"What made you start mutilating dolls?" That's a question I get asked a lot. I'm not really sure of the answer, but I have a couple ideas.
Doing shows in the real world and networking online has enabled me to get to know other creepy creatives and collectors from all over the planet. The more creepy doll enthusiasts I meet, the more evident a common thread becomes. Most of us have a childhood doll story that shaped (twisted?) us in some way. I have also noticed that most of us don't even realize we have a story until we hear someone else talking about theirs. I've heard a lot of "Me too!" Always makes me giggle.
Personally, my first traumatic doll experience was when I was five years old and received "Baby Alive" as a Christmas gift. At first I was so thrilled! I had been asking for her for months. Oh, those wonderful commercials between Saturday morning cartoons made her look absolutely wondrous! She ate and drank and you could even change her diapers! The commercial forgot to touch on the fact that the diaper would be full of whatever you fed her, and the cereal packets provided pretty much already resembled baby poop to begin with. As an extra bonus, if you got it in your little five year old brain that it would be a good idea to fill her bottle with real milk instead of water, you would eventually experience a smell that you would remember at least until your forties. It takes a lot to gross out a kindergartner, but that was my first experience with utter disgust and revulsion. "Baby Alive" spent the rest of her life fermenting in the bottom of my closet somewhere. After that, I stuck to Barbies. Until...
When I was eleven or twelve, I decided my life's calling was to become a ventriloquist. Turns out, I sucked at magic tricks, juggling, and plate-spinning, so I figured this might just be my last shot at fame. I can't remember the exact dummy I received that year for Christmas, but I do remember the sinking disappointment I felt when I unwrapped the box and saw that it was a hobo. Thinking about it now, it may have been an Emmit Kelly. I had no idea who Emmit Kelly was then and, in any case, I was hoping for something a bit more glamorous like Phyllis Diller's Madame. But I decided to give it a go. And then this happened:
OK, admittedly it didn't happen to me, but I wasn't taking any chances. Immediately after seeing that movie, I stashed the thing in my closet and waited impatiently for Trash Day when I stealthily stuffed the demon doll into the bottom of a bag where no one would see it and question why I was throwing away what I'm sure was a very pricey gift in those days. After that, I spent more than a few sleepless nights expecting a tiny vengeful and very angry hobo to appear, covered in garbage and standing in my doorway. Luckily it never happened.
I also have the added bonus of spending the night in a relative's "doll room" with dozens of prying, glassy eyes staring at me while I was expected to sleep. But I'll save that story for another day. Funny how those little things stick with us through the years.
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