​“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.” ― Roald Dahl
I do believe in magic and I find it every time I begin to create. Since my beginning in doll making, I’ve come to think about defining what it is I do. I feel as if titles are handed out in order to define us, but most are cliché and lack the depth of what we do and who we are as dollmakers.  Galleries are more comfortable if we lose the word “doll” altogether, forfeiting the heritage that passes though our hands as we create. Dolls are more than wee people for children to play with. They are a brave compilation of history, art and emotion. The working of stories into a doll, the doll as a smugglers vessel, the legacy of textile arts and handworks are bold statements of the contribution of using whatever medium you have on hand to tell a story. A whisper, a magical banter back and forth between needle and cloth.
Even after all of our evolution as a people and society, I still think when someone inquires as to what you create and you answer “art dolls” it is heard and seen as a secondary form of art. When in essence doll making is pulling forward the skill and knowing of all who came before us. When we create an art doll we practice alchemy in our studios, transforming a lump of fabric and clay into a work of art. Art doll alchemy is to employ textile arts, painterly techniques, sourcing the perfect mediums, unearthing bits and bobs to create personality, and mastering the magic of putting it all together.   If I had to describe what I do I would say, I am a maker of odd, often peculiar Halloween and macabre folks who sometimes look peoplish.
I would encourage you to create without labeling your work in a traditional way but instead inhabit your work. Allow yourself to learn your art and grow within it, inhabit your bliss.   Art dolls are an important work. We must think of the product of our work as something that we bring to life. Our collectors have evolved into a highly sophisticated group who understand what it is we do. While you may be considered a figurative sculptural artist by a gallery, to your collector base, you have made a piece that stirs something deep within their soul. Art speaks a soul language and the people who get your work will understand that language.  The word “doll” does not denote lack of artistic quality. A doll is not just a child’s toy, but a lovely compilation of dream and hard work; an assemblage of all the doll maker knows.
The world needs more artists who are intrigued by art doll alchemy.  I consider myself so fortunate to come from a family line that honors this kind of magic.  My Mom and my grandmother before her owned their sparkle and whatever they did, they did it with a charm and a knowing that inspired others. Since childhood I’ve been in love with stories of the unexplained.  In my home, my mom kept a witch’s broom over the door and spoke in hushed tones about these unexplained things. As a little girl my father left us, but my mom told me a story about how I was born which brought me peace. She told me a rhinestone and a button fell in love and I was the result. She said I was a gift from the stars. She always made me feel like I was more than a normal girl who was skilled at nothing.
For years I’ve made art dolls. I’ve become known in the doll world for them, but this year I am sewing my garden with enchanted seeds in hopes that my collectors will enjoy my new works.  In 2011 I created my first hairy faced child. I called her baby bigfoot and I really loved that direction of honoring the hidden things within each of us that we cover up. My collection this year will dance around oddities that inspire, myth and lore from my childhood and my pumpkins with their hand mixed color palette.
When I create today, I feel like an archeologist digging through the bones of my past to find those moments of magic. It is when I create from this place that I see my best work. My Millie is the daughter of the Dog- face man.  She hides under a face of hair, much like bigfoot, but she is small and demure.  Each doll begins as an empty shrine to something I need to show you or stories I need to tell you.
If I could tell you something about doll making that it has taken me years to learn it is this: speak your language even if you think no one understands it. The more you speak it, the more comfortable your collectors will become hearing it. Soon, they will crave your art language. 

A sour old pumpkin lady made her way to the Halloween parade. She was rotten from the core outwards. Some days I feel as grimiced and sour as she. I catch my face getting all twisted up. 

I'm an old woman on the inside, but just 48 years old on the outside. As of late, I've found my patience with folks and situation lacking. It must be the little old lady inside peeking out and taking stock. I imagine her pulling the curtains back and looking at the absolutely absurdity I witness daily. I think this is why I've recently took to hissing. 

Yesterday these were the thing I hissed at:
A man cut me off in traffic. 
I could not find the giant rubber warted frog I wanted from Michaels. 
We saw an accident ahead of us that diverted traffic. 
My phone rang and it was set to full volume. 
I hissed at the stairs at Parent Teacher Conferences because there were so many of them. 
My entire order of phone cases was delivered to the wrong house. 
The coffee shop was out of oak milk. 

​Have I ever told you about my own personal demon? It’s a story for those who encircle me in the darkest of times. I think he’s always been with me. Me aging, the years enveloping me, but he always looks the same. Time just doesn’t permeate his visage. Some of my earliest memories have him painted in the periphery.
This particular story took place in the late 1990’s in a town called Kalamazoo, Michigan. I found myself invited to a local bar called Bourbon Street. I had never been to this fine establishment, but I had listened as people talked about it for years. I closed my shop early that evening and met my friends there.   
When I arrived, my friends were already inside. Upon initial evaluation, I found the great Bourbon Street to be too dark and too loud, but to be fair, anyplace that wasn’t conducive to reading would have fallen into that category. My friends mingled their way into the room and I meandered. People watching was the only way I would salvage this social miss step.
I found a chair and parked myself, thoughts settling on the bound prose I had concealed in my satchel. Just then a man started in my direction.  As he drew himself closer, I realized as uncomfortable as his closeness was, I could not hear him otherwise.  He told me his name was Nathan. His friends had gone their own way, abandoning him. The conversation was pleasant.  Now looking back, I see I was painfully ill equipped to converse with him because I lacked both a backbone and boundaries, but I did have a demon. 

