Di's hand-crafted 'reborn babies' filling a sales niche
Kate Matthews
7th Mar 2013 2:00 PM
Di McGavigan with one of her realistic reborn dolls. Photo: Adam Hourigan
THEY may look exactly like real- life babies, but don't be fooled,
these beautiful dolls have been crafted by the loving hands of South
Grafton's Di McGavigan.
Known as reborns, each one takes about 50 hours to create - thankfully
far less than the 6500 hours it takes to make a real one.
Ms McGavigan said the moment she first laid eyes on one seven years ago she was captivated.
"My sister turned up on my doorstep with a baby in a shawl - I asked her who's baby have you got?" said Ms McGavigan
"I saw this little thing and thought, oh my God this is beautiful - just like a real baby."
Occasionally Ms McGavigan enjoys taking one or two of her "babies" with
her while she runs errands and says sometimes when people see them and
realise they are dolls, they get startled, but everyone is curious.
"I know some people say it's freaky but I think they are beautiful," she said.
After spending months researching and talking to other doll makers
through online forums, Di purchased a kit and began making her own.
Finally she decided to enter a competition and began sculpting them
from clay and recently created three original babies of her own, from
which she makes her own kits.
Although Di kept the first one, she prefers to sell them, with many of her babies having found new homes all around the world.
"I've got to a point now I'm established, I can make them and sell them as a source of income when I retire," she said.
"I know it can be very expensive for some people; they are an heirloom
doll, but for many, once they have one they want another one.
"I know some people have a massive collection."
Like the lady in Western Australian who ordered a sleeping baby and
returned soon after for a toddler, and another lady in Perth who now has
40 of Di's dolls in her collection.
A handful of babies have also found homes locally, with the South Grafton Newsagent now displaying a selection.
Di also sells them from her home, Cottage Lane, where she works part-time as a hairdresser.
She estimates she has made about 300 dolls over the years, mostly in her spare time.
Each one is individually crafted with incredible attention to detail.
"I like to imagine them opening the box," she said. "I try to make it a special experience."
She said sometimes the cost and time it took to make her reborns could
leave her out of pocket, but she loved the art and couldn't imagine
giving it up.
"It's an expensive hobby, but a very rewarding one," she said.
Fast facts
Each doll is carefully hand painted with real-life skin tones, blemishes, veins, even little scratches.
Each hair is micro rooted, one at a time, using mohair
Each reborn doll has its own tiny fingernails and toenails.
The dolls are then assembled and weighted, including a floppy head, fully poseable limbs, and a soft cuddly body.
Finally they are dressed and swaddled in a bunny rug, before being
lovingly wrapped in tissue paper, packaged and shipped ready to meet
their new owners, complete with a birth certificate and dummy.
Virtual babies for Birmingham schoolgirls as they get a lesson in motherhood
Acocks Green school pupils given lifelike dolls in need of feeding, changing, sleep and all-round care.
Parent-training dolls await their new 'mums' at Archbishop Ilsley Catholic School
What’s it like juggling homework with a screaming baby, countless nappy changes and no sleep? Education Correspondent Kat Keogh
finds out how one city school is giving their pupils a taste of teenage parenthood – with the help of a virtual baby.
For most teenagers, their life is a whirlwind of homework, school discos, first kisses and social media.
But for hundreds of schoolgirls the carefree years are dramatically cut short as they fall pregnant.
Latest figures from the city council reveal there were more than 700 teenage pregnancies across Birmingham during 2011.
In Acocks Green, some 31 girls aged 15-17 became pregnant – one of the highest numbers of any city ward.
But
one local school which is doing its bit to give pupils a lesson in the
realities of parenthood is Archbishop Ilsley Catholic School.
Earlier
this month, the Acocks Green school took a special delivery of 30
“virtual babies”; life-like dolls which are programmed to cry, sleep and
wet their nappies.
2011
The 7lb dolls are far from dummies, and mimic the behaviour of a
young baby in needing to be fed, burped, changed, rocked and cared for.
A group of 30 girls signed up to the challenge of taking care of their own infant for three days.
