My dolls are me …

My ‘dolls are mute, like the dolls I made as a child using card, paste and cut outs from glossy magazines and mail order catalogues.  This latest incarnation is a little more sophisticated and robust, made with wire and felt and made to measure clothes. Yet, they are no more alive when they stand so bashfully on their makeshift stage.  For me their creator, however, they do represent the essence of humanity.  They are fragile, unstable, they cannot voice their fears or delights. There are no words. They are clumsy and inept. They cannot see or mark progression or growth. They have no purpose. They are hopeless.

From the moment I purchase the fabric to make the ‘dolls, cut the wire and form the ‘flesh’ around their twisted skeletons they become me, or I become their carer. While in my presence they are treated as sentient. I give them a story and hope. 

They represent a 6-year-old girl who for no fault of her own was not allowed to express her hopes and fears. She was speechless, fragile, and neglected. Her dolls represented her unspoken words, in pretty frocks, carefully coiffured hair, painted faces, manicured nails and high healed shoes they walked on the perfect stage of life that she had no hopes to experience yet. 

I did of course grow up and live a relatively full and happy life. However, it was not without trauma and difficulty. I continued to have spasms of severe mental illness that was proven to be connected to those harsh dark days after the war.   

When I find myself in uncomfortable situations presently, and fearful, It is not surprising that my ‘dolls become a tangible connection to the past and an important part of my well being and a purposeful lifestyle today.