who supply the products we all love. I'm still not sure how to properly pronounce Italeri, despite seeing raging debates back and forth on forums. Tamiya is another one, surprisingly enough. We Americans almost universally say Ta-MEE-ya, whereas in Japanese it is properly tah-mee-ya, with no accent on any of the syllables. The same is true with other Japanese manufacturers like Hasegawa (which most modelers get right) and Nichimo, which most modelers get wrong. Ni-CHEE-mo, is not correct, whereas ni-chee-mo is.

Modelers have their own vocabulary unique to the hobby. An example is the relatively recent practice of referring to an aircraft by its plane-in-group number, such as “Black Six” when describing the restored Bf 109 that took to the air a few years ago at Duxford and crash-landed on its last flight. Nobody else in the world refers to an airplane in this manner, including pilots and ground crewmen. But it kind of makes sense that we do, as we modelers are notoriously obsessed with color.

We modelers also love to refer to airplanes by their nicknames. The one that amuses me is the almost universal term of “Jug” to denote the P-47 Thunderbolt. It’s unclear whether this term came about because of the resemblance of the fuselage shape to a milk jug, or an abbreviation of the word juggernaut. In either case, modelers use Jug affectionately, and snicker at the mammary connotation of the word. But the truth is that the people that flew the big fighter during the war referred to the aircraft either as a P-47, or less commonly, as a Thunderbolt. Boring as it is, that is almost always the case for every other aircraft flown during the war. Ask a P-38 pilot what he flew, and he will tell you he flew “a P-38”. Usually not a “Lightning”, and for heaven’s sake, never “The Fork-tailed Devil”. And despite fanciful assertions by aviation writers such as Martin Caidin, the Germans never called a P-38 anything other than a P-38, either.

It’s a little less formal with modern aircraft, however, as most of the current aircraft have well-established unofficial nicknames, such as BUFF for B-52s, Viper for F-16s, Warthog for A-10s, and so on. But again, a pilot or crew chief, when asked what aircraft he is associated with, will ninety-nine times out of a hundred refer to the aircraft by its official designation: F-15, F-4, etc, There’s no real harm for modelers to adapt to the lingo though. It makes us feel kind of with it, even though most of the aviation community views modelers in the same light as the comic book store owner from The Simpsons. Worst episode, ever….

Speaking of Bf 109s, German aircraft in particular are the subject of more modeling lingo. We all know the Me versus Bf controversy, but we mangle it even further by pronouncing each letter individually. I've quizzed a number of ex-Luftwaffe pilots about this. For the record, when they spoke of the Bf 109, they called it a “Messerschmitt”. Or, the longer version would be the “Messerschmitt One Hundred Nine”. Not “one-oh-nine” like we modelers like to say. If they shortened the response, it would be “Messerschmitt hundred nine”, or even shorter, the “Me (pronounced May) hundred nine”. A Ju 87 would be called a “Junkers Eighty Seven”, not, as we modelers often do, a Jay You Eighty Seven. For some reason though, the Me 262 was referred to as the Messerschmitt Two-Six-Two, even by Germans. There are theories as to why this way rather than the more formal Two Hundred Sixty Two, but it remains a quirk.

We modelers also like to refer to the Bf 109F as a Friedrich, the Bf 109G as a Gustav, the Fw 190D as a Dora, and so on. I'm afraid we’re kind of alone there, too.

We modelers mangle the Japanese Ki as well, pronouncing it “Kay Eye”, instead of the proper “kee”. At least modelers are starting to get more accurate with our realization that not all Japanese fighters were Zeros, and that the American recognition names (Jack, Frank, Sally, etc.) are starting to fade slowly away as we become more correction in our references.

In the end, our mispronunciations are harmless, really. Mr. Tamiya-san politely corrects modelers when they mispronounce his name, and even P-47 veteran pilots now routinely use the word Jug when referring to their former mounts. I suppose the vernacular makes us all a little bit closer, as we share in the lingo and blather on about Mudhens, SLUFs, and one-oh-nines.


Lee Kolosna

[GRIZZLEA]

Easy Kits


Some of my buddies have accused me of being a modeling masochist, mostly because of my tendency to build kits that were first released in the 1970s and 80s. I certainly don't consider myself a self-flagellator, as there are thousands modelers much braver than me who build only obscure limited run resin kits, or early FROG and Airfix kits, or even worse: vacuforms. Those are the guys that are the true masochists. I've been slogging away for the past few months on a Koster conversion of that backdates a Monogram B-17G into an early B-17C. Halfway through the project, I realized that I had lost the desire to continue – an admission that I'm not having much fun anymore. The vacuformed clear parts (and there are many on a B-17C) failed to integrate smoothly with the Monogram parts no matter how much I filled, sanded, and polished. I suppose I could just press on ahead and finish the model, but my pride won't let me make a model that I know will turn out so poorly. Perhaps if I put it away for a few months, I might return with newfound enthusiasm. We'll see.

Anyway, after building a Hasegawa B-47, a Monogram P-61, and an AMT/ERTL XB-35, all of which can be described as challenging, a friend of mine begged me to build a more modern kit as a way to cool down from those difficult projects. It is, after all, a part of the modeling conventional wisdom that building a wunderkit from Tamiya or Hasegawa is an enjoyable and relaxing pursuit, particularly when engaged just after completing a long and arduous project. These new “box shaker” kits are so easy to build that they practically fall together, or so the wisdom goes.

Like most modelers, I've been seduced by this notion and have a closet full of these kinds of kits, saving them for the modeling equivalent of a rainy day. But that day never seems to come, as more often as not I end up selecting an older Monogram kit to start building. I've never planned on it being that way, but I find my interest in subjects has best been covered by the Monogram catalog over the years. It’s a brand that I've been comfortable building ever since I was a kid. So I do get to relax a bit, even if I know the fit will be iffy, the panel lines will be raised, and that I'll need to do a lot of work sanding prominent seams. It’s happened with every Monogram kit that I've ever worked on in the past, so I don't get upset when I encounter it. To me, it’s just part of the routine.

My friend’s exhortations made me realize that I had never built a Tamiya 1/48 scale aircraft kit before in my modeling career, so I succumbed to curiosity and selected the newly-released P-47D Thunderbolt as my initiation into the world of box shaker kits. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. It was an easy choice because I like the P-47 a lot. I have a ton of references which I could use, and I had in mind a set of markings for an aircraft that was flown by a gentleman who lives in a nearby town that I've had the pleasure of meeting several times. His bubbletop T-Bolt was natural metal with a few black stripes on the empennage and D-Day stripes on the wings and fuselage, so it should have been fairly easy to paint, too. Armed with custom-made decals for the nose art and mission markings, excellent photos of the exact airplane, and a pretty good knowledge of the subject, I was ready to tackle the project that people swore to me would take about five days, tops.

I know that you are thinking where this is going – that I began to build the kit and ran into huge problems -- but that wasn't the case. For the most part, the kit building process was straightforward and uneventful. Oh, I had to fill some seams around the rear fuselage insert and the wing root had a small step that had to be whittled down, but that didn't take too long. Mind you, I didn't use nearly as much filler as I do for a typical Monogram kit, but the Tamiya model still needed a little help in a number of places. It appears that they are human, after all.