An
electronic chip records everything that happens to the baby while in the
pupil’s care – whether they well looked after or not. The girls
suffered sleepless nights and saw their social lives take a back seat as
their doll demanded round the clock care.
Gayle
Wattrus, head of health and social care at Archbishop Ilsley, said the
project was designed to show how caring for a baby is a full-time job.
“The
aim of the programme is to enable our young people to learn from
experience what it is means to become a parent,” she said of the scheme,
which is now in its fourth year at the school.
“This
unique weekend gives our young people a real eye opener of how hard it
is to be a parent, especially a working parent and allows them to make
informed choices about their future.
“We
don’t want to put them off having children, but this is about showing
them how difficult it would be to have a child to look after at their
age, and the huge responsibility which goes with being a teenage
parent.”
Among those who signed up to the scheme was sixth form student Hannah Jackson.
The
17-year-old was able to leave her doll in a special “virtual baby
crèche” while she attended lessons, but had to enlist the help of her
family to help her look after the tot over the weekend.
Archbishop Ilsley Catholic School pupils with their dolls
Hannah also revealed people reacted differently to her with a child
in tow, and how she even took a taxi to school to avoid comments from
bus passengers.
“I was on the bus with a pushchair and the baby in it that I realised I was getting strange looks,” she said.
“One
woman on the bus turned round and asked me how old the baby was. I had
to explain it was not a real baby, but a robot baby and the reason for
having it.
“She then laughed and said that I did look a bit young to have a baby.”
The virtual babies have now been sent back the manufacturer, which will download a “care report” to show how the pupils fared.
All pupils, and their families, have also completed evaluation forms on how they found the experience.
“We find the experience has on the girls’ families too.
“It promotes discussions in the family which they might not have had before about teenage pregnancy.
“But
perhaps the biggest lesson of all is just how difficult it is to look
after a baby, and still be a teenager who goes to school and enjoying a
social life.”
Archbishop Ilsley Catholic school pupils Tegan Kelly (14) and Hannah Jackson (17) with their dolls
My baby diary
by Archbishop Ilsley School pupil Tegan Kelly, aged 14.
• Thursday 5pm
My baby has just been activated. It’s been amazing, so far so good.
At the present moment it looks like it’s just having a nice sleep, hopefully she isn’t a fussy baby. • Friday 12am
Really can’t believe my baby is awake and crying so loudly this time
of the morning because it wants a long feed – I can’t even keep my eyes
open! • Friday 4.30am
My attempt at sleep didn’t work whatsoever and the feeling I have school today, which makes me feel even worse.
I want sleep please! • Friday 5.30am
Might as well get up and get the baby dressed, because I know she isn’t going to sleep.
As
I was getting her dressed she looked so nice. I put her hat and coat on
so I could get ready for school myself, but that didn’t happen.
She
started crying and I presumed it was a nappy change so I had to take all
her clothes off, but when I put her new nappy on she still kept crying. • Friday 3pm
Just picked my baby up from the crèche – here’s where the nightmare begins.
Getting a lift home from school because I’m not getting on public transport with this fake baby. • Friday 4.30pm
Trying to get ready to go to my youth group and my baby is crying
again for absolutely nothing, why can’t it be quiet for just ten
minutes? • Friday 9pm
Just got home from my youth group, what a crazy night.
The
baby played up the entire night and didn’t stop crying. Felt like it
wanted to drink a whole cow and didn’t burp for what felt like years.
I’m going to bed very tired tonight. • Saturday 7am
My baby is up and dressed, it has had a bottle and has been burped. I
just might get myself a cup of tea and relax before she starts crying
again. • Saturday 12pm
My baby is starting to get even better. She went to sleep at 10am and slept for two hours until now, that did me good.
My mum has kindly made me a full cooked breakfast. The baby isn’t even crying, I can’t hear a peep out of her.
When I clicked through a New York Times slide show of Rebecca Martinez’s
arresting photographs of the “Reborn” subculture—a group of mostly
women who collect or create and “care for” incredibly life-like baby
dolls—my initial reaction was, “these women are bananas.” Martinez’s
subjects are photographed clutching the dolls to their breasts, holding
bottles up to their pursed lips, nuzzling their little plastic heads,
all with the tender, tired facial expressions familiar from mothers of
real, live newborns.
