When I was 8, I wheedled my parents into buying me a dollhouse: a regal Gothic Revival mansion with a turret, spindly porch posts and hundreds of mock-wood shingles, each the size of a pinkie nail. I recruited my mom, as handy as Bob Vila with a drill and a glue gun, to help me build the wooden frame, assemble the staircases, wire the dewdrop chandeliers and faux candelabra. Once the essentials were in place, I dragged her to dollhouse shows held in windowless suburban convention centers, the kinds of cultish expos where miniaturists from around the world sell shrunken works of art. I chose tiny living-room suites, claw-foot bathtubs and damask curtains. (Then, as now, my tastes veered toward the priggishly Victorian.) Gazing at my scratch-made domestic tableau induced a heady, obsessive euphoria.
A dollhouse is often categorized as a toy, but it’s really a luxury object. The whole point of a dollhouse is that it’s not to be played with. It’s untarnished by the workaday furniture we get for our real homes, the Sears dining tables and cheap Ikea Billy bookcases. And for many people, it’s the only place where ludicrously opulent décor is attainable, where you can go all out on mother-of-pearl doorknobs or Versailles-worthy brocade chaises without losing your savings or your dignity.
The writer Steven Millhauser suggests that the visual appeal of the miniature lies in its inherent distortion: the eye-boggling novelty of a teensy basket of apples or a nickel-size china plate. When the details shrink, our attention to them magnifies. But the miniature is also an instrument of catharsis, letting fussbudgets and control freaks act out their God complexes by constructing intricate worlds to their exact specifications. Its most ubiquitous form, of course, is the dollhouse, a copy of the domestic — and historically female — sphere. The brick-and-mortar home has always held an ambivalent power for women: For centuries, it has been a place where we’re either sheltered or relegated, in charge or underfoot. The dollhouse turns that realm into an idealized space, a corrective to the moral murk of domesticity, unencumbered by the tsoris that seeps through the walls of a real house.
In October, I visited Amsterdam, where I was delighted to discover that practically every museum had its own dollhouse. The most impressive one I saw was in the Rijksmuseum: a gleaming tortoiseshell cabinet commissioned near the end of the 17th century by Petronella Oortman, a Dutch merchant’s wife. Oortman spent between 20,000 and 30,000 guilders — between 5,000 and 2,000 in today’s money — and hired real cabinetmakers, glass blowers and silversmiths to make its contents. When Oortman died, her daughter inherited the dollhouse. When their husbands filled their wunderkammers, or cabinets of curiosities, with treasures they had looted conquistadoring around the world, wealthy European women created bittersweet tableaux that seemed to exalt their domestic power while accentuating its limits.
The dollhouse fixation bloomed among society madams for the next 300 years. In the 1930s, Narcissa Niblack Thorne, a Chicago socialite, hired Depression-blighted workers to help build her exquisite room boxes, which mimicked interiors including a contemporary New Mexican dining room, a French Revolution-era bathroom and a Georgian parlor (a stamp-size Gainsborough portrait hangs over the mantel). Huguette Clark, the stubbornly solitary copper heiress, commissioned European cottages and Japanese temples from her hospital bed, shelling out hundreds of thousands of dollars for her acquisitions and sending them back to the creators if a windowpane was a sliver too wide or the ceilings half an inch too low.
The perfectionism of the dollhouse lover, that mini mania, extends to the emotional life of the house. It’s a place where you can process the ambivalence that comes with domesticity, or gain power over it, or excise it completely. I’m a semisuccessful single woman in my 30s, and I live in the top-floor apartment of a Victorian house in Toronto. I like it fine, but it’s weighed down by emotional ballast. It manifests everything I loathe about myself at this stage in my life: The clutter is my laziness, the untouched kitchen appliances are my ineptitude, the shabbyish hand-me-down furniture from my parents is my general malaise at not having achieved more. I imagine that many women, like Oortman and Clark, find their homes similarly encumbered by projected failures and lapses, by the presence of abusive partners and demanding children, by the oppressive need to keep up. Owning and furnishing a dollhouse is gloriously free of all that. It’s a fetishistic fantasy that exists in a state of limbo, forever suspended in that moment before a home is tainted by life. A dollhouse transmutes the fraught domestic world into one of creativity and indulgence.
