Making Sense of Susan Teeth and Frederick Myrick

by Ken Martin

Recently, a young woman in Concord, California, received an unexpected gift from her grandmother, a sperm whale's tooth engraved with two depictions of the Nantucket, Massachusetts, whaleship Susan. The grandmother died shortly after passing along the tooth, so how she had come to own it is not clear. Uninformed about scrimshaw but suspecting that the tooth might have value, the new owner and her husband took the whale's tooth to San Francisco for an Antiques Roadshow appraisal. They never got on camera. As they waited in line, a Roadshow expert advised them that their scrimshaw was of no consequence.

Luckily, that's not the end of the story. The couple sought a second opinion at the New Bedford (Massachusetts) Whaling Museum. There they learned that their whale's tooth might be the work of Frederick Myrick, the prolific, almost legendary scrimshander who served aboard the vessel Susan from 1826 to 1829.

When they heard that the Kendall Whaling Museum in Sharon, Massachusetts, was planning to devote its seventh annual Scrimshaw Collectors' Weekend to a study of Myrick and his art, the owners took the tooth to that institution. Good news! After rigorous analysis, a team of scrimshaw authorities pronounced it a genuine Myrick work. So on June 25-27 that tooth was put on formal display at the Kendall along with 25 similar pieces—the largest assembly of Myrick's scrimshaw since the Susan tied up at Nantucket almost 170 years ago. The Kendall symposium on Myrick was a landmark in the study of scrimshaw and a model for other folk art events.

Teeth from the Susan have been popping up unexpectedly for at least a generation, ever since they won acceptance as quintessential examples of scrimshaw. Stylistically distinctive and bearing a close family resemblance, the engraved teeth have commanded record-setting prices. In 1955 when Everett Crosby published his appreciative little book, Susan's Teeth and Much About Scrimshaw, about seven examples of Myrick's work were known. Crosby may have put Myrick teeth on the map as collectibles, and his book is likewise collectible. Today, if you can find a copy, it will probably cost you well into four figures. In 1971 with about nine examples of Myrick teeth known, Richard Bourne's auction firm sold a signed and dated Susan tooth for $11,000. That was an astounding price at the time, and it made news.

It also made more and more Susan teeth come out of hiding and onto the market. They were name-brand items with prices to match. An example that fetched $21,000 at Sotheby Parke Bernet in 1979 was sold by Richard Bourne in 1986 for $27,000, and again in 1990 for $33,000. Bourne sold a different specimen in 1979 for $24,000; he recycled it a decade later for $40,000. In 1982 a signed tooth from the Barbara Johnson collection realized $44,000 at Sotheby's. Such was the magic of name recognition that, in 1983, Sotheby's sold an illustrated whaling journal kept aboard the Susan for a staggering $82,500, an extravagant, record-setting price, despite the fact that the voyage it recounted commenced more than a dozen years after the Susan's great scrimshander had left the ship.

Frederick Myrick was hot, and scrimshaw forgers were busy. When the number of known Susan teeth approached 20, people began to wonder just how many bona fide examples Myrick could possibly have made in the space of one whaling voyage. Prices chilled somewhat in the early nineties. For example, in 1994 Christie's London sold a Susan tooth for a mere £1980. The lull was brief. In August 1997 at Rafael Osona's on Nantucket, a Susan tooth with a long, flawless provenance fetched a whopping $50,600. With prices like that at stake, counterfeit Susan teeth still abound. Stuart Frank, director of the Kendall Whaling Museum, estimates that the number of bogus teeth and admitted reproductions in circulation equals the number of authentic pieces.

Although prices, publicity, and prestige have inflated interest in Myrick, and despite the fact that there were other scrimshanders of equal or greater artistry, there is no denying the beauty of Susan teeth. What's there not to like? Although the broadside ship images are meticulous enough to please a finicky whaleman, each scrimshawed tooth also exudes a neat and tidy folk quality that endears it even to diehard landlubbers. Further enhanced with nautical and patriotic symbols, the teeth qualify as fine decorative Americana. Then there is Myrick's trademark couplet: "Death to the living, long life to the killers/ Success to sailors wives & greasy luck to the whalers." That says it all.

Inasmuch as Myrick's work has become the textbook standard for fine scrimshaw, a serious investigation of the artist was overdue. The inevitable spot for such an investigation was the Kendall Whaling Museum, an institution that has taken the lead in promoting microscopic forensic analysis and scholarly historical research into scrimshaw. The idea took hold at the Kendall, but preparing a Myrick symposium was a daunting task. To begin with, where were all the teeth? As many as possible would have to be brought to the museum and exhibited under secure conditions.

Director Stuart Frank and his staff spent more than a year tracking down and authenticating Myrick's work, assisted by an informed group of collectors, dealers, and colleagues in other museums. Some pieces were easy to locate because of recent publicity or longstanding residence in museum collections. The Peabody Essex Museum, for example, owned three Myrick teeth, two of which were accessioned before 1831. Because of their impeccable pedigrees, those two would provide a key to the authentication of additional examples.