But after I talked to Martinez,
I was able to understand, at least to some degree, and respect the
motivations of these women, whom she describes as having “a very strong
desire to nurture.” All of Martinez’s work deals with “illusionary
objects” that fulfill emotional, spiritual or psychological needs. She’s
done a series of photographs of artificial crime scenes and recreations
of plane crashes, which provoke extreme responses, but none so visceral
as her Reborn photographs. Those babies are “the most powerful objects
I’ve ever worked with,” Martinez says, because they’re so realistic.
They not only look, but feel, very much like living infants.
The “Reborn” women she photographed have a range of reasons for
embracing this unusual hobby, Martinez says. Some never had children and
wished they did; some merely love caring for newborns, and want to have
some access to that feeling after they’re past reproducing; some are
just doll enthusiasts who appreciate the artistry of the infant dolls.
One woman Martinez photographed was a prison guard by day, and by night,
she made babies. Another woman is a former Playboy bunny who now runs a
nursery.
A third, who became a friend of Martinez’s, “spent her whole life
nurturing and taking care of her two disabled parents, and then when she
got older, she became a midwife, and birthed hundreds of real babies,
and adopted children, many children, children who were not very
adoptable,” Martinez explains. “She became a Reborn artist because she
just had so much love to give.”
There are three parts to Martinez’s series, which she’s named “pre.Tenders,” and the New York Times only
showed the section that documents Reborn conventions, where women in
the community get together to share their babies and buy new ones.
Martinez also took photographs of people outside the community reacting
to the life-like dolls. And finally she took photographs of actresses,
notably Carrie Fisher, interacting with the dolls. Another actress,
Donna Vivino, was moved to dress up like a ’50s housewife and put the
baby in the oven like a roast—a literal interpretation of the
oft-expressed emotion, “that baby is so cute I just want to eat him up.”
I have a cute newborn of my own, which I assume is part of why I had
such an intense reaction to Martinez’s photographs at first glance. I
love my child, but I couldn’t imagine why someone would want to
pantomime the more laborious parts of baby care without the satisfaction
that comes from raising another human. Martinez showed me the flip
side. “They’re idealized babies,” so there is no diaper changing, she
said. She also pointed out that while the babies’ limbs move around,
their expressions are fixed. Martinez sent me a photograph of a woman
who has a reborn that is always laughing, and she’s laughing along with
it. There is a pure human joy there, one that defies facile judgment.
Most human beings swoon at the first sight of a baby. No matter how
homely — or loud — they elicit a primal response from pretty much
everyone.
But not Rebecca Martinez.
She’s a perfectly nice 62-year-old photographer
who was the oldest of seven children, which meant that she spent much
of her childhood caring for her siblings: helping her mother change,
feed and bathe them in their Los Angeles home. After that, there was no
romance for her in having or raising a child, so she never had any of
her own.
Still, she does have many “part-time children in her
life,” and she is always interested in exploring unfamiliar worlds and
feelings.
That led her to immerse herself for five years in the Reborn
subculture, a growing group, almost exclusively women, who collect
shockingly lifelike handmade dolls of newborn babies. Many of them treat
the dolls as if they were real members of their families — taking them
shopping and out to restaurants.
“Many of them have a very, very
strong genetic makeup to nurture and they love babies,” Ms. Martinez
said. “And many are mothers. A lot of people think these are people who
can’t have children. Some are, but many of them have children and love
the baby stage of nurturing. They can love a baby, they can nurture it
in a permanent way.”
Each doll is unique and made by individual
artists of varying degrees of skill. Once completed, they are ”adopted”
from “nurseries” that sell the dolls, for anywhere from a few hundred
dollars to up to $15,000. They come with names and often adoption
papers.
Reborn culture started around 1990, with people stripping the paint
and hair off store-bought vinyl dolls and painstakingly reworking them
to be more lifelike. Now some people use kits with doll parts that when
assembled are weighted to feel like a real infant when held.
