I have always felt puppets to be alive. Known them to be. And over the past several years, as this one and many others came into being from piles of fabric and plastic and “trash” on the floors of spaces I lived in for a few days or weeks at a time during my years of nomadness—they were alive then too.

Their birthing had no purpose, no “show” I was building them for, no reason other than the need, the obsession, the directive from something far beyond and within me to simply bring them into being. (They’re all completely handsewn—no glue, not even staples.)

They formed themselves, telling me how they wanted to look—I simply listened and followed. The process of their birthing was deep ritual time.

For the past couple years while they were still in progress, I couldn’t really focus on any other creative work (besides some storytelling here and there) until I’d finished them.

And it was such. A solitary. Process. So private.

Now, the puppets are telling me, it’s time. Time to share. Time for this pantheon of strange beautiful beings (and the costumes that birthed along with them) to bloom into the world.