Popular souvenirs of major cities, like New York or Paris, are handheld versions of famous landmarks like the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty (both, by the way, the products of Gustave Eiffel). But are these things “models” or “replicas?”
“Replica” is a word borrowed from Italian sometime in the 1500s, and its meaning has shifted a couple of times. It originally meant a reply or response: “Me thinkes, the Popes Replica, will admit no Replica on the Iesuites part” (1617). That is, if someone offered up an opinion or argument, you might counter with a “replica.”
That sense of “replica” disappeared by the 1700s, as “replica” became adopted by the musical community. It became a formal bit of musical communication, recorded in the instructions to the musicians as described in 1726: “Replica (in Musick Books) signifies to repeat.” This was pretty consistent with lots of other musical notations, most of which were also Italian words like “adagio” (play slowly) or “presto” (play very fast).
“Replica” shifted again in the 1800s, and was adopted this time by the art world. “He is said to have reproduced in numerous replicos, the scenery of La Cava” (1824) referred to a copy of a work of art, but made by the original artist. This was before technology enabled artists to generate multiple prints and posters of an original, so if they wanted to distribute additional copies of a painting, for example, they had to make them.
The artistic use of “replica” gradually spread, so that by 1899 Rudyard Kipling explained a set of identical houses that way: “Each house..was a replica of the rest; one straight roof covering all.” This was before such architectural blandness was covered by terms like “subdivision” or “cookie cutter.” But the idea of a “replica” still, at that point, implied an exact copy. And “exact” means the same size; Kipling’s houses were not miniatures. Or if they had been, we can assume he would have mentioned it.
Nowadays it’s relatively common to see ads touting dubious products such as toy cars produced by companies like The Franklin Mint (a private company that started out selling commemorative coins). In the ads, these are almost invariably called “replicas.”
Coincidentally, “model” entered English about the same time as “replica,” in the 1500s, but “model” is borrowed from French. Unlike “replica,” “model” has retained the same meaning it had from the start; “something that represents something else, especially on a smaller scale.” The way it’s used today is essentially the same as it was in 1613: “Delighted (as the Father in his Childe) in this new modell of himselfe.”
So if you go with historical and etymological precedent, your four-inch-high Statue of Liberty is a “model.” If you go with the more pompous approach of advertising, it’s a “replica.” And it probably costs an extra $1.99 for the connotations of the Italian, rather than the French, descriptor.
I don’t know if this is related, but one of the first things that pops into one’s head when hearing “Italian car” is likely to be “Ferrari,” while “French car” might evoke an everyday Peugeot or Renault (or, if you live in the US, a blank; there haven’t been any French cars sold here in decades). And as everybody knows, a Ferrari is worth a lot of money, so your handheld “replica” must be better than a “model,” right?