After
discovering this movement, Ms. Martinez bought her own doll for
research and started exploring the burgeoning subculture, attending
conventions, photographing baby-beauty contests, baby showers, owners
and artisans.
“In general, most of the women are Anglo,
conservative, Christian and right-to-lifers,” Ms. Martinez said. “All of
the things that I’m not.”
When Ms. Martinez travels, she will
sometimes bring one of her own five reborn dolls to photograph people’s
reactions. She prefers to carry them in open bags because she feels
uneasy putting them into closed containers, and her suitcases are always
searched by airport security if a doll shows up in a scan. This leads
to unusual encounters — like when other people in line get upset
thinking that a real baby is about to be harmed by X-rays as they pass
through security
“These dolls are very powerful objects,” she said. “If I bring one of
these dolls out, there’ll be a group of people around me very, very
fast. They soon know it’s not real, but people have very strong
reactions. I’ve seen people who will hold them, and their bodies will
start responding and they’ll be rocking them. And then they realize and
feel a little embarrassed.”
Sometimes, women who have lost a
newborn have commissioned artists to make a reborn doll that looks
exactly like their deceased baby. Modeled after photographs of the real
infant, these dolls are called portrait babies.
One of her subjects, Min Lee (Slide 12)
who runs a “nursery,” sells most of her dolls to customers in China.
While some of them adopt dolls that look Chinese, the majority want
Caucasian-looking babies, as do most buyers elsewhere.
While Ms.
Martinez respects the work of many of the artists who create reborn
dolls, she does not share the feelings of the women who make up this
subculture.
“For me, they’re dolls that are beautifully made,
crafted, but part of my fascination is I don’t feel these things,” she
said. “I’m fascinated by how people react, but I’m very, very neutral
about them.”
Everyone has different obsessions, but ultimately,
Ms. Martinez’s series “PreTenders” is about people choosing whom — or
what — to love.
“It is a personal choice, where we put those
emotions,” she said. “People will love people and living creatures, but
when people choose something that’s not real, and project all this love
into that, I do my best to try to understand it.”
“People are less
judging when men choose to love an inanimate object like a racing car,”
she added. “Why are people so judging when women choose to love
something that looks so real?”
Ms. Martinez’s “preTenders” first came to our attention by way of fotovisura. Ms. Martinez will participate in a group show, “The Reality of Fiction,” at Redline art space in Denver from March 8 through April 28.
By JAMES ESTRIN
Most human beings swoon at the first sight of a baby. No matter how
homely — or loud — they elicit a primal response from pretty much
everyone.
But not Rebecca Martinez.
She’s a perfectly nice 62-year-old photographer
who was the oldest of seven children, which meant that she spent much
of her childhood caring for her siblings: helping her mother change,
feed and bathe them in their Los Angeles home. After that, there was no
romance for her in having or raising a child, so she never had any of
her own.
Still, she does have many “part-time children in her life,” and she
is always interested in exploring unfamiliar worlds and feelings.
That led her to immerse herself for five years in the Reborn
subculture, a growing group, almost exclusively women, who collect
shockingly lifelike handmade dolls of newborn babies. Many of them treat
the dolls as if they were real members of their families — taking them
shopping and out to restaurants.
“Many of them have a very, very strong genetic makeup to nurture and
they love babies,” Ms. Martinez said. “And many are mothers. A lot of
people think these are people who can’t have children. Some are, but
many of them have children and love the baby stage of nurturing. They
can love a baby, they can nurture it in a permanent way.”
Each doll is unique and made by individual artists of varying degrees
of skill. Once completed, they are ”adopted” from “nurseries” that sell
the dolls, for anywhere from a few hundred dollars to up to $15,000.
They come with names and often adoption papers.
A workshop teaches artists how to apply realistic-looking hair, made of very fine mohair, to the dolls’ heads.
Reborn culture started around 1990, with people stripping the paint
and hair off store-bought vinyl dolls and painstakingly reworking them
to be more lifelike. Now some people use kits with doll parts that when
assembled are weighted to feel like a real infant when held.
