On the complex origins of whirligigs, a seaside art form that unfolded from the dying whaling industry.
Parke Madden grew up on Nantucket, that sea-battered island where the weather is the favorite topic of conversation, and the whipping, salty wind is a reminder of the island’s productive past and present. His father, Paul Madden, set up shop there as an antiques dealer in 1967 and developed a niche in the art forms that have made the community famous far beyond its rocky shores: scrimshaw, baskets, fisherman’s paraphernalia, and whirligigs.
The making of whirligigs on Nantucket began more than a century ago, Parke says. They were made in the off-season; much like repairing fish nets, it was an activity that paid off in the warmer months, except these were meant to catch the attention of tourists, not tuna. As the whaling industry declined, ships began delivering tourists instead, eager for the brisk sea air and, often, happy to take a piece of the coastal community home with them. Wind-powered whirligigs with spinning arms, whirring tails, or complex animations (feigning sawing a log, for example), which were already gaining popularity as lawn ornaments, caught visitors’ attention as souvenirs. Quickly, they turned into a cottage industry on the island. Over time whirligigs proliferated in a multitude of forms, styles, designs, and, in the case of human forms, uniforms, from policemen to sailors and boxers to soldiers.
One of Parke’s most prized whirligigs depicts a whale with a spinning tail. The maker’s name, Lincoln J. Ceely, is stamped on one side, uncommon for whirligigs, which are thought to have been primarily a home-based craft industry from the turn of the twentieth century into the 1950s. Ceely was an artist, clockmaker, and carver on Nantucket at the height of the whirligig craze. His name, along with whaling’s deep association, speak to the piece’s Nantucket roots. Whether made at home with hands not comfortable sitting idle, or crafted assembly-line fashion beside the fire on a rainy day, most whirligigs were eventually put to hard use. They were buffeted by the wind or drenched by the rain, and the timeworn finish that many of the most prized examples carry is, dealer Matt Greig says, the point. “I want to see surface on everything,” he says, “I want to see oxidation on everything.”
Still, some pristine examples stand out because they were clearly treasured and tucked away. A mermaid offered by Z and K Antiques shows age on the surface but not wear. Robert Zordani, co-owner of the firm with his wife, Heidi Kellner, loves this whirligig because it shows “a strong woman.” Most depictions of women in the world of whirligigs, he says, seem intended to attract the male gaze, with exaggerated expressions and proportions.
Like Madden, David Hillier of Antique Associates at West Townsend in Townsend, Massachusetts, has a whaling whirligig in his collection. The story it tells, though, is more complex. Whereas Madden’s whale is nearly smiling—a, Madden says, “maybe-dick,”— Hillier’s shines light on the realities of the whaling industry and bears a grim expression. Whaling and slavery had a complex relationship. Whaling ships were known to carry enslaved people, acting sometimes as illicit transport vessels and often using enslaved people as laborers; but the ships also became
“safe” havens for free Black men in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, as they could earn a living working the most dangerous jobs. It’s been said that people of color, including Black men, made up around 30 percent of the crew of whaling vessels sailing from New England ports. One, Collin Stevenson, was captain of a vessel by 1889, and built a financially comfortable life for his family at sea, as did William Shorey, who took his first voyage on a whaling ship in 1876 at seventeen years old.
Hillier’s whirligig captures this moment in time, when whaling ships offered opportunity in one hand and oppression in the other, in a way that makes one flinch. A Black man stands atop the back of a whale, hands on a crank spun by the wind. A white man in a sailor’s uniform raises a switch from further down the tail. Hillier dates the piece from 1870 to 1890, right about when Shorey took his first trip. “How does one deal with, handle, or approach such a thing?” Hillier asks. He hopes the piece will find its way into a collection or museum that will use it as a teaching tool.
It may be an important piece, but certainly not one to be celebrated. “Would I put that thing in my yard? No, I couldn’t,” he says. Most surviving vintage whirligigs would hardly stand up to the weather today, even if the subject matter isn’t objectionable. Whirligigs were, Madden says, “never made to last a hundred years outdoors,” and the surviving ones were most often stashed away in a closet or attic after an arm repair or break put it out of service. It’s funny how many antiques survive precisely because they are damaged past simple repair—and yet carry too many memories to trash.
Strong examples of the whirligig form with delicate carving, unique features, and working mechanisms realize high prices, soaring above $10,000 at auction, while less fine examples can be found for under $500. Most range between $1,000 and $5,000, but it’s not rare for a collector to simply keep a great piece for themself. With folk art, perhaps more so than with other antiques, the risk of never seeing such a piece again is steep enough to scare off the idea of a sale, even when demand is tempting.
