Reborning Dolls Are Eerily Accurate Replicas of Babies and Cost Thousands of Dollars
Ryan Doucette and Joanna Strapp in the new play Reborning
Photo by Ed Krieger
Sometimes art imitates life and sometimes life imitates art. And somewhere in between, sometimes things get curious.
Hollywood's Fountain Theatre recently opened a play dealing with parenthood, the mystery of creation and the scars of loss. What it's literally about is reborning, a thriving subculture in which artists spend hundreds of hours creating and collectors spend thousands of dollars buying vinyl dolls meticulously fashioned to resemble real babies.
Reborning began in the United States in the 1990s, when a few enthusiasts started painting over and otherwise altering (or "reborning") store-bought dolls to make them appear more realistic. Now, however, it has become an international phenomenon. One unassembled, limited-edition kit for making the dolls recently released online sold out in less than three minutes.
The play, Reborning, centers on an artist and the increasingly unnerving relationship she develops with a client. Zayd Dohrn wrote it after the birth of his first child. In stumbling upon the curious art form, Dohrn found a perfect vehicle for exploring the terrifying vulnerability of new life. He also made something of a mess. "I tried my hand at making a couple dolls," Dohrn says. "It didn't turn out well."
The show has previously been produced in New York, San Francisco and Anaheim (at the Chance Theater in 2012), with local reborners employed to create dolls.
The Fountain called Amy Karich, an Orange County stay-at-home mom who sells her reborn creations online. Karich, who also designed dolls for the Chance production, works out of a studio tucked into the tidy rolling hills on the outskirts of Laguna Beach. A slant-roofed add-on to the back of the family home, Karich's workshop sits on one of those quiet, planned streets with an abundance of two-car garages, stacked rows of matching terracotta-hued roofs and artfully spaced palm trees.
Inside, her studio testifies to a flurry of activity. A paint-drenched sponge lies on her desk amidst jars of paints, brushes and beads. Against the walls sit boxes of eyeballs and a small table of disembodied doll parts. Teething toys, bassinets and pastel blankets dominate the decor.
"I'm not even a baby person," announces the petite, blond mother of four, with the hint of an ironic smile.
That she's going on the record at all is a pleasant surprise. The fact that some buyers have suffered miscarriages or found themselves unable to conceive prompted several articles casting them as mildly deranged. "People feel like they've been burned in the press," says Dohrn, to explain why lately the subculture has taken on a slight air of secrecy.
Some clients ask for dolls with particular characteristics, occasionally including a picture. Other clients are more vague. One asked for 13 moles, though Karich could place them where she chose. The dolls aren't usually used as toys — they're mainly for display.
Artists become known for certain trademarks, such as color palates, and Karich says her skin tones are a signature of her work. She plucks the head from a nearly completed newborn to illustrate. "I put stork bites on them," she says, pointing to the pinkish birthmark on the back of its head, which can appear during birth.
"All kinds of traumatic things happen at birth," she adds. "Newborns ... can have pressure marks anywhere. Because sometimes the baby will be resting against the bottom of the tailbone [for instance]," she says, absentmindedly rubbing her lower back.
"I love that she said that," Dohrn says. "When you hear Amy talk, you understand what humans go through [during birth], the adventure they've been on and how it shows up on their bodies."
Karich, whose dolls routinely go for $1,500 apiece, might spend 150 hours creating one. The details she adds reinforce that these aren't toys but objects meant for display, intended for serious collectors. Artists favor Genesis paints, and stuff glass or zinc beads inside the dolls to give them an authentic heft. ("Some people have been known to use kitty litter," Karich says, turning up her nose at the idea.)
Karich fishes out handful of handcrafted eyes from beneath a crib. "These are made of mouth-blown glass, produced in Germany. They go for $30 to $40 a pair," she says. Her newborns also come with detachable magnetic umbilical cords, made by snipping off the finger of a vinyl glove and stuffing it with cloth painted to resemble bloody tissue, before tying it off with a real medical clamp.
"It's very relaxing to me to be able to create," she says.
In translating her dolls to the stage, a few adjustments were necessary, such as designing a deeper mottling for the skin to render it more visible to an audience.
There is one aspect of Dohrn's play that Karich finds not terribly realistic: The reborner allows her client far too much access. Karich doesn't even give out her phone number, in order to set boundaries on her time. But her clients are nearly all repeat customers. Relationships inevitably form, and personal details are shared — some tragic, but mostly clients just send news about their children.
"Most collectors are mothers and perfectly normal people," Karich stresses. "Some people could be filling some sort of void with the dolls ... but it's not a void that causes them to treat the dolls like real babies. They are just another group of people, interested in something."
Reborning is at the Fountain Theatre, 5060 Fountain Ave., Hlywd.; through March 15. (323) 663-1525, FountainTheatre.com.
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