Painting the natural metal finish took a while to complete, and the D-Day stripes were quite the pain as they always are. This particular airplane had the topmost stripes painted over with Olive Drab after the order to eliminate them came down to all the fighter groups in August 1944, so my carefully applied striping was muted to near imperceptibility with the over-paint. I left just a hint of the stripes showing through which made for a convincing effect that I was pleased with. I fussed around quite a bit to get the stripes to conform to a thin border of unpainted aluminum that surrounds the fuselage insignia. It took a lot of time to get the spacing correct.

It took me about two months to finish my Tamiya P-47D, and I am very happy with how it turned out. I didn't think that five days promise was realistic anyhow, particularly with my slow and methodical building habits. I did enjoy how nicely the fiddly bits snapped together with precision and the cockpit detail was very impressive right out of the box. I think my friends are a little disappointed that I didn't experience some kind of epiphany when building the kit, though. At no time did I suddenly leap up from my modeling bench and shout, “Eureka!” Neither did I decide to dump every one of the older kits in my collection and replace them with state-of-the-art wunderkits. I mean, the Tamiya kit was nice and all, but in the end it just came across as a relatively hassle-free project. Was it especially relaxing? No, not really. I obsessed over every little thing like I always do, and I would definitely fair in the windscreen if I were to do it over again. But never did I say to myself, “Wow, so this is what I have been missing!”

This recent experience makes me wonder, though. I know a number of modelers, both in person and on-line, that seem to be slaves to the Tamiya catalog. There appears to be a near obsession with the brand. You see it often in those “What kit do you want to see next?” polls. Inevitably, there will be a bunch of responses from people that want to see Tamiya do a new-tool edition of something that is already available (and perfectly acceptable) from another manufacturer, like an F-100 or a P-38. If such a kit were made by Tamiya, we could reasonably expect that it would fit together beautifully and have really nice detail. But would it be insanely better than what we have now? I suspect the answer is no.

I’ve been a longtime proponent of subject-oriented modeling, rather than kit-oriented modeling. In other words, I believe that a modeler should choose to build a kit of something that interests him, rather than build a kit just because it happens to be the newest thing or because it fits great. For the most part, Tamiya’s aircraft kit catalog doesn’t intersect with my personal interests. Hence the reason for me thrashing together a Monogram F-80 or B-26 over say, a F4U-1/2 or a Dewoitine D.520. Nothing against the latter two airplanes, but my interest in them is not high.

If Tamiya or Hasegawa make kits that appeal to you, then go for it. But please, don't limit yourself to their marketing decisions. There’s a great big modeling world out there of kits in abundance, even if they all don't fit together with the precision of a Swiss watch. I believe that you'll feel a lot more personal satisfaction when you’re done building a kit of a subject that really interests you, even if the job was long and hard.


Lee Kolosna

[GRIZZLEA]

Trophy Hogs


I make it a point to attend one or two model contests every year. I almost always agree to be a judge, mostly because I've been on the other side of the fence and understand the urgent need for volunteers to help the hosting club put on a successful contest. I actually like judging because it allows me to spend a lot of quality time with the models themselves, which for me, is the highlight of every show. I don't personally have much interest in the raffle or the vendors, but that’s just me. I like hanging around the models and admiring other people’s work. Being a judge allows me to be up close and personal with a variety of beautiful models, which I think is just great.

Over the years, I've developed a feel for individual modelers’ styles. If you spend enough time going to contests in a certain region, you'll quickly learn who the good modelers are and where their personal interests lie. It’s gotten to the point where I can scan a model table and instantly recognize about half the models on the table and who built them. “Oh, there’s another Hellcat by Joe, and there’s two more P-51s from Frank,” I'll say. Occasionally I'll be wrong, but more often than not I know who built the model, even when the club has taken reasonable precautions to hide the identity of the entrant. You pick up on certain aspects of their modeling style. It could be subject matter – there are guys that in love with certain airplanes, and there are those that model only certain genres or time periods. Some modelers are easy to recognize because they put all their models on a particular kind of base, sometimes with plaque and pilot figure and elaborate graphics. For others, it is pure craftsmanship, such as a smoothness of paint application that is unmatched by others, or a clarity and crispness of their canopies that stand out from all the other models on the table. You know their work instantly when you see it.

I know that judges are supposed to be impartial, and I have to say that every judging team I've ever been one has been nothing but professional in their approach to the task. Even if we already know who the modeler is, we give it our best objective assessment and render a decision within the framework of the rules.

One thing that always strikes me as amusing is seeing the same models over and over again. You tend to remember a model after you judge it, so it’s pretty easy to spot it when you confront it a second or third time. I understand how this happens, as competitive modelers are pretty small in number and there are only so many contests that occur in a geographical region. A typical contestant will take a recently built model and shop it around for a while. Despite the best attempts at making judging consistent from contest to contest, there is still a lot of variability in results. Influencing factors on what wins a trophy includes the overall quality of the models that have been entered on a given day, how the categories have been defined, and the composition of the judging team. A friend of mine who is an outstanding modeler and has won all the way to the national level once explained to me his philosophy for entering a model. He enters recently built models in local contests and will continue to do so until they win some kind of award. It doesn't matter if it is first, second, or third place. Once it wins, the model is retired from local contests and is held in reserve until the annual regional contest, where it is entered again. If it wins at the regional, it will be retired and possibly considered for entry in the national contest if one is held near enough to his home. But a win at a regional typically means the model is no longer entered in any competitions and is put out to pasture on his display shelves. This seems like a very reasonable policy to me.

I was judging at a local contest last year and was a member of a team that evaluated the helicopter category. The second I laid eyes on the entries, I saw a model that I remembered very well, only it wasn't from a recent contest. It was from a regional contest that my club hosted six years prior. This helicopter was very nicely done, and was awarded accordingly at our regional with a first place in the category, best airplane model, and best of show. Yet here it was again, over half a decade later, entered in a fairly small local contest. I knew instantly who the builder was. I also knew that he builds many models each year at an equally high quality level and attends every contest he can. He always goes home with an armful of trophies, sometimes a dozen or more. He is that good, and a heck of a nice guy to boot. But I had to come to a sudden and disappointing conclusion: this guy, nice as he is, is nothing but a trophy hog.

We all know of this mythical beast. The trophy hog is an animal that lives for the vicarious thrill of winning at model contests. They pick model kits for ease of construction, fidelity of detail, and without known trouble spots that would result in it losing points in a contest. They have been known to show up at a contest, survey the entries, recognize a category that is sparsely populated, quickly run back home and pick up a model from their collection and bring it back just to enter for the express purpose of winning yet another trophy. They take previous winners, some at extremely high levels, and enter them again and again over a span of many years.

Exaggeration? Perhaps. But all of the above is documented behavior, and I have now seen it with my own eyes. I didn't become indignant when I recognized the helicopter, as how other people get their jollies with models is not really my concern. It did make me think, though, of the mindset that goes behind it. The modeler who built the helicopter, as I stated before, is extremely good. He wins with just about everything he enters. But is he so insecure that he has to bring out an oldie-but-moldy model just to satisfy his cravings for gratification? Is this what the contest experience has become for him, a reinforcement of his prowess, both past and present? If so, I find it kind of sad.