Working through the grapevine, the Kendall amassed a list of 35 teeth reliably attributed to Myrick—an astonishing output for a single scrimshander on a single whaling voyage. By late June, the Kendall had pulled together 26 examples, 22 depicting the Susan in action and four similarly depicting the whaleships Frances of New Bedford and Barclay of Nantucket. As the teeth rolled in, questions mounted about the whys and hows of Myrick's prodigious output.

Those questions came out in the open on the evening of June 25 when about 75 museum professionals, hard-core collectors, and distinguished dealers gathered in a gallery of the Kendall Whaling Museum, surrounded by vintage paintings, ship models, and figureheads. In his opening remarks Stuart Frank called the meeting "the best scrimshaw event there's ever been." Frank is never loath to use a superlative when a mere compliment will do, but this time he was understating the case.

In the room, under glass and neatly labeled (although private lenders' identities were withheld), were the vetted Myrick teeth. As the proceedings unfolded throughout the weekend, anyone at anytime could slip over to the display case and have a close, firsthand look at the fruits of Frederick Myrick's labor. Here, of course, was a scrimshaw collector's dream and a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. It was also a fleeting opportunity, for when the meeting adjourned, Myrick's engraved whales' teeth would promptly scatter to far-flung public and private collections.

There was no denying the importance of those assembled rows of Myrick teeth, but my first impression of the group was underwhelming. The reason was the formulized sameness of the work from tooth to tooth, which produced a collective image less than the sum of its parts. I wondered if the same reductive effect would occur if, say, two dozen Gus Wilson eider decoys were arranged in formation, or if all of Edward Hicks's Peaceable Kingdom paintings were hung together. No matter. The beauty of Myrick's work lay in the details, and those were plainly visible in every specimen.

Friday night's keynote speaker was savvy collector Paul Vardeman of Kansas City, Missouri, introduced by Frank as "the guru who can set us on the proper path." After providing a persuasive argument that, publicity aside, Myrick deserves the accolades he's received, Vardeman called the Susan teeth "great scrimshaw and great folk art."

"The one additional thing that makes Myrick's work special," Vardeman added, "is the mystery surrounding it...Why were there so many teeth?...Did Myrick scrimshaw all of them, or did he have help...or an assembly line of some kind?" Dates on some Susan teeth indicate that the entire body of work was done toward the end of the Susan's 1826-29 voyage. But how, why, and for whom?

Looking at the evidence, Vardeman theorized that during the last seven or eight months of the Susan's voyage, Myrick engraved a keepsake for every individual aboard, perhaps in return for shipboard privileges or some other consideration. What prompted Myrick to engrave teeth depicting the Frances, the Barclay, and the London whaler Ann? It is known that the Frances and Barclay arrived home just after the Susan. Perhaps, en route, these ships had crossed paths with the Susan, at which time a few engraved teeth had changed hands. Whatever the case, Myrick's enormous output prompted Vardeman to wonder "how many more Myrick teeth will show up?" Getting to the bottom of these and other questions would fully occupy the next two days.

As the meeting unfolded, the process of examining these issues proved as interesting as the questions themselves. Events moved at a breathless pace, involving almost 20 brief topical presentations. Timing was precise, and the cavalcade of talks kept to schedule.

Frustrating everyone, however, was the fact that almost nothing is known about Frederick Myrick. He was born on Nantucket in 1808. He made a previous voyage on the New Bedford whaleship Columbus before shipping out on the Susan at age eighteen. He returned to Nantucket aboard the Susan in 1829, thereupon married and fathered six children. Sometime in the 1840's the Myricks moved to Sennett, New York, Mrs. Myrick's home town, where Frederick took up farming. Collector Ernest Helides, who tracked Myrick through the skimpy records of upstate New York, found that Myrick had died a man of some means in 1862. By that time, he was known as Capt. Frederick Myrick, a title he had perhaps earned as a coastwise skipper or a militia officer. And that, unfortunately, is about it. No other type of artistic work by Myrick is known, either before or after his eventful Susan voyage.

Because Myrick's story is obscure, and because most collectors lack understanding of scrimshaw's historical context, Frank had mobilized professional historians to provide background on the Nantucket community, the evolution of scrimshaw art, and the economics and technical aspects of Yankee whaling. Most of these presentations were polished and incisive. Speakers included Michael Jehle (Nantucket Historical Association), Joshua Basseches (Harvard Museums of Cultural and Natural History), Daniel Finamore (Peabody Essex Museum), Mary Malloy (Sea Education Association), Catherine Wood (Shelburne Museum), and Margaret Vose (Professor Emerita, Eastern Connecticut State University).

The generalities were thus well served. But if beauty lies in the details, the reports of forensic researchers were the most revealing. Present at the meeting were Janet West (Scott Polar Institute) and Desmond Liddy of Sydney, Australia, both pioneer champions of microscopic analysis. Having examined and described Myrick's technique in detail, Liddy remained puzzled about the artist's motivation and the repetitiousness of his work, which he suggested bordered on the compulsive. "Scrimshaw was supposed to be a palliative to [shipboard] boredom," he observed. "Here's a man who responds to monotony in his life by creating a form of monotony in his work." Apparently in the space of but several months, Myrick created a larger body of work than any scrimshander of his day, yet "his work flowered and died with equal abruptness."

