Showing posts with label collectables. Show all posts
Showing posts with label collectables. Show all posts

Friday, December 26, 2014

Creepiest doll EVER?? You decide




This time, no gifs. This time, every precaution must be taken to keep the windows from blowing out and the ceiling caving in. The dead shall live, the corpses shall rise from the cemetery, and the world will listen, as Baby Saucy begins to speak! Talk about twisting someone's arm to get them to do something - to get any sort of facial expression out of this thing, you practically have to wrench its arm off. Some of the videos make such hideous sounds that - oh well, here's another one for you.




I post these only because it's a little bit difficult to describe just what is going on here. Technically, I can't begin to explain what's happening. There must be some sort of awful mechanism grinding around behind the skin of her Stepford Baby face, pulling it this way and that. The crunching, cracking, popping noises suggest cartilage being twisted, limbs pulled out of their sockets and bones snapped in two.




I can imagine some little girl getting one of these on Christmas morning. No, I can't.








(I lied about the gifs.)

Monday, June 10, 2013

Creepiest gifs you ever saw!




I gif too much. I'm just too much of a giffer in every sense. And now this new conflict comes into my life (as if I needed one): I'm finding out I pronounce the name of my beloved mini-vids wrong, or at least wrong by the reckoning of the geniuses who invented them.

I'm spozed to say "jiff", like the peanut butter. "Giff" like I've been saying it doesn't make it cuz it isn't correct. Even worse is the way I used to pronounce it, spelled-out-like: gee eye eff.

Why NOT gee eye eff? We say "pee en gee", don't we, not "ping" or "pinge"? The arguments about this on the internet are endless and truly heated. I'm going to have to come up with my own bloody name, but until then. . .

Creepiness delights me, always has, and even more as I get older and closer to my own inevitable creepage. When I found troves of Victorian automatons on YouTube, by yar, I was off to the races.




This is Nancy the life-size automaton, and she can knit and tap her foot and stuff, but who cares about all that when you have a face like this? Those shifty eyes are something to behold. Worse than human.




Was this supposed to be pleasant at one time, do you suppose? Or did people enjoy a bit of after-dinner queasiness now and again?






They don't know how to make dolls like this any more. It would be banned immediately.




This is a rabbit violinist, mighty ratty by today's standards. I wish he'd stop looking at me like that.



I call this one Hellhound.








Saving the best 'til last, this one was featured in my Dead Monk in the Middle of the Road post of a while back. I apologize for the teeny size and graininess, but it was all I could find. This astonishing artifact came from 1560 and represents a monk who looks diseased, if not demented. He seems to speak across the centuries.

But what is he saying? If we could hear his utterances from deep in the mists of antiquity, what would they be?

"Bluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluhbluh!"




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Sunday, January 22, 2012

Chatty Cathy's great-great-great grandmother



Oh Lor', oh Lor', we can't get OFF this topic now.

I've known about this little monster ever since I wrote a novel called Bus People back in 2005. (Yes, that's right. Bus People. Ever heard of it?) One of the characters was obsessed with old wax cylinder recordings and eventually found herself talking to one of them. Imagine her surprise when the recording talked back.




This doll talks back too, in a wretched, wobbling voice that must have been pretty awful even when it was first recorded on a tiny gramophone-like disc inserted into the doll's hard metallic abdomen. (Like Chatty Cathy, whom she resembles in many ways, she has a grillwork of holes in her back to let out the sound.) This recording is particularly gruesome because in the "cleaned-up" version she sounds even worse, like a bug in a bottle.















These dolls didn't last long because they broke after only a few cranks, and the mechanism inside couldn't be fixed. Most of them were returned for a full refund, but the remainders soon became collectibles. I'm not sure any of them really play any more: it's possible this horrible sound has been recreated just to scare the bejeezus out of us on an otherwise peaceful Sunday.

Do I have to post any more creepy doll pictures? Please. I really need to lie down now.











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Embalmed beauty: the dolls of Marina Bychkova




Oh great, now I have a new obsession! These dolls really are fetish objects and are very, very strange. Beautiful, but disturbing.

They are created by a young Russian-Canadian artist who lives right here in Vancouver, Marina Bychkova. Her eerily-beautiful Enchanted Dolls are celebrated and avidly collected all over the world.