At its most noble purpose, a contest is supposed to be a demonstration of skill and artistry that recognizes those models that best approach the ideal. It is supposed to inspire a modeler and make them strive to improve their workmanship. If they don't win at first, they continue to gain experience and learn what it takes to do so and hopefully incorporate it into their future modeling projects. I've seen that occur on a number of occasions, and I can say that it has happened to me as well. I now place considerable emphasis on basic construction, invisible seams, perfect alignment, smooth paint jobs, and non-silvered decals whenever I build a model. I don't always achieve that by any means, but I do think I'm a better modeler because of the experience. I do however categorically reject the notion of picking a subject because of how I feel it will do in a contest. I choose to build whatever catches my eye, and I don't build the latest box-shaker kit, either. If my model wins at a contest, it wins. If not, no big deal. And if it wins something at a local show, it gets retired from competition until the next level. I'm certainly not in it for the trophies to hang on the “I love me” wall. In fact, all my trophies go into a box in an attic, never to be seen again unless I happen to need a convenient base for a small diorama or vignette.

Human behavior is a fascinating thing to observe. Model competition certainly brings a lot of different types into play. For the most part, people are respectful but still enthusiastic about their contest experiences. But for a small minority, proving one’s ability in scale modeling becomes a nail-biting affair that can only be vilified by public declaration of superiority. Anything less is viewed as a failure. I've seen modelers storm out of the contest room when they have felt their models to be judged unfairly, write angry posts to public forums about “home cooking” and bias, and I once had to break up an ugly exchange between a contestant and a judge that had nearly degenerated to fisticuffs. All because of plastic models!

I end this piece by imploring all competitive modelers to use a little common sense when it comes to attending and participating in contests. Bring recent builds, enjoy the camaraderie of other modelers, and let the chips fall where they may when the results are announced. A contest is supposed to be fun, not a life-or-death struggle for supremacy. If one of your models wins something, do everyone else a favor and retire it. Don't schlep it around for years in hopes that one day it will achieve the results that you think it deserves, or worse – to keep winning the same award again and again. Let others have a shot at the trophy, and enjoy the event for what it is supposed to be: fun.


Lee Kolosna

[niki]

Salut, Dragos!
Am citit cu mare placere cele patru editoriale.
Te rog, cauta-le si pe celelalte pe care zici ca le mai ai si pune-le tot aici, tot sub forma de postari daca poti.
Multumesc si... multumesc !

[Robotzel]

http://web.archive.org/web/*/http://modeli...com/musings.htm

[GRIZZLEA]

Multumesc, frate Robotzel, esti un vrajitor !
M-ai scapat de multa bataie de cap si mi-ai facut mare placere.
Pacat ca nu sunt toate...

[Blue-Max]

Nici n-a inceput anu' ca nea' Kolosna o zice iarasi la marele fix !!


Work



The model club that I’ve belonged to for the past ten years is a small one. We have about twenty or so members who show up regularly for each monthly meeting. A tradition that we have at the December meeting is to bring in every model that we have built in the past calendar year. It’s a nice way to review the year’s accomplishments and it also provides a mini-model show for everyone to admire. I always enjoy this meeting as people are filled with festive holiday spirit and do little else than talk about models.


One thing that always strikes me, though, is that only about half of our members actually finished a model in the past year. Think about it: this is a model club, with people passionate enough about the hobby to join, get in their cars each month and travel not inconsiderable distances to go meet others that share their same interests. And yet, half of them didn’t build one single model over a year’s time. Not one!


How can this be? Oh, there are the usual explanations: we’re all too busy with families, careers, and other obligations to allow us enough time to build a model. That’s certainly a legitimate influence. There is also the space issue – people move to new houses and apartments and haven’t been able to setup their workbenches. But over a year, one can’t find a couple dozen hours of time in which to complete a model? How much of that year’s time was spent watching mindless TV shows on the idiot box? I suspect it might add up to hundreds, if not thousands of hours. “Dancing with the Stars” rather than a nice P-51 on the display shelf? Really?


So what gives? Why do so many self-professed modelers so rarely model? It is a curious phenomenon. What’s even more interesting about the guys that don’t show anything in December is that a good number of them haven’t built a single model in a decade. They have all the supplies – they still buy kits, aftermarket items, and decals by the handful, and they subscribe to modeling magazines. But damned if they actually ever glue anything together. Amazing!


I’ve thought about this paradox for a long time, trying to understand how it comes to be. Why spend time and energy on collecting, but never actually doing? I don’t know if there is any one answer, but I can say that the idea of modeling not as fun, not as relaxation, not as an outlet for creativity and craftsmanship (which of course, I and many others find modeling to be) is also accompanied by the notion that modeling is work. Work – meaning a methodical and often tedious repetition of tasks that are required to get a model to the completed state.


There’re lots of tasks in modeling that are no fun at all. I don’t think anyone thinks that filling and sanding seams is anything but drudgery. I know that I am not particularly happy about canopy masking. A B-25J that I’m currently working on as a presentation model gives me pause every time I pick it up because I know that very soon all those turrets and greenhouse canopies will need to be meticulously masked and painted, which will mean hours of work. Sometimes tasks like this can be soothing because they are repetitive and one can get into a Zen-like trance while doing it. Wax on, wax off. But more often it’s just something that has to be done and over with.


I know several modelers who are afraid of airbrushes. Sometimes they own several, but the process fills them with such fear that they do everything they can to avoid it, which unfortunately means that no models are built at all. I’ll suggest building single engine models with monochromatic paint schemes that can be applied with spray cans, but they don’t usually take that to heart and instead just collect more kits and never confront their fear of painting. They would never paint the model with a brush, lest they be considered somehow less of a modeler -- which of course is a ridiculous notion, but one that that they nevertheless feel. No, they just don’t build at all. They discuss models enthusiastically, they enjoy looking at other models, yet they themselves never get to really participate. That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?


In previous columns I’ve explored the question of whether modeling is actually fun or not, whatever that means. How does one define what “fun” is? I know that I get a great sense of satisfaction when I complete a model. I only build four or five a year, but that is all I’m looking to complete and I’m satisfied with that leisurely pace. But is it fun? I don’t know. Parts of modeling are fun. I get excited when I get a new kit, just like everyone else. I enjoy fondling plastic and dreaming about paint schemes that I might apply. I like retreating to the throne room with the Squadron flyer and go through the listings looking for bargains. I like taking my box of decals out every once in a while and look though them, savoring the pretty colors and ogling the profile artwork. All of that is certainly fun.


But life isn’t all fun, all the time. Sometimes you have to earn your fun. In college I went to class, studied hard, and did my homework Monday through Friday so that I could go out on the weekend and have fun chasing girls and drinking beer. That was indeed fun, but I knew that if I did it every day, I would be (1) dead after a month, and (2) wasting my life. The fun was a diversion from the real task at hand, which was to get an education and ultimately make a living for myself.


Are those modelers that don’t build models just doing the fun things and skipping all the work? Wow -- that’s an interesting hypothesis. Just do what’s fun and easy – buying kits and supplies, going to club meetings and contests, looking at pretty pictures of models in the magazines, but never actually building anything. Building is work, and therefore not fun. So why do it?


