Dollmaking runs in my family.

My grandmother crafted miniature doll furniture by hand. Every time we visited her small apartment on Calle Ocho, 8th Street in Miami’s Little Havana, I’d marvel at the tiny chairs and tables she carved from scraps of wood, stained, and upholstered with crocheted or sewn fabric. To me, they were magical. I imagined each piece as a thread connecting her to her own childhood.

My mother always made our clothes and, when I was young, began making dolls. But her fascination with dolls started long before that. She’d tell stories of playing with paper dolls on her father’s sailboat in Cuba... dreamlike tales that lingered in my mind. Eventually, she began collecting dolls and experimenting with her own cloth doll techniques. At first, she took her work to small doll conventions around Florida. Then, seemingly overnight, she was showcasing her creations at the Toy Fair in New York.

“Those were the good old days,” she says now, when doll artists were celebrated and styles were eclectic. She once casually mentioned that Demi Moore loved her dolls - something she dropped into conversation while I sat there, mouth agape.

I often went with her to doll shows, where I watched intently as she spoke with collectors and fellow artists. Her business savvy was natural and focused. She knew how to bring an idea to life and how to sell it.

​I like to think I was born a visual artist.  

When I was a kid, P.E. classes weren’t exactly inclusive. I often sat out, content to stay on the bleachers with my paper and pencil, sketching out entire worlds of my own. Becoming a multimedia artist happened out of necessity... a drive to create with whatever materials I had on around me. That drive has always lived in me: Make art. That’s the engine of my soul.

Now, I have my own little family, also full of artists, and we make art together. Our kitchen table tells the story: scratched by wires, dotted with glue gun splatters, stained with paint we forgot to wipe up in time. That table is where everything happens.

Back when I was sitting beside my mom at her shows, what captivated me about dolls was how they told stories you could hold. Dollmaking brought together everything I loved: character design, sculpting, painting, sewing. It was the perfect medium... tactile, expressive, and intimate. Eventually, I began experimenting with my own doll style. In my early twenties, my mom even carved out a corner of her booth for my pieces. She’d give me feedback on what worked, what didn’t, and how to connect with the public.

Over time, my dollmaking became more complex. I started using molds, silicone, fabric, and I thought I was really onto something. But the materials slowed me down. I learned that the joy for me lives in the immediacy... in the leap between idea and execution. I need spontaneity in my art.

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In the past couple of years, I’ve shifted toward using recycled materials. Cardboard has become my favorite, paired with twine, scrap fabric, old buttons, whatever I can find. In a world obsessed with consumption, there’s something deeply satisfying about making art from what others throw away.

But just like my mom, it’s the storytelling that matters most to me. I’m drawn to the narratives behind the dolls... where they come from, who they are, what their souls might be like. I have a lifelong habit of personifying inanimate objects, and dolls are no exception. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, I believe that toys can become real when they are loved. I hope the dolls I create carry that same possibility.