The Process

It all begins with a fantasy — and most often it arrives while I'm still working on another doll. I imagine not just an image, but a living being: a doll that can move, sit, stand, change her hairstyle or outfit. A doll you want to interact with.

At some point the fantasy overflows, and that's when I draw a sketch. This is the first materialization — the fantasy becomes visible. In the sketch I work out all the technical details: the length of the thigh, the size of the wrists, how the doll will move. I draw in several views — so there's something solid to rely on later.

From the sketch I sculpt a three-dimensional master model in Fimo (an oven-cured polymer clay). These are all the parts intended to be solid: the head, upper torso, parts of the arms and legs.

At this same stage I sculpt the full body — not for casting, but to take patterns from it. Later, those patterns will be used to sew the body from fabric.

Here I need to think not only about beauty, but about engineering. Ahead lies plaster mold-making, and every detail must be sculpted in a way that makes it possible to cast. A hand with elegantly curved fingers may be beautiful — but impossible to reproduce. So I'm simultaneously a sculptor and an engineer.

When the sculpting is finished, the model is polished and sanded to perfect smoothness. Only then can I move on to the molds.

Mold-making is a stage I call technical, but it holds more magic than any other. And more surprises — usually unpleasant ones. Sometimes a mold fails and I have to break it, throw everything away, and start over.

Each of the nine parts of the doll is molded separately. Every mold consists of several pieces: from two to five. After molding, the molds must dry completely — and only then can I move to the next step.

Finished molds are used for several dolls. But the same doll is never repeated: each time the face is different (refined after casting), the makeup is different, the outfit is different, the hairstyle is different.

For casting I take Flumo — a liquid self-hardening casting compound — add the needed skin tone, strain it, and pour it into the molds in a thin stream. This too is a stage full of nuance: an air bubble in the wrong place, an area that didn't fill, or a part that tears when the mold opens — and everything must start again.

After extracting the parts from the molds, I dry and sand each one. This stage carries the most risk: while sanding a tiny hand, a finger can snap off — and then it's back to casting, drying, sanding.

But there's a rewarding side too: this is where I can subtly change the face — adjust the shape of the eyes, add a faint smile. Each casting becomes unique.

Using the patterns taken from the master model, I sew the body from high-density fabric. The arms and legs are half soft, half hard: the upper parts are soft, the lower parts (shins, forearms) are cast.

To give the doll a stable seated posture and a pleasant weight, the body is filled with fine quartz sand — eco-friendly and odorless.

When all the doll's parts are ready, I sketch the costume. Here I need to be a fashion designer — sewing a dress for a doll of this size is nothing like sewing for a person.

I work primarily with linen. For miniature scale it's a challenging material, but visually and to the touch — one of the most alive and warm. I love how it drapes, wrinkles, ages.

The costume includes everything: from the innermost layers of clothing to the shoes, and sometimes a hat. Sometimes I want to embroider something, add beading or lace — all of which adds to the work.

If the patterns have already been refined on previous dolls — it goes faster. But when I conceive something new — there are trials, mistakes, wasted material. The result is always worth it.

Alongside the costume, I work on the hair. I buy a goatskin with long hair that can be dyed. I choose the right shade, dye the hair directly on the hide, then make the wig entirely by hand. The hairs are glued with a special adhesive — it holds securely, yet the hairstyle can be brushed, restyled, arranged in different ways.

Makeup is a story of its own. It's not a single layer of paint, but six to ten extremely thin layers: each one applied, sealed with varnish, and dried. Only this way do you achieve depth and realism.

And then — the moment when everything comes together. The soft body is joined with the hard parts: arms, legs, shoulders, neck. The rigid pieces are attached with small metal springs — more reliable than elastic, they won't stretch over time.

The eyes are set in, the wig goes on, the doll is dressed in her costume. And for the first time I see her whole — not as a set of parts and tasks, but as someone. She sits, she looks, she's quiet. She already exists.