Well, I can’t say that my non-building modeling friends look at it that way. More often than not there’s a regret that’s filled with an apologetic sadness. They really seem to want to build, but something is preventing them from doing so. It could environmental, but it could also be emotional. Emotions based on fear of tedium, or fear of their own lack of skills, or even more disturbingly, fear of failure. That they can’t build a model because they’re afraid that it might not turn out okay. Maybe they’re afraid that others may mock them, or maybe they’re intimidated when they see models superior to what they are capable of producing.


Ultimately it’s sad. Scale modeling is a wonderful hobby, and to not participate is to deny oneself rewards that almost always outweigh the investment. But it is work, and that can’t be avoided if you are to truly encompass the core process. As the bodybuilders like to say, no pain – no gain.


Each year I gently chide the non-builders and say something along of the lines of, “I’d really like to see you to build a model next year. Don’t do anything overly ambitious, but pick a simple kit with a simple scheme of a subject that you really like. Build it out of the box and use the kit markings if you think they are okay.” That will usually elicit a weak smile and just a glimmer of enthusiasm as they contemplate the challenge. But more often than not, the next December those same modelers will arrive empty-handed again.


Well, at least I tried.

Lee Kolosna

[FlyBoy]

Mda....nu e ceva deosebit de rar intalnit nici pe plaiurile noastre !!!

[GRIZZLEA]

Multumesc, fratioare Blue-Max !
Excelent !
Nenea Kolosna, este un MARE NENE, cu adevarat...

[marhaba]

Pe mine cel putin , a inceput sa ma prinda rusinea ...

[cartula]

O sa fac eu onorurile pe luna asta...

Citeaza

Cockpits

            If you read through any of the hundreds of aircraft kit build reviews here on Modeling Madness, you’ll notice that nearly every single one begins with a description of how the builder started the project by painting and assembling the cockpit.  It’s a task that all of us face when we build a model airplane, and it’s one that requires a significant amount of attention.

Things have come a long way regarding the representation of the cockpit in miniature over the past five decades.  The earliest kits had nothing inside except empty space.  That inadequacy led to the creation of pilot figures, or at least the top half of them.  Some kits had a pilot’s shoulders and head molded into one side of the fuselage ala some strange science fiction half-man/half-machine hybrid.  It was fine for the days when a model was more of a toy than a serious replica of the actual aircraft.  As the technology improved, more detail was added to cockpit areas, although it was a laborious evolution.  The first full-body pilot figures were pretty crude, rigidly stuck into unnatural poses of extreme earnestness.  Some of these poor fellows were only wide enough to allow one leg, obviously a sad testament to the effects of radioactive mutation during those wacky early days of the Atomic Era.  Their workspace was a simple yet uncomfortable place, with only a hard flat bench (if they were lucky) to sit on, or more commonly, a couple of pegs growing out the sides of their bodies that plugged into the side of the fuselage.  I guess it’s better than being only a half a man, but there certainly wasn’t much dignity.

In the 1960s we started to get real instrument panels, control sticks, and seats with harnesses molded into them.  One great thing about Monogram models, starting with the P-47 Thunderbolt in 1/48 scale, was the amount of detail that was provided.  It became a hallmark of the brand.  As their release of kits became even more and more audacious, you could always rely on them to provide very nice figures and cockpit details.  The most impressive cockpits came from Monogram’s magical series of World War II US bombers.  From the B-17G Flying Fortress to the B-29 Superfortress, you could count on lots of interesting consoles, instrument panels, machine guns, turret mechanisms, and bombs to outfit your precision model.

The Japanese kit manufacturers were slower to deliver detail, often relying on decals to represent instrument panels.  Only in the last decade have they finally stepped up to the plate and provided jewel-like cockpits that surpass what Monogram was doing twenty and thirty years before.  Airfix too was late to the game.  I was surprised at how rudimentary the cockpit of their otherwise superb EE Lightning kit was.  Even their BAE Hawk kit skimps significantly in this department.

As a kid, I really didn’t care about the cockpit other than the fact that it had to have a pilot in it, because in the great backyard battles that all of my models engaged in, it was important to have someone clearly in control.  I didn’t really want any landing gear, either, and was always disappointed when I had to glue all those fussy landing gear doors in the closed position, inevitably with poor fit and gluey fingerprints as the final result.  I mean, when you’re accelerating to Mach 2.5 to escape a nuclear-tipped missile fired from a tank in the sandbox, who wants the wheels down?

Ah, but I became a more serious modeler as I transitioned to adolescence.  I distinctly remember looking at the models in the first Fine Scale Modeler magazine that I ever saw, and was struck by the way they were presented: the wheels where always down, the canopies were always open, and there were never any pilot figures inside the cockpits.  I decided that if I were to become a “serious” modeler, then I had to build my models in this “serious” way.  Interestingly enough, this method of presentation remains with us today, as the overwhelming amount of models you see built by adult modelers follow that same presentation style.  So, I sadly began leaving my pilot figures out of my models.  A significant number of kits don’t even provide figures anymore, which regrettable in a nostalgic way.  Our models are now lifeless, doomed to a static existence, and never again to be flown in backyard mock dogfights on a sunny afternoon.

The rise of the aftermarket in the 1980s addressed the shortcomings of cockpit detail as well as the inherent shortcomings of the high-pressure injection molding process.  First, there was photo-etched brass -- a truly evil two-dimensional material – that the malevolent designers had you fold in intricate ways to vaguely resemble a three-dimensional object.  I submit that a modeler has never been as enraged as he or she had ever before as when they first tried to fold a miniscule photo-etched scissors linkage to the correct angle and attach it to a landing gear strut with tools totally inappropriate for the task.  Talk about profanity, frustration, and ultimately total and humiliating failure!

Thank the gods for resin.  At least we don’t have to do any more folding.  But there’s no such thing as a free lunch and resin brings its own set of challenges.  The first sets of moldings were quite crude and required a significant amount of cleanup.  But as pattern makers learned more about the alchemy of resin casting by using flexible molds and pressure pots, the quality level is now incredibly high.  This comes, of course, at a price.  The latest resin cockpits are truly works of art, but their individual price is starting to approach that of the entire kit itself.  And as always, the modeler still has to struggle getting the resin to fit into the actual model.  In general this has been getting better, but often one is required to remove the styrene detail and to grind down the fuselage sides until they are paper-thin.

I know a number of excellent modelers who, like many, were taken in with the whole aftermarket scene when it became so hot in the late 90s, but who have since given up on it.  The feeling is that life is too short to spend hours on painting and detailing and accurizing and stuffing resin and photo-etch into the tiny space, only to have it practically ignored when the rest of the model is done.  I’ve kind of come around to that way of thinking myself.  For all the glitz of an aftermarket cockpit, it ends up being a lot of work, and other than an occasional glance or two from myself or other modelers, I find that the cockpit is a very small contributor to the model’s overall impact on a viewer.  The paint scheme, the finish, the markings, and the display base have far more importance.

I’ll still buy aftermarket cockpits for things that cry out for them, like most modern jet models.  Plastic kit ejection seats still lag far behind what is produced by the resin guys.  But often I’ll find that just replacing the seat is enough.  It is the thing that the viewer sees first in a cockpit and catches the eye the most.  Unfortunately, aftermarket offerings of just seats are becoming less common as the more typical offering is a replacement for the entire cockpit.

The emphasis on the cockpit at our level of modeling also draws additional stress on the modeler, as now there are raging debates as to what color to paint the stupid things.  Curse you Dana Bell, for ever bringing this incredibly complicated subject to the forefront of our anxiety list!  Now instead of painting a cockpit in bright apple green (that’s what Monogram’s instructions said, and we all know that they are never wrong), now I have to worry about Interior Green, Bronze Green, Dull Dark Green, Medium Green, Bell Green, Chromate Green, Chromate Yellow, Aluminum lacquer, or a myriad other incarnations of greens, blacks, grays, and silvers.  That’s just for US aircraft.  It gets even more complicated for Japanese subjects.  Even the rigid Germans and British had notable exceptions to the conventional wisdom of RLM 02 or Interior Gray-Green.  Inevitably, somebody will pronounce what the right color is for a particular airplane, and then somebody will challenge then on it, leaving the modeler totally confused.  It is here that I would start to rail against those modelers who are intensely interested in the subject of interior colors if it weren’t for the fact that, you know, I’m sort of one of them.

There’s a set of modelers who revel in cockpit painting.  They’ve been able to develop techniques that render a stunning cockpit.  HyperScale’s Brett Green is one of those people that I greatly admire.  His cockpits have an illusion of dimensionality that mine never seem to, and I give him accolades for doing so.  I have much to learn in the ways of the cockpit painting Force.

I can’t say that I enjoy this task in model building all that much.  When I start to build a kit, I want to make a lot of progress very quickly, as it helps me gather a momentum that keeps me focused on the objective of completing the model in a reasonable amount of time.  But painting a cockpit is a slow, laborious process.  There are a number of paint colors that have to be used, washes to apply, dry-brushing of the highlights, gauge decals to be punched out and laboriously glued onto the instrument panel, and subtle weathering to be done.  It’s a lot of work, and it can only be done with patience and thoroughness with attention to tiny details.  I note with some bemusement those modelers that proudly post pictures of their completed cockpits on modeling forums.  More often than not, you never see that model ever completed.  It’s almost like they expended all their energy getting a killer cockpit done and have nothing left for the rest of the model.

For me, the cockpit is a necessary evil of the hobby.  I’m sad that my days of sticking a sloppily-painted pilot figure onto a flat bench are gone, but that is the same for most of the simple joys of my youth.  I still think that photo-etch is evil incarnate, and that no one yet has produced a realistic way to replicate what real seat belts look like on a real seat.  Hint to everyone in the aftermarket world: they don’t hang down at angles that defy physics and the effects of gravity.  They also aren’t always neatly folded in perfect angles to the edges of the seat.  Go look at some seatbelts on operational airplanes, guys.

As I wrote above, I’m winding down my use of aftermarket items, particularly cockpits.  I see a trend for our hobby in the future, where resin cockpits are going to be supplied with the kits like we now see from the Eastern European manufacturers, Those companies that stick to pure styrene kits will push the envelope and give us better and better stuff, too.  That’s good for us and good for our hobby.  But no matter what the medium, I’ll still have to paint and assemble it, and most likely I’ll be grumbling the whole time.  It’s my right to do so, after all.

[niki]

Keep it comin', guys

[GRIZZLEA]

Nenea Kolosna, ne incanta si luna aceasta... de martisor...

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Display



How many times have I heard this exchange between two modelers as they eye some new kit in a hobby store?



Modeler 1: “Wow, it’s the new 1/24 scale Farley Fruitbat kit!”



Modeler 2: “I’ve always wanted one of those.”



Modeler 1: “But look how big it is – that baby is huge! Where would I put it?”



Modeler 2: “Yeah, it wouldn’t fit on any of my shelves, either.”



Modeler 1: “Well, I gonna get it anyway. Someday I might have a big enough house to display it.”



So Modeler 1, who like most of us is unable to exhibit any kind of self control when it comes to new kit purchases, buys it and sneaks it into the house through the back door while his wife is sleeping. He stuffs it deep inside the closet that contains his model stash, back there with the Monogram B-36, Revel B-1, and Trumpeter F-105 kits, probably never to see the light of day again. It’s another big model, purchased with a wistful dream of building it that unfortunately will never be realized. Years later, after the modeler has moved onto the big Hobby Shop in the Sky, his bereaved family will unceremoniously toss the kit into a dumpster and that will be the end of it.



Sound familiar to you?



When we were young and built models with reckless abandon, we really didn’t care where they would go after we finished them. They usually would be placed on the nightstand next to the bed or on top of the desk in our rooms and stay there for just a short period of time before they were destroyed by a devious sibling or they succumbed to the battle damage incurred during the regular backyard dogfights. Once they reached that stage, their final disposition was more often than not executed in a blaze of glory through a hail of BB gunfire or stuffed to the gills with firecrackers. Life was simpler back then, if a little more violent.



As we got serious about our model building and began to value our models more as objects of creativity than manifestations of juvenile pyromania, we started to display them like pieces of art. We would implore our fathers to mount a bookshelf or two on our bedroom walls where we would lovingly place our latest creation for all to see. There they sat, facing peril only from dust, the family cat, or that most dangerous creature of all: a mother with a feather duster.



For those of us that continued the hobby into our adult years, the display space often became more formal through dedicated pieces of furniture in which to highlight our precious miniatures. Curio cabinets, lighted display cases, built-in bookcases, and fireplace mantles are all employed for the purpose of display, providing that they pass muster from the Home Decoration Committee.



There is often an uneasy truce between the modeler and the rest of the home’s occupants regarding the quantity and placement of built-up models. Inevitably, the number of models built exceeds the allocated space to display them. A dilemma then ensues – where do I put a newly built model? Do I rotate some of the older and probably less well-built models out of the display space to give up a spot for the new model? Do I go buy another cabinet/shelf/bookcase to open up new display space? If so, where do I put that, and will the SWMBO approve? The display issue can also lead to marital strife as an overflow of completed models threaten to consume ever flat surface in the house, ala the way Tribbles procreated and multiplied on Space Station K-7. Every modeler has a different situation, and every modeler has to adapt to the realities in the hope of domestic bliss.



I’ve had modelers actually tell me that they can’t build any more models until they solve their display space problems. I’ve also had modelers tell me that they can’t build a particular model because it’s too big for the little space they have remaining for display, and they therefore deny themselves the opportunity to build a kit that they really would have liked to. Hence we get all those Monogram bomber kits relegated to the bottom of the un-built pile. I think that one of the major reasons that single engine fighter aircraft are so popular is because they tend to be compact and can be more easily scrunched in together on the display shelf when finished. To me that’s kind of sad because we sometimes end with a somewhat monotonous collections of fighter airplanes.



Sometimes creative solutions are employed. I’ve seen basements adorned with hundreds of models hanging down from the ceiling. I’ve seen very large models hung on the wall like a painting by using nylon fishing thread and a hook. It looks a little strange, but it works.



