Poppalina

Treasure Chest

A Kapinny post

My beloved Grandma will be 91 years old in August. She's very much alive and kicking, in fact she'll kick your Scrabble-playing arse any day you care to take her on.

 

This year, she sold her home and moved to the only actually cool retirement community I've ever heard of. This meant downsizing her formidably large collection of gorgeous STUFF.

And look what ended up in my clutches.

It's a beautiful chest full of crafting things ...

... fabrics, knitting needles, buttons, laces, ribbons and braids.

Fine, hot pink silk; natural linens; batik cotton. A tiny floral print (blue) that she made the dress of my favourite doll from, when I was little. She'd also made the doll, Amelia, whom I loved dearly.

Do you have any gorgeous 'inherited' things in your stash?

  

 

Have You Seen This Doll?

Irene, designed and embroidered by Mym, recently stolen from a storage shed during a house renovation in Balaclava, Melbourne.

The thief in question is most likely a dealer (name withheld, as we have no proof). He went through the shed at his leisure, and mostly took the really valuable stuff, the things that had been in my friend Gillian's family for three generations.

But he also stole Gill's childhood teddy (may he burn in Hell for that), leaving her quite inconsolable. And Mym's doll, Irene, though for the life of me, I can't imagine why. It's of no value to him that I can determine.

I'm hoping Irene will turn up in a second hand shop, somewhere. If anybody sees her, please save her immediately, or let me know, so that I can march round there and beat his head to a pulp with a stuffed toy buy her back.

I haven't had the heart to tell Mym, yet.

Reward offered.

More Art, You Bastards

As far as I can tell, Visual Arts at your average Australian state high school is funded at the rate of approximately 50 cents per student, per annum. Assuming a student actually manages to find their way into the broom cupboard right down the back that is the Art Department, the most creative thing they're going to get time to do there is find a pen that works.

Such things are to be borne, but not graciously. In fact, I bitch about it a lot. I bitch about the fact that the school manages, somehow, to find the funding for a LOT of Compulsory Maths (5 periods a week, all year, till year 10), a subject that I know for a fact my daughter neither learns nor needs, and yet can manage just one hour a fortnight for Art.

Let me repeat that. Onefuckinghourafortnight.

And we wonder why the world's going to Hell in a Handbasket?

Anyway, my only viable response was to step up the art at home. Less computer. Less TV. More art. It's proving a little challenging to implement without screen accompaniment, but I'm holding firm. A Creative Genius is only a Creative Genius if it actually Creates Something Really Really Cool on a Regular Basis. Otherwise, it's just another dumb kid hanging around the schoolyard, talking shit.

Or something like that. It was a Rather Inspired Lecture. Honest.

Many thanks to Sue Scott for Mym's needlefelting lesson, and for the DIY felting presents that came home with us, so we can needlefelt ALL THE TIME, if we want to. DAMN, that woman is cool.

Barbies and Indians

We, at Poppalina, are inordinately fond of our collection of Indian action figures. Of the myriad things we love about India, their enthusiam for producing doll versions of famous people is right up there in our top ten.

For example, Cabinet Minister for Railways, Laloo Prasad. Show me the person who came up with this idea, so I can shake their hand. How come we don't make action figures of our pollies? Consider, for a moment, the fun that could be had with a Tony Abbott doll and a handful of long, sharp pins.

Amitabh Bachchan, soon to be starring in the movie, Shantaram, with Johnny Depp. In India, he is revered as a deity, bigger than the biggest thing you can think of.

Even the latex version manages to look suave.

Kajol, minus the monobrow, which is a bit of a shame, it being her trademark, and one of the things we love about her. If it wasn't for the Famous Green Salwar Kameez, and the fact that she's holding her doll in the photo, we might not have recognised her.

 

And our personal favourite, Sharukh Khan, the dishiest dude in Indian cinema. This doll was hard to come by, let me tell you,

Sharukh. What's not to love?

