I was in a hurry but I couldn’t resist visiting the old medieval street bordered with handicraft work spaces. The hat and patchwork workshops followed by leather, ceramic and glass studios had always lifted my spirits. I was determined just to walk through and quickly glance around without the usual fiddling of items.
When I stepped out of the glass studio I was ready to spurt when another open door invited me to enter. “Doll Art House” was a sign I had never seen before. The room was dim. In the middle of the room was a large table surrounded by benches and covered with magazines, fabric scraps, wool, wire, wood pieces, and glass beads. An old lady in a large woolen cardigan, with grey hair in a tight bun on top of her head, sat on a bench, hummed a sad tune and rolled yellow yarn into a ball. She lifted her eyes and gave a small nod. A young lady in a flowery dress stood up and walked to greet me. Her hot red wavy hair reached almost her ankles. Her friendly smile made the freckles dance on her face. She waved her hand to follow her. The walls had shelves, nooks and ledges filled with different sized hand-made dolls and characters.
“These dolls don’t look like the hand-made dolls I have seen before. They are so peculiar and different,” I said to my guide while we walked around.
“These are in many different techniques made by different artists all over the world. These are not for playing. You will find dolls made from wax, wood, clay, porcelain, paper mache, and plastered textile, all hand sculptured and unique,” she explained.
We had made a full circle.
“This was very interesting,” I said ready to leave.
“You haven’t seen much. Go to the second floor. Go to the balcony. When you have finished looking around you’ll find a small green door in a wall. It looks like it’s made for elves, but don’t be afraid to open it. You fill find stairs that will take you back to the street,” she led me to a staircase behind the table.
I think it was the seventh step when I crossed to a new world. Exquisite and incredibly realistic dolls suddenly surrounded me. Majestic beauties held their heads high with pride. Quirky characters with big bellies and tangling skinny limbs sat on a shelf. Shy fragile fairies and mischievous pixies were locked behind cupboard’s glass doors. Little chubby toddlers were about to burst laughing with joy on the windowsill. Tall thin girls with deep dark sorrowful eyes leaned against the wall. A short stout man slouched on a couch with utter boredom and apathy on his face. I couldn’t believe that it was just the tools, materials, and refined skills that had created these dolls with such intricate details. Had someone used magic spells or witchcraft to put souls in them? Or were they inhabitants of other worlds captured and imprisoned? I was convinced I had heard a symphony of heartbeats when I had held my breath.
My head started spinning and I stepped to the balcony. The loud laughter and shouts of a tourist group mixed with the clatter of shoes on the cobblestone. The noise reassured me that I was still in Old Tallinn. When I returned to the room there was no doubt in my mind that the dolls were alive. The doll in a silver lace dress had brushed away the golden curl that had tickled her nose. The poet who had stretched his neck to see her had adjusted himself to a more comfortable position. When I walked to the green door I am pretty sure that some of them whispered behind my back.
I bent myself a little and holding on to the cold limestone walls started to descend the narrow steps. At one point I couldn’t see the door anymore and I couldn’t see the bottom yet. I wondered whether the whole tour had been a dream and I would find a big padlock on the door of the studio. Or I would enter a strange land where I would be captured, plastered, and put on display.