Why do we display our finished models in the first place? Is it to demonstrate our handiwork to others? It is because we just like to look at completed models ourselves? What do our models say about us? Do we like to show how we’ve progressed over time as our skills have improved? Do we like to have themes – jets on one shelf, props on another? What about dioramas – do we want to tell a story with our models? For those modelers that like to compete and win trophies, do the awards themselves also get placed next to the model for all to see and admire? Does that make our models more legitimate?



The answer is probably, to various degrees, all of the above. Our models say something about us. They let others know what our interests are, and how we are capable of transforming that interest into physical representation using our own hands. It also opens us up to either admiration (“Wow – he’s really good”) or ridicule (“He still plays with all these toys”) from others. When the boss comes over for dinner, are the models out in the open for all to see, or are they hidden in a den or spare bedroom that only the closest friends and acquaintances can enter? Are you proud of what you’ve done, or just a little embarrassed? That says a lot about you too, whether your handiwork is something that you’re proud of or something more personal that you’d prefer to keep to yourself. Both are valid positions and are solely up to the modeler to decide.



As for me, I don’t display a single one of my built-up models. Once done they all get put into big plastic storage boxes and are unceremoniously dragged up to the attic. Every once in a while I’ll go up there and look at them, but my philosophy is that modeling is more of a journey than a destination and I enjoy the building process much more than being surrounded by built-ups. But I’m weird that way and acknowledge that my approach is very much in the minority compared to other modelers. I know modelers who have hundreds of models spread out all over the place. That’s fine, too. As a modeler, I enjoy looking at other people’s models, so I always delight at looking at their models on display.



How to display your models is ultimately a personal choice, with no right or wrong answers. The only issues are how to display them, how many to display, and what to do when you finish a new one and there isn’t any more room left. Oh yeah – and hopefully keep your Significant Other happy, too. Woe to the one who forgets that.
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http://modelingmadness.com/musings.htm

[Robotzel]

un articol salvat mai demult, dar care se mentine in actualitate

Mail Order Modeling

It was a sad day. The last hobby store that catered to plastic modelers where I live closed a couple of years ago. There was the initial exuberance of flocking to the store in the weeks leading up to its closure as modelers carted off dozens of kits at fire sale prices. But the day they closed the door for good marked the end of an era. I remember it clearly as the dazed modelers stood around in a little knot and wondered aloud, “What are we going to do now?”

Since then, I have resigned myself to ordering most of my model kits and supplies through the mail. It certainly isn't an optimal situation, but it really isn't all that awful. For me, it gives much more importance to the monthly arrival of the Squadron Mail Order catalog. From the second I come home and find the oddly colored flyer amongst the bills and junk mail, I'm assured of a spending a good thirty minutes of quality time with it. I carefully inspect every single entry in the aircraft section, looking for possible ideas for upcoming kit purchases. It’s definitely not the same as standing in the plastics isle of a well-stocked hobby store, but I still get a little twinge of excitement as I mentally fill in my shopping cart. The listings of the most interest to me are the accessories such as decals, resin, and photo-etch. There is where the bargains typically appear, but it takes some careful attention to the fine print to find them. I've sometimes worked backwards in developing a project: I'll see an old Kendall Model Company resin cockpit for sale at a super low price and decide to get it, even though I don't even have the kit it was intended for. That will lead me to ordering the kit with some decals and the necessary paints to finish it. I'll top it off with a reference book or two to help guide my way. So, a good deal on a discontinued cockpit set for $4.99 will end up being a $50 or $60 transaction when all is said and done. Such is the life of a mail-order modeler.

Ordering paint via the mail can be a drag. It requires a bit of discipline and planning. I have to anticipate my upcoming projects, determine what my current stocks are, and project what colors are going to be needed in the future. Nothing is more irritating than running out of an essential color as I'm racing to finish a model that I've worked on for months. That has happened on more than one occasion with a critical color like Interior Green or a specific shade of metallic paint. Of course, my personal style of building one kit at a time and not starting another one until the previous project is finished contributes to the situation. On one hand it helps with planning, but the whole thing can come to a grinding halt as I wait for a delivery from Squadron or GreatModels for a bottle of some obscure shade of gray.

One great part about mail order modeling is the thrill of seeing a brown UPS truck pull up to the front door. My pulse quickens as the driver rummages through the back to find the package, and then emerges with my present. It’s like Christmas morning, only in July! I try to look nonchalant as I sign for the receipt, fighting the urge to tear open the box right there at the front door. Cooler heads prevail as I slowly carry my precious bounty to an isolated place inside the house where I can admire every little sub-package as I remove it from the big box. I'm often surprised by what I find, as I've forgotten what exactly it was that I ordered a week or two earlier. The process is repeated several times a year with the inevitable delivery of boring stuff like paint and glue and tools, but I try to spice that up with some fun decals and the occasional new kit.

The Internet has made access to modeling products easier than ever. No longer do we have to beg our local hobby store owner to order an obscure resin kit when we can just point and click and it have show up a few weeks later. This capability will become more and more important in the future.

There is no question that the hobby of scale plastic modeling, at least in the US, is evolving into an adult pursuit. Hobby shops are gradually closing all over the country, so those who do wish to soldier on will have to resort to procurement of supplies from a distance. I guess the thing I miss most about losing my local hobby shop is the sheer fun that comes from seeing shelf after shelf full of model kits. Anyone who considers themselves a true lover of modeling knows that their heart beats just a tiny bit quicker as they stand face-to-face with a mountain of styrene.

Sometimes modelers are lucky to have a store that is run by a friendly owner who encourages others to simply hang out and shoot the bull for hours on end. The hobby shop then becomes an integral part of the local community. What happens when the hobby shop is gone? What this means is that the community of modeling has to come from other sources. Without a decent retail outlet, I need something to let me know what’s new, what the latest rumors are, and what tools and products are the best. Modeling clubs are a perfect source for this, but even a club has trouble when there isn't a local hobby store to act as a place to gather and to feed their plastic habits.

For this, web sites like Modeling Madness are essential. As the hobby continues to shrink, the web sites and discussion boards become even more important in keeping the community alive. They provide a vital link to the extended scale modeling world, and I predict that we will see more and more reliance on them as the primary source for information about new products and releases in the coming years. It’s an interesting turn of events, but it is reflective of how much our hobby has changed and continues to evolve as we enter the new century.

[Robotzel]

The Workbench

A man’s home, they say, is his castle. For those of us that practice the hobby of scale modeling, our home is also the place that contains our workshop, our display area, and our stock of supplies and model kits. It’s surprising how much square footage is taken with these three categories in a typical home. In addition to the monetary investment involved, I think that the space issue is the significant contributor to the tales of domestic strife with the SWMBO we so often hear about.

When I was a kid and starting building models, I usually built them in my bedroom. My mother would insist that I lay down some newspaper to catch the glue messes that would inevitably result, but I rarely did. After a couple of years, my bedspread was littered with dried Revell cement blobs as a kind of tally board that I was quite proud of. When I discovered paint, I initially tried to do that inside the house, too, but was quickly banished to the garage once the first whiff of the pungent fumes were detected by my ever-present mother. It’s a good thing, too, as the environmental disasters caused by broken bottles, errant spray cans, knocked over jars of used thinner, and learning the mysterious ways of my first airbrush were much more easily covered up in the garage. I would still build in my bedroom, usually out of the kit box while sitting on my bed, and then take the model to the garage for the painting cycle. I used my father’s workbench as my spray booth and competed for space with whatever project he happened to be working on. On a particular day in 1970, a Revell SST model would have had to contend with the parts from a blender that my father was trying to fix.