After discovering this movement, Ms. Martinez bought her own doll for
research and started exploring the burgeoning subculture, attending
conventions, photographing baby-beauty contests, baby showers, owners
and artisans.
“In general, most of the women are Anglo, conservative, Christian and
right-to-lifers,” Ms. Martinez said. “All of the things that I’m not.”
When Ms. Martinez travels, she will sometimes bring one of her own
five reborn dolls to photograph people’s reactions. She prefers to carry
them in open bags because she feels uneasy putting them into closed
containers, and her suitcases are always searched by airport security if
a doll shows up in a scan. This leads to unusual encounters — like when
other people in line get upset thinking that a real baby is about to be
harmed by X-rays as they pass through security.
“Emmy in Overhead.”
“These dolls are very powerful objects,” she said. “If I bring one of
these dolls out, there’ll be a group of people around me very, very
fast. They soon know it’s not real, but people have very strong
reactions. I’ve seen people who will hold them, and their bodies will
start responding and they’ll be rocking them. And then they realize and
feel a little embarrassed.”
Sometimes, women who have lost a newborn have commissioned artists to
make a reborn doll that looks exactly like their deceased baby. Modeled
after photographs of the real infant, these dolls are called portrait
babies.
One of her subjects, Min Lee (Slide 12) who runs a
“nursery,” sells most of her dolls to customers in China. While some of
them adopt dolls that look Chinese, the majority want Caucasian-looking
babies, as do most buyers elsewhere.
While Ms. Martinez respects the work of many of the artists who
create reborn dolls, she does not share the feelings of the women who
make up this subculture.
“For me, they’re dolls that are beautifully made, crafted, but part
of my fascination is I don’t feel these things,” she said. “I’m
fascinated by how people react, but I’m very, very neutral about them.”
Everyone has different obsessions, but ultimately, Ms. Martinez’s
series “PreTenders” is about people choosing whom — or what — to love.
“It is a personal choice, where we put those emotions,” she said.
“People will love people and living creatures, but when people choose
something that’s not real, and project all this love into that, I do my
best to try to understand it.”
“People are less judging when men choose to love an inanimate object
like a racing car,” she added. “Why are people so judging when women
choose to love something that looks so real?”
Sally Charnock is a collector in Britain. She
specializes in collecting babies with expressions — crying, yawning,
reactive in some way.
Former Manhattanville doll factory has half-century past in neighborhood
While its 131st Street factory put out its final doll last
year, the Madame Alexander brand is still well-known around the country
and has deep connections to the Manhattanville community.
By Kimberly Shen and Hallie Nell Swanson
Columbia Daily Spectator
Published February 12, 2013
On an upper floor of a Columbia building in Manhattanville, a factory put out a steady stream of lifelike, detailed dolls for decades.
Founded in 1923, the Madame Alexander Doll Company moved to Columbia’s Studebaker Building, on 131st Street between Broadway and 12th Avenue, in the ’50s.
But while the 131st Street factory put out its final doll last year,
the Madame Alexander brand is still well-known around the country. The
company relocated to 34th Street in October, a move motivated by a
merger with the Kahn Lucas Lancaster children’s clothing company.
“We wanted to be closer to Kahn Lucas,” Alexander Doll Company
President Gale Jarvis said. “We have adjusted just fine. We like where
we were then and we like where we are now.”
Before its relocation, the company had deep ties to Harlem. In the
mid-1950s, the company moved to Harlem’s manufacturing neighborhood in
pursuit of cheaper rents. It found a home in the Studebaker Building,
one of the few buildings on Columbia’s Manhattanville campus that the
University is preserving during its current expansion.
During difficult times in the late ’80s and early ’90s, the company
stayed in the area largely out of loyalty to its employees, many of whom
lived within two miles of the factory.
Madame Alexander had a strong community connection in an area of high
unemployment. The skill set the factory required was most easily found
in the inner city, with many employees from the Dominican Republic
having learned to sew before coming to New York.
