flax-golden tales: the friend factory

the friend factory

It’s the latest craze in dolls, so she simply has to have one.

I can’t really complain, I remember my own rabid Cabbage Patch days.

I told her to think about it, explained over and over that it would have to be her only birthday present but she never even waffled, it was all she wanted.

She carried the catalog around constantly. She even took it to bed with her.

I called six weeks in advance and I still only got an appointment because someone canceled, they said the wait was nearing three months but they tried to give cancellation spot priority to birthdays whenever possible. I joked that people probably lie to get them, then, and they told me I had to send a copy of her birth certificate for verification.

On appointment day, they gave us a tour of the facility before they took her to the lab for testing, explaining the manufacturing process and how “friends” (they never call them “dolls”) are uniquely calibrated and programmed to be exactly what each child needs in a playtime companion.

I thought it was kind of creepy, but she adored every minute. Especially the factory floor with row after row of empty heads.

 

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

flax-golden tales: death awaits you all

death awaits you all

Most of them stand on the steps in front of the doors for some time before making their decision.

Marking the the obvious differences and missing the subtle ones.

(The bunny is the most obvious difference. The hand-drawn bunny sitting patiently beneath a shining sun, distracting from the fact that the doorknobs do not match, that only one door has a mail slot, that the doors themselves are painted two slightly different shades of black, one glossier than the other.)

Most take their time, but some choose quickly, as though they already knew which door they wanted before they arrived.

There are all kinds of seekers, drawn to the doors for their own private reasons, on their own personal quests.

Businessmen in suits and small children in striped socks.

Bike messengers and conquistadors and leaflet-carrying proselytizers.

But they always choose the bunny door.

And they’re always wrong.

 

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

previous incarnations

I am cleaning my studio today, and amongst all the other questionable artifacts tucked into dust-covered corners (spools of fishing line? a Ouija board? a May 1999 NYC subway map?) I found a pile of old photos & I thought I’d scan a couple to share.

So this is me in New Hampshire circa 2004, with an apple and far too much hair:

 

And this is me in South Boston circa 1980, with a fabulous hat: