At last, I built my own doll, and through the matryoshka—the only doll-that’s-not-a-doll—I understood that even the smallest one, with blurred features, had the right to travel alone… after all, she was the only complete one.
But she had no scent, no holes, no flesh… only color—bright, vibrant—abstract decorations for feminine sarcophagi.
The purity of form and the absence of movement… and you, little girl, learn to stay still like a doll, and it works even when you grow up.
Everyone looks lovely if they stay in just the right position.
Ladies cross their legs in a certain way, while dolls are bent into splendid splits in every little girl’s hands—only to snap back into perfection.
I wanted her to be mine.
A shameless self-portrait: beautiful, ridiculous, hideous, dark and light, smiling when I smile, crying when I cry…
Starting from the flesh, arriving at the wood—redeeming that puppet-boy I so loved, and who hurt me so much when, in the last page of the book, he becomes a real child and stops.
I begin with the photocopy of my hands, and I’d like to begin with yours:
Old hands—for dolls on the edge of the obscene, the erotic, the tender, the sweet, the melancholic.
Young, slender hands—for creatures cynical or defenseless…
In short, say whatever you like—if you let your body speak.
I’ve returned to flesh as material, as a source of inspiration to restore strength to thought.
Too many endlessly repeated words are eroding the meaning of things.
Every day we inhabit our bodies—they dictate the rules of our actions.
I need to begin from the simplicity of a gesture to build my doll.
She will be my double, but I won’t be afraid to show her to you—just as you shouldn’t fear the rage your fist holds back…
Your hand contains all of mine, and all your dolls—no one sees them, but we always carry them inside us.
Maria Luisa Imperiali
Maria Luisa Imperiali Works & Words 