Increasing popularity made the company one of the largest private
employers in Harlem during the 1990s, when it had about 600 employees,
according to the New York State Urban Development Corporation. The site
also included a Heritage Gallery of old dolls and a doll hospital for
dolls under repair.
However, the factory became increasingly isolated as the
Manhattanville manufacturing district declined and nearby buildings were
vacated.
The company was sold in 1988 to two New York businessmen after
founder Beatrice Alexander suffered a serious heart attack. In 1991 the
company planned to move the factory to 155th Street, but the plan fell
through because it failed to attract the financial backing needed.
Madame Alexander finally merged with Kahn Lucas in 2012.
The iconic dolls were known for their elaborate detail, including
hair that could be styled, detailed eyelashes and knuckles, and eyes
that opened and closed. In 1963, the franchise expanded to include
designer clothes for the dolls, created by Alexander herself.
Judy Ishayik, the manager of the city’s oldest continuously operating
toy store (Mary Arnold Toys, on Lexington Avenue between 72nd and 73rd
streets), said that “the detail that Madame Alexander puts into their
dolls is really amazing.”
“They are really sweet—you can tell just by looking at them that
they’re great quality. They have such pretty faces, the accessories are
really appealing,” Ishayik said. “Sometimes little girls come in looking
at the display cases we have Madame Alexander in and start their own
collections that day, the dolls are just so beautiful.”
Alexander, the late founder of the company, was the daughter of a
Russian émigré. She grew up playing in her father’s Manhattan doll
hospital—the first in America.
Alexander’s forceful personality left a lasting legacy on the
company, which prided itself on quality and exclusivity. According to a 1994 New York Times article,
when asked her opinion of Cabbage Patch Dolls, Alexander had responded,
“If you spend a million dollars on advertising, you can sell manure.”
In keeping with Alexander’s emphasis on quality, her dolls have
increasingly become collectors’ items rather than playthings. A new doll
costs on average $85, though at auctions, buyers pay as much as
$10,000.
There is a strong community of Madame Alexander enthusiasts,
connected by the Internet and the Madame Alexander Doll Club, based in
Manhattan. The collectors are primarily middle-aged women.
Ishayik said that what she has come to expect from the dolls hasn’t changed since the company moved downtown.
“They haven’t changed anything. It’s just that the company has
changed hands. The quality is still the same, the service is getting
better after initial changeover adjustments,” Ishayik said.
“We have customers who come in specifically looking for Madame
Alexander,” she said. “Either they have collections, or had them when
the were younger, or are starting one for their children.” An earlier version of this story stated that Studebaker is the
only building on the Manhattanville campus that the University is
preserving in its expansion. It is actually one of the few buildings
being preserved.
For decades, Linda Greenfield has been preserving childhood memories and valuable keepsakes as the doll doctor of Chili. But
the doctor’s office is closing soon. Greenfield, who has run the
Victorian Doll Museum & Chili Doll Hospital on Buffalo Road for 43
years, has decided that this will be her last year in business. Doll
collecting isn’t as popular as it once was, Greenfield said, and her
craft is becoming outdated. She’s also looking to spend more time with
the grandkids. “I’m
kind of like Kodak,” said Greenfield, 61, who closed the museum last
year and sold many of the roughly 3,000 dolls she owned. “I could be
here another 10 years, but I’m realistic. The importance that dolls once
held in people’s lives has taken a back seat to technology today. Time
brings change. I’m ready for change in my life.”
Maybe she is, but some collectors are mourning the news. Kathy Case
of Spencerport, a longtime friend and collector, called Greenfield’s
work “impeccable.”“It’s
a lost art,” Case said. “She’s restoring family heirlooms. You wonder,
down the road, who will take care of things like this. Linda belongs in
the Smithsonian herself.” Greenfield
works with modern doll series like American Girl, but many of the dolls
she mends are antiques with porcelain heads and hands. And with age
comes wear, particularly at the hands of enthusiastic children.