Personally, I think grown women who collect dolls are a bit spooky, and probably have issues relating to incidents from their childhood. It could be argued that wanting a barbie so badly as a child and then not EVER getting one might leave you bitter, twisted, and prone to bizarre latex sex romps.

Or not. I received a gift from a most lovely woman, yesterday, whilst shopping in a very groovy little kids' shop in Yarraville.

When I unwrapped it at home later, I laughed. Then I cried. And then I laughed some more. I couldn't believe my eyes.

I'm going to be 44 next January. My hair is turning white, and every time I look in the mirror, I am reminded that not only is it all downhill from here, but that it probably has been for the last 15 years or so.

But do I care?

Hell, no.

Because I've finally got my very own Barbie, mate.

Isn't she beautiful?

I feel whole. Fulfilled.

And Jenny Kiely is so totally my New Best Friend.

This is a Barbie Doll

One of Those Moments, frozen for all Eternity in my mind, is the one where Myriam fell in love for the first time. It was a friend's birthday, and said friend was opening mountains of presents, to an audience of thousands, and then casually tossing them over her shoulder as she moved onto the next parcel.

One of the discarded gifts was was a Mermaid Barbie.

From that moment, for Mym, the party was over. For the rest of the afternoon all she had eyes for was that Barbie. She sat with the box, staring at the doll inside, not blinking, for about 3 hours. She never once asked to take it out of the box, because she knew it wasn't hers. She never said a word. She missed the food, the games, everything. She was gone. I sat quietly next to her, not wanting to break the spell and trying not to cry, as I prayed to the Universe for a way to get her one without starving us both to death. Any opinion about appropriate toys for kids, feminist values, or any other preconceived notion of parenting I had ever possessed, melted away to nothing. I will never forget the look on her face.

I blew the budget sky high to buy Mermaid Barbie for her 3rd birthday, which was only a few weeks later. I have no memory of the baked beans we probably lived on for awhile, which goes to show how little that really mattered. I probably would have killed someone, if necessary, to get it.

What I do remember is her and the Mermaid Barbie. The one that she was invited to take out of the box and play with, on her birthday. And bath with (Mermaid Barbie magically changed colour in hot water). And sleep with. And everything else with. They were inseparable for a Very Long Time.

She had other Barbies, over the years, as our circumstances changed, and Barbies became more affordable. But none ever mattered more than this one. Mym never cut Mermaid Barbie's hair, painted her face or pulled off her legs, like the others, and Mermaid Barbie, not surprisingly, was the only one to survive.

I still have her, of course. She sits on my bath, for easy access should I ever need to grab her as I flee a burning-down house. Strangely, I can't look at Mermaid Barbie without my eyes inexplicably leaking, as thyroidal eyes are wont to do. For purely clinical reasons, you understand.

A Jumper for Noah

A Doll landed in our letterbox from Portugal, via Canada and Coogee.

Meet Noah, the Travelling Gnome, designed by Rosa Pomar.

Noah's roaming the world, with his dear little passport. With stamps, and everything. That I forgot to photograph.

When he arrived at our house, his impressively liberated (but climatically inappropriate) state of general nudeness prompted us to knit him a jumper immediately. A really supercosy one, in mohair boucle, with lucite buttons to make him feel special. And looking more like the locals.

And, after much Foxtel, risotto, and a few standing poses, he departed this afternoon for Japan.

We were a little sorry to see him go.

He was such a good eater.

Here's hoping Ping gives him some arms, so he can learn to feed himself.

See the Pictorial Adventures of Noah here.

Disco Cindy

Nothing like a Fed Ex parcel from India to cure those Monday morning blues.

When we were in Bombay last Christmas, I did actually manage to do a little research. A friend set me up with a beading company and, caught unawares, I gave them one of Mym's little dolls that I happened to be carrying, to sample.

Today, this turned up on my doorstep. And it made me laugh out loud.

And once I got over the shock of how different it was to the original, I decided I rather liked it. Yet another example of how images transform through medium and interpretation.

