Winny's story is a present, one wrapped with sticky wooly fingers, two rounds of red ribbon and a stain from a chocolate cookie. Poet has given me a Winny, and I am ever so grateful, for her kindness, for the beauty she has aroused in this house and for true friendship. How my dolls become true friends is a wonderful story and one many of you know deeply well.
Windy days, busy hours of life and counting spoons. Shavings of wood and stitches of horseshoe lace. Rubbings of beeswax on walnut thread, cashmere ribbing on a little head. Dots on linen, a missing mitten. Two ears who listened to the whispers of wool emotions, two arms that are ready to hug and prop cookies on them. The thoughts of little ones who wonder, imagine and dream. All the same words to describe something you only see with your heart: and then Antoine de Saint-Exupéry comes to visit one afternoon and fills the living room with the wise words of one who has seen too many, too much heart ache and misuse of life. And the words of a song "Be still my love, open up your heart, let the light shine in". How all these influences have tinted a Winny, how they made her so very ours. How she was born at the eleventh hour, anxious and worried I was, not wanting to give Poet up and so Winny popped in the scene, at the suggestion of a trusty friend. Those good friends who couch the cords and enliven the lonely life of a doll maker. That suggestion who brought the second weekend in a row of working like a mad woman, completely overcome by the need to see her come out of my hands, with family behind my chair cheering every minute of madness, bringing nosh and liquids and the history of France in the speakers. It was a wild weekend that which saw a Winny born. We are so glad to see her and we can see her future develop now.
And so to me, after all the leverage these tendrils of common life have effected on Winny and me, she will be forever tied to these moments, mirrors, the glimmer of snow. So there but not really. The linen of her skirt being the one I bought for my first custom doll last year, my beauty, my Bea, my only child. How she shares cashmere with Anjo, the first big doll of this year. How that bronze bow was bought initially for Miss Matches and the felt of her boots was the first fabric I bought while pregnant with my first child, thinking of decorating a nursery with it and learning to sew. Falling down the rabbit hole I go. To a world of memories, of anxieties, of dreams come true.
Winny, Winny, who are you? You are an impulsive little being, who arrived on the whim of an anxious moment. Poet guided me so gently when I made you, by showing me with herself where you should be and who you are. Impulsive yes, but not reckless. It is the mere strength of that faithful moment of your creation which has now endowed you with such characteristics: open hearted, ingenue, someone who laughs at life's hard moments with a very loud and hearty laugh, coming to you from the bottom of your being. Someone who doesn't doubt when there is need to eat a little bit less if someone close by is hungry, who can exhibit courage and forgiveness. Complicated, messy, such is who you are. Totally unexpected. So needed.
I thought for sure by now I would have the name for your kind of doll, I made plans yet you and Poet evade a name. Maybe you are so you that there is no possible way to define you, to peg you into a corner of who you are and how you play. Maybe I should just trust these things more often and let you come out in whichever way you see fit. Yes, maybe I should be more trusting. But you have to understand that having placed every inch of you under my fingers, having pulled and sculpted every ounce of your being, has made you very close to me, I have tamed you. Or have you tamed me?
This taming business is a dangerous profession let me tell you. I do understand what Mr Saint-Exupéry meant with those words. I know exactly what it feels. Each one of my dolls is a surprise, a new person, someone who I've never met. Even though I make them, they must come from somewhere else as so much of who they are doesn't come from me at all. Perhaps it comes from the stars, from dreams, carried over by moon light or sun rays. Perhaps it's breathed onto them. I do not know where exactly they come from, I do not know. But I trust them, and I fully believe in their journey. As I believe in mine. A road of making and sharing and taking photos and living with them and writing and perhaps even understanding a little of what it is that I put inside them: a little bit of me? a piece of dream? a cookie thought?.
Miss Winny will be ready to find her path via auction held on my STORE on Monday February 2nd, from 7 to 10 PM EDT. I have now set up her listing and you can go and check all the particulars of her clothes and construction. I do promise to take more photos of Winny with Poet, so brace yourselves for impact. Thank you so much for reading all this, sharing what I do makes me very happy.