Repetitious, yes, but Myrick's work was perhaps not as toilsome as it seemed. How long would it take to turn out a presentable Susan tooth? Charles Manghis, a highly skilled scrimshaw restorer and engraver, reported that he had been able to complete a presentable copy in about 27 hours. Perhaps Myrick also took that long at first. But it's safe to assume that with practice, he accelerated his output dramatically. As if to confirm this, the Kendall Museum's Don Ridley demonstrated with microphotograph slides how Myrick's lettering evolved over time from painstakingly laborious to quick and facile, with no ill effect to the naked eye. Clearly, the experience curve continuously drove down Myrick's working time per tooth.

But the most surprising revelation came from Judith Lund (Old Dartmouth Historical Society). Several years ago, examining the New Bedford Whaling Museum's two Susan teeth, Lund noted that "these teeth looked more than just similar." In fact, the Susan images looked almost identical. Lund traced an outline of the ship engraved on one tooth and laid it over the image on the other. Bingo! A perfect fit. She then tried the process on a third, privately owned tooth with the same result. "Everything worked," she reported. "The tooth absolutely fit the drawing I'd taken off the two New Bedford [Whaling Museum] teeth."

Just before the Kendall meeting, Lund applied her overlay to 22 examples—44 images in all. The pattern fit in 41 cases and came close in two others when adjustments were made for the different scale of the teeth. Myrick's sawtooth-pattern seas also lined up. Here was another convincing indicator that Myrick worked faster than has been assumed. Exactly what sort of pattern he used is not clear. Lund suggested it was a wraparound piece of onionskin paper or perhaps even very thin metal used as a stencil. The pattern may well have been adapted from a generic ship's profile in a nautical publication. Scrimshaw dealer Paul Madden suggested that Myrick might have fashioned an inked stamp similar to those used to illustrate whaling logbooks.

"Does this demean the man in any way?" asked Lund. "I don't think so. We just need to look at Myrick in a different light." In the lively, informed discussion that followed, participants seemed to welcome Lund's hypothesis as a key to Myrick's enormous output. Frank characterized Lund's discovery as a major breakthrough.

The meeting's overall atmosphere was collegial. A few presentations had their comic side, which heightened the collegiality. Liddy, for example, discussed "Life that Lives on Scrimshaw," providing a rundown on the natural history of booklice that, in addition to infesting libraries, find homes in whale ivory, apparently feeding on fungus found in the cracks and cuts of scrimshaw. For Liddy, a whole new world opened up when he once examined a piece of scrimshaw under strong light and saw to his astonishment a critter less than a millimeter long crawling out of a crack. To make his point, Liddy then flashed a rhinoceros-sized slide of a hideous monster, a blowup of the insect in question. Gasps and gags all round.

Liddy proffered two tips for collectors. It seems that, as a mating call, booklice produce a tapping sound that some claim is audible to humans. "If, in the still of the night, you hear a ticking sound," said Liddy, "it's one of these creatures." More gasps. And as a final warning, "When you're handling a piece of scrimshaw, you're under observation!"

At Sunday's wrap-up discussion, I asked Paul Vardeman whether the questions he'd asked in his keynote address had been addressed. "They've all been dealt with," he replied. "They haven't been answered."

Well, yes and no. From the various presentations a consensus about Myrick had emerged, and it was much like the scenario Vardeman suggested at the outset. Judging from the dates on the Susan teeth and the gathered evidence of Myrick's technique, it seems likely that Myrick did them all in a marathon series between the time the Susan finished whaling in the South Pacific and her arrival in Nantucket. It may be that other shipmates lent a hand with the scraping and preparation of the raw whales' teeth, but all the engraving appears to be the work of a single, increasingly speedy artist. While it is true that scrimshaw was practiced as an antidote to shipboard tedium, it is possible that Myrick preferred engraving whale teeth, however tedious, over less pleasant shipboard duties. He may even have received monetary or in-kind payment to make the effort worth his while.

Lund's template hypothesis further suggests that Myrick was not a fixated obsessive-compulsive but a man with a method, or perhaps a young man with a method, for he was only 20 when he commenced his massive undertaking. The methodical beauty of his work is all the more impressive because in the 1820's there were few scrimshawed precedents to inspire him. But inspiration has its limits, so who can blame young Myrick if, once ashore, he tossed away his jackknife and called it quits?

In keeping with the importance of the assembled specimens and the originality of the presentations, two symposium publications are planned. The Kendall Whaling Museum is preparing an illustrated catalogue raisonné, surely a must for every scrimshaw and Americana collector. In addition, the weekend's proceedings will be edited and published as a special number of the scholarly maritime journal American Neptune.

While awaiting those publications, I wonder what the Kendall Museum can possibly do in the future to top this year's scrimshaw meeting. Any ideas? Another question, is it possible that there might be a few bona fide Myrick teeth still hiding in the woodwork? Finally, a piece of advice. Get close to your grandma and see how she feels about scrimshaw. You might be surprised; it's happened before.