This whole thing started with a couple of tiny creatures that were gifted to me that sparked something. I decided to make my own. Mr. and Mrs. Calypso were my first spontaneous attempt in 2008. Working with materials at hand, I cut up one of my old shirts to turn it into mini versions because the print was too festive not to share.
What came out of it was this quirky little duo. They’re kind of an odd couple, but somehow, they just fit. Their oversized cartoon-y features have a way of making people smile—like they tap into some silly, joyful place inside.
There’s something oddly familiar about their faces—even though they’re real rough around the edges, almost childlike in how they’re stitched. That kind of raw, rudimentary look only makes them more lovable. It’s like they carry a memory—not a specific one, but a feeling. A flash of some forgotten joy or shared silliness—like they’re channeling some deep-down memory of mischief and play.
There’s a kind of charm to them that reminds me of carnival season back when I was living in Trinidad and Tobago. That same playful energy, full of colour, rhythm, and lightness, the music that doesn’t ask permission to move you. These dolls hold a bit of that spirit. Sometimes, undomesticated beauty shows up when you’re just making something for the fun of it.
It’s like a little pocket of memory stitched into fabric.
Selina showed up back in 2009—sparked by a friend, a colleague, and plenty of time spent around the interior design world. She came to life as this creative, artsy type with strong opinions and a clear sense of what’s what. Bit of a diva, really. There’s a kind of stylish snobbery to her face—like she knows exactly what she likes and won’t be shy about telling you.
She’s rocking a bold, colourful top balanced out by her chill linen pants—very curated, of course. Her hair? Loud but precise. Like, “Yes, I meant to do that.” And then there are the boots. Oh, the boots. Classic designer vibes—almost too on-the-nose, but that’s Selina for you. She leans in. They kind of give her away. You look at them and think: these boots were made for walking—but maybe not over you. (Then again… she might consider it.)
After Selina, more characters just started showing up—one after the next. Each with their own energy, their own story to tell. It’s amazing how doll making turned into something so much bigger than I expected. There’s something about the process—slow, hands-on, a little bit messy—that opens things up.
It’s not just about stitching fabric or choosing the right outfit. It’s like each one pulls a thread from inside you, too. Doll making became this kind of quiet, unexpected shift. They teach you things as they arrive—about yourself, about others, sometimes even about stuff you hadn’t put into words yet.
Pamela Hastings was a part of the journey. I had the pleasure of taking a workshop with her, and it really left a mark. She’s got this beautiful way of holding space—open, encouraging, and full of creative permission. Her book Doll Making as a Transformative Process says it all in the title, really. It’s not just about making something with your hands—it’s about what shifts inside you along the way.
That workshop kind of opened the door. From there, over the next few years the dolls just kept arriving—each one with a different voice, a different rhythm. And suddenly, I wasn’t just making dolls anymore—I was listening, learning, evolving. It’s wild how a bit of fabric and thread can hold that much story.
The velvet box “doll” below was made during Pamela’s workshop.