I can't produce this as a doll. It's too small (about 10cm high), the seam allowances just aren't there, and the beading will get ruined in the rough and tumble of turning it all right side out.

But I can use it as an applique. The possiblities are endless.

Please tell me what you think, and any ideas you might have. And be honest. There's no point me ordering 50 billion of these if I'm the only person who likes it.

I also tried to have the wedding jacket sampled. But it will cost over US$100 a piece to make. I don't think it's viable.

Still Life with Chook

One of the nice things about being at a Steiner school is the fact that crafting is not only appreciated, but actively encouraged.

The school abounds in crafty kids and parents.

I found a woman who dyes wool for felting and spinning. I don't know her name, (though there are bloggers out there who do), but her business is called Craft Circle, based in Yarraville.

I got very excited, and bought some immediately.

(Just try to ignore Rude Chicken, he's actually got nothing to do with this post. It's the kind of thing that happens when your photographic assistant is a dog.)

There is a tendency sometimes, though, for the craft to be a little on the conservative side. Mym, who is a newcomer to the Steiner Program, missed the doll-making component last term, much to her disappointment, so decided to try her hand at a Steiner doll.

Being of a playfully gothic disposition, and inspired by the works of various interesting crafters , she added an extra head. And a few safety pins.

She named it Peewee, and proudly presented it to the class.

The response was one of unanimous dismay. No one could understand why she would want to make a doll with two heads. Her teacher (very nicely) asked her to take it home and remove one of the heads. I think he found it disturbing.

She brought it home. But the head stays. As she furiously pointed out, how's she supposed to decide which head gets to die? Pee, or Wee?

'It would be like pulling the arms off my teddy! What is he? Insane?!', she stormed.

She also said a number of other things. Things to make her truck-driving forefathers proud. All of them unrepeatable.

Grownups (sigh). There are some things they just don't understand.

And I guess the mind of a 12 year old Creative Genius is one of them.

Yeah, well. The line forms to the left.

Cindy

This was the Morphe doll I couldn't part with.

From the feet up.... such an underrated part of the anatomy. And I have this thing for shoes.

I didn't get her finished in time for Morphe, anyway. She's so small (only 5" high), that she had to be put together by hand. And that was much trickier than it sounds. Mym exhibits the most flagrant disregard for seam allowances.

I've been experiencing Crafter's Block. For the first time ever. I go into the studio and ....... nothing. Or worse; 8 hours later I would end up undoing everything in utter disgust. I became afraid to go into the studio, because the lack of result was devastating.

If I've learnt anything, it's how important crafting is to me, and my sense of who I am. Life without craft is like being breathed on by one of those Black Riders in Lord of the Rings, (and we all know how scary they are). Abyss. All the way.

However, thanks to some much-appreciated support from my fellow crafters, I believe I may just have come through it. It helps to know that Collapses of Faith happen to other people, too. Especially ones you admire.

I finished something, anyway, and that has to be a Good Thing. Here's hoping....

A Well Travelled Doll

A doll I bought on Ebay nearly a year ago arrived last week.

Originally from Belgium, she found her way mysteriously to the US, where I bought her for a song. Unfortunately, the seller was of the genus non-co-operatus, probably miffed that I hadn't paid enough for her (I am a Bargain Diva, after all), and refused to post to Australia. So I had her sent to my godmother in New York, and promptly forgot all about her.

Cheryle, puzzled, awaited further instructions (not forthcoming) and finally carried her rather elaborately (and inconveniently) back to Melbourne in her hand luggage, many, many moons later. Another one I owe her.

She's quite gorgeous, with a ceramic, handpainted face:

A very dear little felt pinny (love that word, pinny), a little grubby, but none the less dear for all that:

and hand carved, balsa wood clogs. I'd say she's stuffed either with straw, or possibly even horsehair. She's very firm and stiff, and vaguely crunchy:

I am currently on a self-imposed ban from all things Ebay. It's hard. I'm thinking of joining Ebay Anonymous.