according to blackice who sent this high res scan in - ten years ago now were for an erotic design show at the Design Museum on the south bank of the thames. to adverise the show they used a photo of allen jones's mannequin suit. he said:
"the same image was used for all their promotional material, flyers, cards and massive 8 foot tall posters for the tube. i checked out the gift shop and they had these little postcard sets in a special rubber case but the price was stupidly high - over 15£ if memory serves. As there were so many of the posters on the tube I chased down the company that put them up and managed to snag one for nothing. Wish I had blagged some more. Its still not up as it would take up a wall of my flat"
considering how long the show ran, the image of the lovely mannequin suit must of been logged into loads of people who saw it. maybe some readers here?
xx
4 comments:
OMG! I can't believe this got posted now! I went to this show when I was in London in 1997, after not being able to believe the advertisement...I even have some snapshots of the exhibits somewhere (not many, because photography was not allowed, and I got caught). If I can find the photos and can scan them, I'll send them on. --Steele
You were so excited last night that you couldn’t sleep. You have the day off work today and you’re waiting for them to deliver it. So far it has been expensive but you think it will be worth it.
You’re not sure were you got the idea from, but all it took was some money. A few months ago you reported to the F/X company and they spend all day taking a full body cast. Being encased in plaster was its own rush, and having to lie there with straws up your nose was both exciting and terrifying as they took a cast of your face.
You felt almost reborn as they sawed you out of the cast, and promised that making the item would only take a few months. They even laughed as you described how you wanted it delivered and added some more money to your bill.
Finally there is a knock on the door, you’re asked to sign here, and here and here. And they bring it in, a huge box. It is wrapped in pretty pink paper with a huge pink bow. It stands about two metres high, and you can’t wait for them to leave so you can unwrap it.
The door closes and you are alone with your box. You tear the paper off with shaking hands and there it is. A clear fronted giant sized doll box. They’ve really done you proud, the hinges work and there is even, tucked away in a corner out of sight from the front, a little battery powered extractor fan so it won’t fog up, if something alive should be in the box.
It is the contents that fascinate you. A human sized doll, bound to the back of the box, her body made out of bright pink fiberglass, the face is recognizably yours but changed, made more doll like.
The box swings open easily on the hinges and you touch yourself for the first time, run your hands over the smooth perfection of your doll self. Then you rush to strap yourself, hands shaking. Finally you are free from the box, and you lift yourself out, surprised at just how light you are.
You make your phone call, and then start to open yourself up. This was the most expensive bit, but you unhinge yourself to reveal inside a space. A space that you can use to merge your two selves together.
You wait now, twisting your hands together and untwisting them. Until finally there is another knock on the door. You open it and she is there, just as promised and paid for. She doesn’t speak, just sweeps into the room, she is dressed as you specified, and just points at you. You strip carefully, folding your clothes as you go. You’re naked, and she motions again, and you ease yourself into the back half of yourself. It’s cold and soft and you take a bit of wriggling to fit, the inside is padded and gives a little. She watches you impassively as you wriggle and squirm fitting yourself inside yourself.
You stop and stare upwards, half of you done. She moved now and comes over with a smile, you smile back, as she is clearly pleased with what you are doing. She runs her hands over you, then swings your other half up and over. It settle around you, and over you, and you can feel a bit of pressure. You feel through your body, a series of clicks as you are completed. You can see out, through your glass eyes, at her bending over you. She smiles again, a smile of secret pleasure. You can see her stroke your cheek and imagine that you can feel it. She gets the hand truck from the corner and using it with a bit of effort gets you onto your feet. The sensation of being moved around and unable to respond is delicious, exciting and scary at the same time. You’re unable to move, entirely her plaything, completely at her mercy. It is easy to imagine that you are her doll, her property and hers to do with as she wishes.
You stop imagining it, and accept it. You’re a pink plastic doll. She wheels you towards your doll case and it fills you with excitement. There is nothing more natural now than being boxed up and put on display. She maneuvers you into your box, and sets about making sure you are securely fastened.
She steps away, and closes the lid, you are standing, bound into your box, a doll. The lid clicks shut and you can see her smile again looking very pleased with you and herself. She gets the hand truck and moves the box a little so you can just catch sight of yourself in a full length mirror.
There is a doll in a box, staring back at you, it has your face, your body, and it is you. You’re in the box, you are a doll. She pulls a chair over and sits in it, and starts to read a book, looking up from time to time at her doll, smiling a secret smile of pride and ownership, you smile back, you can do nothing else, you’re her doll.
Dbot.
lovely story Dbot and one thats within my reach one day....
xx
I do wonder what happens next tho, do your thoughts ever extend to how long you are going to stay in doll space?
If you should find someone to share yourself with, how do you imagine it would work? Would you come home and spend the evening boxed up?
What would you want your owner to do with you?
Dbot.
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