Doll Conference in Mississippi
I just got back from a trip to Mississippi for the annual Crucial Doll Exhibition. I don't know how to link, so you'll have to google it. It was held at the Southern Miss in Oxford, MS.
As fate would have it, the conference took place at the same time as two similar events. A special bichon dog exhibit and a conference on Scandinavian literature. The dog show had an old-fashioned southern band playing for the dogs. I hate those dogs. The people next to me in the motel had little yappers with them in the room and those damned animals woke me at an ungodly hour.
The doll people, though I go every year, disgust me. I think they are all perverts who secretly build fuck dolls. They have the eyes and shuddery hands of masturbators. Their hands are clammy. It's a wonder they can work the needle at all. And no creativity, no vision, no awareness of the spiritual potential of dolls. They are obsessed with recreating the same dolls year after year, trying to perfect a dead style. The style was really was invented in the 1960s, but these people treat it like a timeless truth. It makes me sick. While protesters were struggling to end the war in Vietnam, these perverts sat at home in front of their televisions subliminating their desires into these bland dolls. Sublimination style. That's what I'm going to call it. It reminds me of the bichons.
Anyway, the Scandinavians seem equally impressed with playwrights from the 19th century. One of them apparently believed that having sex drained his creative powers, so he would abstain from sex for a month and during that month complete a masterpiece. According to the journals (these perverted scholars will dip into the most private matters), it was a real struggle for him. He seemed to like sex even more than writing plays.
What these things have in common is that for several years I've been developing a theory of doll-making influenced by Artaud's "Theater of Cruelty."
As fate would have it, the conference took place at the same time as two similar events. A special bichon dog exhibit and a conference on Scandinavian literature. The dog show had an old-fashioned southern band playing for the dogs. I hate those dogs. The people next to me in the motel had little yappers with them in the room and those damned animals woke me at an ungodly hour.
The doll people, though I go every year, disgust me. I think they are all perverts who secretly build fuck dolls. They have the eyes and shuddery hands of masturbators. Their hands are clammy. It's a wonder they can work the needle at all. And no creativity, no vision, no awareness of the spiritual potential of dolls. They are obsessed with recreating the same dolls year after year, trying to perfect a dead style. The style was really was invented in the 1960s, but these people treat it like a timeless truth. It makes me sick. While protesters were struggling to end the war in Vietnam, these perverts sat at home in front of their televisions subliminating their desires into these bland dolls. Sublimination style. That's what I'm going to call it. It reminds me of the bichons.
Anyway, the Scandinavians seem equally impressed with playwrights from the 19th century. One of them apparently believed that having sex drained his creative powers, so he would abstain from sex for a month and during that month complete a masterpiece. According to the journals (these perverted scholars will dip into the most private matters), it was a real struggle for him. He seemed to like sex even more than writing plays.
What these things have in common is that for several years I've been developing a theory of doll-making influenced by Artaud's "Theater of Cruelty."
posted by The Softest Person at 3:12 PM
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