Most of the time, the poor girl – also known as
Buba – lives in a cardboard box stored somewhere in my studio, above the Serge machine I almost never use. I took her out the other day, with the intention of taking new photos, due to the upcoming deadline of a juried exhibition I am participating in.
The day passed without any photos, as I was busy with other things all day long, and there was still enough time before the deadline. So Buba was placed on an ironing board, behind my desk, for the night.
Many years ago, when I was 8 years old or so, a friend of my mother's, an amateur doll maker, gave my mother a few of her dolls for a charity event she had organized. My mother put them on a shelf, where all the other items for the event were placed.
I was very excited by the handmade dolls, but when night came, and the lights were turned off, they suddenly looked completely different to me, and I was so scared of them. I could sleep only when my mother stored them in the closet for the night, and promised not to let them out before sunrise.By morning, they again became the same lovely dolls that I was so excited about and not scary at all.
Time passed, and as all of you already know, I'm not terrified of dolls at night anymore. My home is full of them, and I sleep very well.The other night, when Buba was staying out of her box, and I came to check my e-mail one last time after turning off the lights (yes, I have this stupid habit of checking my e-mail all the time), suddenly she looked different; as if there were truth in all those legends telling of dolls that come to life after dark. She looked real, more than ever.
When morning came, I realized that for the first time ever, I had placed her with her back turned halfway towards the room. At the installation she was part of, she was sitting with her back to the wall. Looking at her from the back revealed to me something I had never seen before.
