Anne, with an E and two Ns.
Yes, this is Anne. Inspired a little bit by the fiery character that Lucy Maud Montgomery created, but in reality, the personification of the inner child of a wonderful human being. This is a little bit of Anne's story.
Anne was born during May. A crackpot of a month if you ask her. Romantic notions and all she would have loved to have been born in December, the coldest month, amongst a kingdom of snow. But no, she was born in May, and she bears it with resignation.
A curious May girl it was, always inspecting the crannies in the studio. Perhaps the most wondrous pearl button, to attach to my dress? It could act as ballast when I am swimming the pond, and drag me to the muddy bottom, where all the magical creatures dwell. The ones that shy away from being seen, dirty, warty and bulbous…but with those extremely gentle eyes.
With wayward mood she proceeded to inspect more nooks, hoping for the flashy felt beads. Seems everybody is into pompoms, I shall abhor them she says to herself.
I observe quietly, hemming one of her dresses.
With stomps in imperil of damaging the tile floor, deliberate obstinacy, she picked designs and fabrics. My eyes watched her, so absorbed. I have loved Anne for so long, for so long, that she almost doesn't feel real. And then I remember the poem by Robert Desnos (which I shall transcribe at bottom).
Anne is willful. And wistful too. I have wheedled her for so many weeks now, trying to make her come out of the wool, until one fine day her mother writes to me, or more accurately, to her…and then there she was. Our Little Anne, with a fiery heart, a sunny look on life, a morbid curiosity, a crafty way to getting what she wants.
Anne waits for her hair to grow to her feet. She wants to braid dragonfly wings through it, so that it shimmers. She also plans on decking it with dandelions, heal-all, violets, and maybe some thistles. She told me that she likes having spiky things around her because she likes to poke her fingers and then scream ouch and then laugh on the floor at her silliness.
Oh Anne! won't you stay put for a bit? it's too darn hot to run around the garden, not even the birds dare to fly at this time. A heat wave sweeps through the land and Anne refuses to wear clothes other than her undergarments.
With her shifty manner, she goes and puts on cashmere socks. "They are actually very cool Fabs, you should try them!". I refuse. Throbbing feet and legs refuse to wear anything on them.
"One good thing I have to say about having been born in May, is that by the time I grew all up, the peaches are almost ready."
I think I agree with her, although I know of a few extremely odd individuals who dislike peaches, whatever has gotten into them I say!. My eyebrows melting I raise them anyways, and ask Anne if she likes peaches. Oh! she adores them she says. Nothing better than to pick a rather fat and juicy one, scrub their fuzz on your dress and let their sweetness take you to another place.
"Where exactly?" I dare ask.
"Oh Fabs, but you know where. To the land of milk and honey. Full of pot holes you can fall through, mouldywarps that can take you on adventures or teach you to knit. Where formalities are banned, and the vernal pools have billowing steam in the mornings. A place made of glass, shimmering, where you tumble and you float. Where all the books you ever so much wanted to read are there, and cozy blankets of wildflowers wrap you to sleep! That's where!!."
Anne, a contemporary fiber art doll by Fig and Me.
I really hopes she takes me with her. The juice of those valleys beckon. We shall come back one day, with bounty beyond compare.
— Anne is a custom Petite Fig doll. She is made in some resemblance to her mother, but she is who she is. She has quite a wardrobe that I hope I can photograph properly and come to show you. Anne is a true jewel and I only hope her mom doesn't fall off her desk chair when she sees her. Thank you for coming to visit my sweet Anne. More soon.
I have dreamed of you so much,
by Robert Desnos
I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?
I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body.
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many
days and years, I would surely become a shadow.
O scales of feeling.
I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up.
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and
face of some passerby.
I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.