When I returned to the hobby in adult life, I had a fairly typical setup for a modeler. I had a simple table in the basement where everything was done, from start to finish. The basement was adequate to fulfill all my needs except in the dead of winter when it was too cold to paint. I could leave everything spread out and not worry that anyone would mess with it as it was only me and my wife in the house. Whenever I would hear her open the basement door and take a few tentative steps down the staircase as to inquire as to my whereabouts, I would loudly say, “Hey -- no women allowed down here!” Surprisingly, it worked and she would scamper back up the stairs. Of course, I paid for it later on in different ways. You married guys out there know what I’m talking about.


When children entered the picture, everything changed. With kids came the need for more space, so we moved to a bigger house that had more rooms but unfortunately didn’t have a basement. With adulthood comes the need for some responsibility, so going back to the methods of my childhood wasn’t a practical solution. Building models on my bed, even though it was twice as big as the bed of my youth, simply wouldn’t have been tolerated. My kids took up the other bedrooms in the new house, so I did not have any space where a dedicated modeling area could be established. What was one to do?

Necessity is the mother of invention, so I started to build models on the kitchen table between meals. Instead of having my tools spread out everywhere, I threw them all into a very large fishing tackle box I picked up at Wal-Mart. I bought one of those big cutting mats that seem to be standard issue for every modeler and I plop it down in front of me when I start to work on a model. I got a small halogen desk lamp for illumination and the whole setup works remarkably well. I originally thought that not being able to leave anything out would slow down my progress on a project, but I found the opposite was true. At the end of every session, I gather up all the tools and place them back into their proper storage location in the tackle box. The model itself goes back in the kit box unless it is too big after major assembly is done, in which case I place it up high on top of a china cabinet to keep it away from curious little finger. I lose things less now, because we all know how small parts have a habit of getting up and walking away on their own, especially when left alone for longs periods of time. But having to unpack, build, and pack up for each modeling session, I find that I keep track of parts and tools much better.

The most unexpected surprise of my model bench/kitchen table setup is how inclusive it is of others in the family. Instead of retreating from everybody in the house, I’m sitting there right in the thick of all the action. My kids, who are now teenagers, get to see what I’m doing and they really don’t pose as much of a distraction as you might think. Sometimes they sit down and watch what I’m doing. Other times they will want to talk about something and I’ll gladly stop what I’m doing to do so. After all, what is more important in life? Sometimes when I’m working on a model, I can hear rising voice levels in the adjacent room where the TV and video game consoles are and head off a full-blown fight before it occurs. My wife will often sit down as well and talk, or just read the paper while I work on sanding a seam. I still paint in the garage, which is attached to the house. Even though I use acrylic paints for everything except metalizers, my old mother-mandated instincts kick in as I spray my models in the old familiar environment shared with automobiles, lawn equipment, and that blender I’m still trying to fix.

A hilarious contest was held by Modeling Madness a few years ago to determine who had the messiest workbench. Some of the pictures showed modeling areas that were cluttered beyond belief. That’s another downside I find of dedicated work areas: the space is quickly consumed by partially completed kits, dozens of paint bottles, old jelly jars full of undetermined fluids, paintbrushes, and so on. In the end, the modeler has about a six square inch area in which to actually work. It kind of defeats the purpose of having a workbench, doesn’t it?

One of my modeling buddies and I trade kits every so often. What I’ve noticed about kits that I get from him is that they almost always have food crumbs and stray dirt particles inside the boxes. I asked him about it one day and his response, provided in a slightly embarrassed tone, was that he builds models on a TV tray (remember those?) propped up in front of him as he watches the boob tube. I suppose that he also partakes in nourishment during those model building sessions and sometimes all the food doesn’t quite reach the intended target and falls into the open model box below. To each his own, I guess. I just wish that he wouldn’t attract ants to the kits in his stash that he eventually trades to me.

The thing that always amazes me about this hobby is that there are so many ways to skin a cat. Some people build models on their laps out of a kit box and others have state-of-the-art machine shops that cover a thousand square feet. In the end, the results are the same, so there is no right or wrong approach. It’s all what works best for you.

[Bill]

Ca de obicei le zice bine
Lee Kolosna nou
Spor,
Bill

[Blue-Max]

Septembrie 2008.

A trip to the Nats


I attended the IPMS/USA National convention in Virginia Beach, Virginia earlier this month with several members of my modeling club. It was a one-day affair only, with us leaving at o’dark thirty and gobbling up Egg McMuffins along the way. Once we got there I immediately descended on the display room, as that traditionally holds the most interest for me. I want to see the latest kits that I’ve read about but never seen in person, plus I want to be inspired by models built by some of the finest modelers in the world. I naturally gravitate to the 1/32 scale aircraft first, as the big models really captivate me. First impression: those Hasegawa Fw 190 and Ta 152 models are awfully popular. No surprises there – modelers love German World War II fighters. The jet category was fairly sparse. All the usual suspects (Hornets, Phantoms, Eagles) were present with Tamiya and Trumpeter products. There was one A-10, and I was once again reminded of how much that kit’s misshapen nose and oversized canopy bothers me.
Over in the 1/48 scale aircraft section, I was confronted by the largest single sighting of Bf 109 models that I have ever seen in my life. I’ve heard rumors that a sizable number of them were the output of one particular modeler. In any case, it was a staggering amount of 109s. Moving onto the jets, I was pleased to see that somebody had actually built the Trumpeter A-5 Vigilante. In fact, a couple of modelers had shown the temerity to build the kit that topped the “most wanted” polls for a decade yet has been routinely ignored since its release.
The 1/72 and 1/44 scale airplanes were mostly a blur. Lots of little gray and green models spread out over many tables that eventually numb the viewer. I was drawn to another Ben Guenther masterpiece – a complete reworking of an Academy early B-17 into a Y1B-17 version. It eventually won Best Aircraft model, with good reason.
The entrants across all the scales were very heavy on fighters, and quite light on bombers. I continue to be struck by that observation in every model show I attend. I wonder whether it’s because fighters are simpler to build, or perhaps modelers just think that fighters are cooler than bombers. At any rate, it’s very easy to see modeler’s preferences. Another observation I made is how the bigger models attract the most crowds. There was a scratch-built 1/24 scale OV-10D Bronco that had the crowd agog. It won its category, so it was certainly a finely-built model. But what struck me is how many people focused on it rather than the Y1B-17 model which, according to the judges, was the best of the best in aircraft.
I spent some time sweeping through the other sections. I greatly respect the talent of armor modelers, but the subject doesn’t excite me very much. There seemed to be a smaller number of car models than I had remembered from previous National contests that I have attended. One pleasant surprise – there were actually some pretty funny entries in the Humor in Modeling category. I don’t know what it is about those Hasegawa Egg Planes, but one small diorama of an egg-shaped 747 being marshaled by a some chickens (complete with flashlight wands) got me chuckling.
It took me about three hours to finish looking at all I wanted to in the display room. I sat down in the lobby with a $3 dollar diet Pepsi and tried to gather my thoughts. Was I excited? Was I inspired? Did I feel intimidated by the quality of the models that I saw, almost all of which are far better than I can ever do? Did it make me want to go out and try new and exciting ideas and techniques in my own projects? Did I have to go desperately find a model of a certain kit that I had just seen built up, just so I could do one too?
Here’s the funny thing. I felt mostly nothing. I didn’t feel particularly elated, nor did I feel turned off, either. That in itself was a telling emotion. After reflecting some more as the caffeine in the Pepsi worked its way through the cobwebs of my brain, I began to realize that a significant event had just occurred. I remember a post that Jennings Heilig made to RMS many years ago about a similar experience. He had gone to a large contest and walked away without buying a single item from the vendor room. He had looked at the models, looked at what was on the vendor tables, and decided that he didn’t need anything and left empty handed, for the first time in his modeling career. I felt the same way.
I went into the vendor room after finishing my soda, but only to see a few people that I wanted to say hi to. I did buy a book about the Tuskegee Airmen from author Chris Bucholtz and got him to autograph it for me (we still have our local heroes), but that was it. No kits, no aftermarket, no decals, no nothing. I came away with a contentment of what I had in my meager stash and no strong motivation to add to it.
On the drive back home, I reflected on what I wanted to do, and that was to sit down with what I had and build it out -- quietly, without the need to show anything off at a contest, and for my own personal enjoyment. I have several years’ worth of projects awaiting me, so it’s not like I have the need to add to the backlog. The question is whether this feeling will continue, or will some new, sexy release of a favored subject get me all atwitter and force me to buy it? I do know that my interest in attending contests in the future has diminished such that I don’t see much point in it anymore. If the Nationals don’t fire me up, I don’t know what will.

Have I become jaded? Has a chapter in my life come to an end? Or am I just reaching a deeper understanding of what I want the hobby to provide for me?

This is in no way an indictment of the contest or the way the Nationals were conducted. The Tidewater club put on the best one, with the best organization, that I’ve ever seen. I think that contests are just fine for people that want to compete or to attend for the vendors or just to see old friends. But not for me, at least not for the foreseeable future.
I still want to build models. I still want to visit my favorite modeling websites each day and discuss items that interest me on the forums. But mostly, I want to go back to my roots and just build models and enjoy the simple pleasures that that entails. Scale modeling is still extremely important to me. This isn’t a case of burning out, but rather one of retrenchment, I think. It’s very interesting to me that it took a visit to the big national contest to realize that.



Lee Kolosna

[Blue-Max]

Octombrie 2008

Stalled


A modeling buddy of mine and I were instant messaging each other a few days ago and he told me that he had lost interest in a model that at one time he was extremely excited to build. The model was mostly assembled, the seams were filled, and it was ready for paint. Yet he couldn’t find the motivation to load up his airbrush and begin what is a very simple one color camouflage scheme -- overall gray with some metallic sections here and there. I felt immediate empathy for his plight, as it affects me with certainty on every model project that I undertake. My suggestion to my friend was to fight through the barrier of reluctance and just go ahead and do it. I suggested painting the metallic areas first, as I’ve learned that getting some small visible sign of progress past the motivational barrier is extremely therapeutic and often is all that is needed to re-energize the project.

Why is it that we get such a thrill from buying a model of a cherished subject, race home from the hobby shop and fondle the plastic, tear into the sprues and separate the pieces, start gluing things up, and then at some point lose our will to continue?

I know from experience that I will lose interest at the same exact points along the road to completion. I dislike painting cockpits, which unfortunately is very early in the project. The thought of picking out all those little switches and dials, highlighting them with washes and drybrushing, and fighting those evil photo-etched harnesses is often enough for me seriously consider modeling in 1/144 scale only. But I do persevere and by spraying the overall cockpit color I can make the leap past by reluctance and get on with making up a nicely detailed cockpit that doesn’t embarrass me.

From there, it is smooth sailing until the next entirely predictable stumbling point – panel line rescribing and paint preparation. I like gluing stuff together and really don’t mind filling and sanding seams. I put myself in a Zen-like trance and sand and fill and sand and fill and sand fill some more until I think I’m done. But the thought of rescribing panel lines lost in the seam filling process is one that brings out a loathing for the task. To me, it’s always a major pain in the ass. Despite my best intentions and using techniques that have been studied at length, I still manage to make bonehead mistakes and let the scriber slip, or I make lines that don’t connect to each other properly. Each requires more sanding to eliminate the mistake and starting over. I find the whole thing aggravating to the extreme.

The first coat of paint that goes on the model always reveals some seam or surface flaw that needs to be addressed. But that doesn’t slow me down too much as I’m relieved that I’ve been able to get past that dreaded rescribing step. As the paint and decals go on, I tend to get fired up as my model creation is getting closer to reality. But there is one more very important step that has really been tripping me up lately, and that is weathering. It’s an area that I have traditionally been weak in and one that requires quite a bit of skill to execute realistically. This includes putting washes in panel lines, post-shading areas of wear, paint chipping, simulating dust, dirt and grime accumulation, and paint fading. I agonize over what to do and how to do it, and it keeps a model that is 95% complete from final completion. But like the cockpit painting and the panel line rescribing, I have to screw up my courage and fight through the overwhelming reluctance to proceed. As before, I find that just a simple tiny step, like dusting the wheel wells with pastels or applying an exhaust stain will suddenly clear the logjam and off I go with the ball towards the end zone.

I know that many modelers who have dozens of models in progress, but rarely find the motivation to actually finish them. I find it quite ironic that we modelers who care so passionately about scale modeling, have a hard time finding the time and impetus to actually build one, or even more interestingly, have a hard time finishing what we have started. I suppose we set such high levels of expectation for ourselves that when we don’t meet them, the model loses its luster.

Being stalled is different than being burned out, but sometimes similar techniques can be employed. Very often the sage advice when stalled on something is to go build something else, either much simpler or in an entirely different genre, in order to get the motivation to return to the original project. That can work, although I suspect that also leads to have a dozen or more half-finished models lying around on the workbench. It’s not uncommon to read reviews of models that detail long periods of inactivity caused by a lack of motivation. Our fearless editor here at Modeling Madness has several examples of that. (Your editor's list of these sorts of things is long and distinguished. My recent Hasegawa 1/48 AH-64D is a prime example. Ed)

Being stalled wasn’t ever the case when we were young and naïve. In the course of one afternoon, we bought the kit, glued it together, slapped the decals on, and out the door we went, exploring the outer reaches of the atmosphere in our back yards. As “serious” modelers, we tend to over-do, over-analyze, and over-agonize our projects. To be sure, the results are almost always better because of it, but one has to wonder if all the fretting is worth it. I’ve often asked myself that question and because of my personality (I’m my own worse critic) I know that I will have to continue enduring the stalls that inevitably come with every single model that I will build for the rest of my life. There is no other solution than just gritting my teeth and getting on with it. As I’ve said, once I get going, it usually ends up being much less worse than anticipated with the whole episode fading into a distant memory.

So, my advice for stalled modelers is the same as I gave my friend: just do it!

Lee Kolosna