Greenfield has replaced plenty of poked-out eyes and worn-out wigs since
she started the business as a 15-year-old, originally working out of
her parents’ home. Greenfield
started collecting when she was 8. Her maternal grandfather was an
antiques dealer, and he often surprised her with dolls he had come
across. One of her earliest prizes was a Bye-Lo Baby doll, one of the
first realistic baby dolls ever constructed. The dolls were made in the
1920s with a bisque head and glass eyes that open and close. Greenfield
also played with Barbies as a child. It wasn’t long before she
transitioned from playing with dolls to becoming immersed in the hobby
of collecting. She went to antique shops and hobby shows with her
mother. Frequently, they saw dolls that needed fixing, and that’s when
Greenfield got the idea of becoming a “doll doctor.”
“I always took art classes and ceramic classes,” said Greenfield, a
lifelong resident of Chili. I’d already started trying to make my own
dolls. In high school, I decided to have my own business.”She
took a mail-order class in doll repair and opened up shop at home.
Looking for a space with “room to grow for years and years,” Greenfield
moved the business to its current location — 4332 Buffalo Road — in
1970. The building once housed a general store, as well as a grocery,
dry cleaner, print shop and barber shop, Greenfield said. Eventually,
upstairs apartments became available, and Greenfield and her parents
moved in. “Dad
helped me with the soldering gun, and showed me how to hook up an air
compressor,” she said. “Mom helped me with the artistic side.” Her mother, Elizabeth, greeted customers as the place’s hostess for years. She died last year. “A
lot of people called her Aunt Betty,” Greenfield said, before pausing
to choke back a tear. They went to many a mother-daughter banquet over
the years, she explained. Greenfield
calls herself a caretaker as much as a “doctor,” and it’s apparent by
the sensitivity she dedicates to her craft. While displaying one antique
doll, she tenderly cradles it in the crook of her elbow as if holding a
genuine newborn. She shares a story about a woman who gave her a
cherished doll because the woman had severe arthritis and worried she
would drop it. Greenfield’s collection has shrunk to about 200 dolls. They’re not all the most cash-valuable ones. “It’s
not just the doll, but the person that owned it that I’m remembering,”
she said. “I’ve gotten many letters from satisfied clients, including
one from a woman who had a 40-year-old doll ‘reborn.’ That’s been my
function — not only doing the work, but bringing back a little piece of
yesterday.” Greenfield
has doctored dolls for museums as well as individuals. She once worked
as a contractor for the old Strong Museum, when it was known as the
“Museum of Fascination” and operated at the Allen’s Creek Road residence
of Margaret Woodbury Strong in Pittsford. She once met the eccentric
and wealthy Strong, a noted doll collector who called young Linda her
“little competition.”
“I said, ‘Not really, you get all the good stuff,’ ” Greenfield remembered.Greenfield’s “hospital” and museum have been featured in national publications such as The Saturday Evening Post and Reader’s Digest. As a youngster, she was interviewed by Rochester broadcast legend Eddie Meath and appeared on the long-ago Miss Rita’s Romper Room TV show. Her place has been featured on AAA’s TripTiks and visited by tour buses. And
soon, it will be no more. The place has been closed since just after
Christmas time, but will reopen in mid-March. There’s still inventory to
clear out. Greenfield said she will be doing more limited work this
year, and she has not set a definite closing date. “She’s
given it her life,” said Case, the longtime friend. “I don’t know if
people are passing on their heirlooms, but she kept it going with people
who cherished that. I don’t think kids are having dolls at a young age
so much. They’re all forced to grow up so quickly. But us big kids like
having our dolls around.”
Get to know Linda Greenfield
• Greenfield’s doll collections includes the Dionne quintuplets,
“nurse dolls” that have been donated to the Rochester Medical Museum
& Archives, and Japanese dolls that came from a family visiting from
Tokyo. • Greenfield has done work on dolls from all over the United States as well as Canada. • Greenfield attaches a “hospital wrist tag” with the name of her business to dolls that have been doctored. •
Her for-sale inventory includes Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy dolls,
porcelain collector dolls, Russian nesting dolls and lace and doll
clothing. • Her daughter, Christina, and husband, Bob, have helped out at the shop for years
-1381488.jpg)
-1381502.jpg)
-1381496.jpg)
-1381507.jpg)