​Nathan told me about his work and his family, who lived in Wisconsin. In a very unguarded way, I told him about my little shop situated in the next town over and I told him about my lovely grandmother best friend. Conversation spilled easily between us which gave me a false sense of ease.   
Nathan knew of another place in the social district called the 211. It was a classier place and they had a jazz band that evening. They had lite fare and I was famished. I agreed to meet him there. As I drove the two minutes towards my new destination, all the episodes of Unsolved Mysteries resurfaced in my mind.  As scared as I was of doing new things in a new town, I knew this was how people grew up. They collected experiences and tucked them in pockets until the pockets were overflowing with life lived. 
A very young version of me ventured into the 211. As I think about it now, “211” must have been the address of the place. In the late 1990’s, people felt that was a clever way to name things. I found Nathan straight away and we sat down. The server brought our place settings and spoke to us as I figured out what I could eat gingerly and not appear to be a wild animal.   I decided it would be a bagel and earl grey tea. He ordered a glass of wine. Nathan spoke of his grandmother and how special she was to him. They collected readers digest volumes together. The weight of the day and evening hit me all at once and I felt like I was ready to go home. I wanted to politely take my leave, but I honestly didn’t know if that was ok to do. I expressed my thoughts on calling it a night and Nathan suggested we exchange phone numbers. 

​My demon had been quiet until this moment.  “Leave now,” he whispered in my ear. I recognized his voice like a gift from your favorited gifter, all beglittered, festooned with fancy paper and ribbons. “Gather your things and go” he said again. 
I didn’t listen to my demon, instead, I gave the man my phone number. Nathan just kept talking and my demon became agitated as he spoke, urging me to leave. I told Nathan I really had to be going.  As I started the motion to stand, he aggressively put his hand on my thigh, pressing me back down in my chair.  He did not remove his hand.
I looked at Nathan in disbelief, I told you to stay awhile and relax” he said.  He was upset that I wanted to leave, and now, he wasn’t going to let me go.
My demon laughed, “I told you to go and you didn’t, what will you do now?”  I didn’t know. In my head, I silently asked for help. What I did not bargain for was the price I would have to pay. Please help me, I thought. My Demon replied calmly, “Now you must stab him. He won’t let you leave. Pick up the fork and stab his hand.” I knew he was right. It was the only option I could see. 

​There are brave souls, holding up lanterns and candles in the night. They unfold the quilts, the books with quickly written directions, they tell the salty stories of home. 
There once was a house that held those it loved and healing was its gift. A house whose walls were draped in stories.  The spice cabinet was full of exotic things and a mortar and pestle sat on the wooden countertop, ready to work.  The house was alive and its caretaker was wise. Baba Yaga was a sharp-tongued newt of a lady, comfortable in her wildness. She honored the importance of salt in the stories.
Baba was born in the house and she know she would give her last breath to it as well. The house had legs, which made traveling easy, but Baba was unable to sink her roots down into the fertile ground. He roots grew inside. A Yaga house is a container, this one was full of old woman magic.
At night, when the town slept, she gifted the candles around her house a flame and intention; a warm glow drawing people nearby. One night in particular, a woman wandered the woods, seeking the house and the witch. Salted tears on her cheeks, she saw the glow of the candles and it pulled her closer and closer. The woman knocked on the door, hoping for respite or death, she would be fine with either at this point.  The door opened, as if the Yaga had been expecting her. The old woman gathered her in her withered arms, but the woman could not stop crying. The witch set out collecting vessels to collet the tears.
Where ever the Yaga travelled, stories seem to follow her forming a spiked fence around her gifts. The words were barbed, to keep people away from her wild.  It has always been the object of the townsfolk to surround the Baba Yaga in stories of dark witchery. This is sure to keep folks in fear of her instead of letting the light shire on healing. Healed women are much harder to control.
Baba Yaga held the woman like she was a child and told her stories of old women who survived. The house held them both as a great soul mending wove the woman back together. After the tears stopped, the Yaga heated them in a bath. She told the woman that her tears held magic. The gritty bits of her story served as the spell.   The Yaga did not take the woman’s pain. She taught her how to put herself back together.
And in the days that followed, the towns folk told stories of how Baba Yaga would steal children who wandered in the woods, cooking them in her pot and eating them up. But the woman knew this was not true. She knew the Baba Yaga had tenderly fed her magic The Baba Yaga, the old witch, the wild woman, the old mother, the hag in the house, had mended her soul with salted tears and a needle, threaded with stories.
The story of BabaYaga and the images are copywritten ©2024MyDearestWitch, all rights reserved. Not created with the use of a.i.