I mock dismembered-doll artists. Any artist, really, who photographs or paints or makes attempts at any kind of artistic rendering of Barbies or Kewpies or "mama"-blathering droidlets. It's tired and creepy and really not all that interesting. And here I am, at nine on a Tuesday night, wandering desperately around the house trying to find the day's shot before I peter out entirely and get sucked into the couch and, for hour or two, stare into iPads and televisions. In the corner of the couch, in what is pretty much the darkest corner of our home, is where Bear has left her baby doll, and it's actually the only interesting shot on the camera this evening. Go figure.