Dolls are supposed to be the province of little girls, playthings that are somehow expected to imbue them with the desire for conventional social roles (wife, mother, virgin-whore). If Bychkova's dolls are playthings, then Barbie is a stick of dynamite.

Loaded.




These dolls have some highly unusual features. I doubt if I can name them all.

(a) they all have childlike, barely-pubescent bodies and look both virginal and somehow spoiled or besmirched; 

(b) many have tears swimming in their eyes, melancholy expressions and pouty lips;

(c) most, if not all, express a theme of captivity, i.e. heavily-costumed royal figures, concubines and erotic slaves, some even displayed under glass bell jars (and at least one has bound feet, which I have written about in a couple of other posts);



(d) many are meant to be displayed nude, and all the joints show, very creepily, as if they are mechanical (which they are!), contrasting with their “lifelike” faces;






(e) in spite of their waxy-looking marionette-like bodies, the poses are eerily natural due to the extreme flexibility of the ball-jointed limbs;

(f) they all have visible genitalia, which you just don’t expect on an adolescent-girl doll (and which has led to some ludicrous examples of censorship, such as pulling the dolls from store window displays);

(g) the fingernails look bitten-down or broken-off, as if the doll has been scratching and clawing to get away from something;



(h) many of the costumes/contexts are from darker versions of ancient stories and Grimm’s fairy tales;

(i) paradoxically, there’s something modern, stylish and haute-couture about them which contrasts with their ancient roots;

(j) the dolls remind me very strongly of the Victorian post-mortem photography I explored in a previous post;

















(k) the dolls call forth a welter of responses, as in: awe; admiration; disgust; horror; feeling creeped-out; curiosity; obsession; sexual fixation; maternal response (i.e. wanting to take care of wounded little girls); anger (i.e. these dolls all seem to have been sexually trespassed); confusion (not knowing why you feel all these things, not being able to find a context for them); feeling disoriented, as if lost in the woods (no other way to describe it); suffocation; astonishment (when realizing the artist is only in her 20s, and that the dolls can sell for $40,000.00); and on and on it goes.  So looking at these things (and they are, after all, “things”), you really don’t know how to feel.



That kind of response usually means we're in the presence of real art, whose purpose is not to please us so much as to throw us off-balance. They seem to “make a statement”, and that can seem tedious after you’ve seen the fiftieth face with pouty lips and brimming eyes. Then you see some of the costumes and you want to fall over.

It seems impossible. NO one could have created anything this sumptuous and elaborate. It seems like a throwback to some past century, when women spent the entire day embroidering and sewing on minuscule glass beads.

This dollmaker whose creations seem to exude so much subversive feminism seems to spend the majority of her time doing traditional women's work. The paradoxes never end.

My own response to the dolls has been confusing. Whatever she is trying to accomplish, she must be doing it if she can command prices like that, where she would only need to sell a few per year to keep going. Also, how can she have produced so many? Seems like it must be in the hundreds. All different, but somehow, creepily, all the same, with identical bodies unless customized with elaborate tattoos (or pubic hair, or even "bites and wounds": no, I'm not making this up, it's on her web site,  http://www.enchanteddoll.com/index.html



Also, if these "things" are made of porcelain, how can their faces be intricately molded like that? I don’t know. I thought porcelain was like china. They are “fired”, according to an article I found. There is almost nothing on her web site, and that too adds to the mystique: just how does she produce these things?


There is a book coming out, but it’s limited edition and $75.00, so I won’t be getting one any time soon. Meantime, I think of this as a rather unhealthy obsession (but maybe useful in getting me away from Harold. Oh my God, what if I had a Harold Lloyd doll?! I would be busy all day. Come to think of it, his Glass Character, with its white face and stylized clothing, is doll-like in many ways.)



Strangely enough, I had quite a few pictures of Bychkova's dolls filed away in my Favorites section, maybe for a year or two, and didn’t feel much curiosity about them until now. So I’m opening a treasure-trove, or unleashing a floodgate, or however you want to express it. And one that has been there all the time. What a bizarre phenomenon, such a strange art! It reminds me, for some reason, of people who used to paint beautiful faces on corpses so they would look "lifelike" during the funeral. Embalmed beauty. (p.s. do I have a favorite? Yes, I do. Imperial Concubine. Not sure why; she is both tearful and regal, and her costume is to die for.)






 

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