What truly differentiates a real house from a dollhouse is not size but perspective. A house is technically your property. But from the inside, and for women especially, the house often seems to own you: It dwarfs you, envelops you, conscripts you to a Sisyphean cycle of mortgage payments and repairs and housekeeping. Looking down at a dollhouse defrocks domesticity of all its power. A dollhouse is something you possess. It will never possess you.B:
【悠】【远】【的】【梵】【音】【不】【断】【钻】【入】【大】【脑】，【在】【脑】【中】【炸】【响】，【令】【欧】【阳】【邪】【头】【痛】【欲】【裂】。 【欧】【阳】【邪】【试】【图】【催】【动】【灵】【海】【中】【的】【灵】【力】【去】【抵】【挡】，【灵】【力】【在】【体】【内】【掀】【起】【滔】【天】【巨】【浪】，【却】【像】【是】【遇】【到】【了】【天】【生】【的】【克】【星】【般】，【只】【能】【躲】【在】【灵】【海】【中】【反】【复】【翻】【腾】【着】，【始】【终】【不】【敢】【向】【外】【释】【放】。 【欧】【阳】【邪】【很】【清】【楚】【自】【己】【的】【灵】【力】【被】【死】【死】【限】【制】【住】【的】【原】【因】【是】【什】【么】，【缓】【缓】【抬】【头】，【一】【脸】【凝】【重】【地】【望】【着】【前】【方】【漂】【浮】【在】【空】七乐彩99期开奖号码“【你】【没】【吃】【过】，【又】【不】【知】【道】【是】【什】【么】，【怎】【么】【就】【答】【应】【了】？【万】【一】【你】【不】【爱】【吃】，【又】【不】【喜】【欢】【那】【个】【环】【境】【呢】？”【沈】【清】【如】【有】【些】【后】【悔】，【她】【本】【来】【是】【故】【意】【为】【难】，【想】【看】【他】【怎】【么】【拒】【绝】【的】。 【但】【墨】【白】【的】【反】【应】【再】【次】【出】【乎】【她】【的】【意】【料】【之】【外】。 “【你】【喜】【欢】【就】【好】。”【他】【答】【道】，【仍】【然】【目】【不】【斜】【视】【地】【看】【着】【前】【方】。 “……” 【沈】【清】【如】【无】【语】【地】【咬】【咬】【嘴】【唇】。 【好】【吧】，【麻】【辣】【烫】
【无】【论】【做】【什】【么】，【都】【会】【是】【浪】【费】【时】【间】，【很】【有】【可】【能】【最】【终】【只】【有】【一】【死】【的】【结】【局】. 【但】【是】，【如】【果】【不】【去】【做】【什】【么】，【就】【那】【么】【干】【坐】【在】【那】【里】【一】【动】【也】【不】【动】【的】【话】，【那】【时】【间】【早】【晚】【也】【会】【慢】【慢】【消】【耗】【掉】，【最】【终】【也】【只】【不】【过】【会】【落】【得】【一】【个】【一】【死】【的】【结】【局】. 【好】【了】，【这】【样】【一】【来】，【不】【管】【怎】【么】【做】，【怎】【么】【也】【逃】【不】【过】【一】【死】【的】【结】【局】. 【这】【就】
【弄】【一】【弄】【马】【车】，【弄】【一】【弄】【自】【行】【车】，【当】【这】【些】【橡】【胶】【轮】【胎】【的】【玩】【意】【儿】，【在】【大】【汉】【真】【正】【流】【行】【起】【来】【之】【后】，【时】【间】【又】【过】【去】【了】【一】【年】…… 【刘】【国】【钢】、【董】【大】【等】【最】【早】【一】【批】【工】【匠】，【现】【在】【一】【个】【个】【已】【经】【须】【发】【花】【白】【了】，【但】【他】【们】【成】【了】【大】【汉】【不】【可】【或】【缺】【的】【技】【术】【专】【家】，【培】【养】【出】【来】【千】【千】【万】【万】【的】【徒】【子】【徒】【孙】，【正】【在】【大】【汉】【发】【挥】【着】【重】【要】【作】【用】…… 【然】【而】【技】【术】【这】【个】【东】【西】，【不】【是】【想】【钻】【研】【就】
【凌】【檬】【和】【苏】【晨】【两】【人】【就】【这】【样】【在】【爱】【丽】【丝】【的】【别】【墅】【里】【等】【着】，【爱】【丽】【丝】【去】【忙】【公】【务】【了】，【德】【莱】【尔】【也】【不】【知】【道】【去】【了】【哪】【里】。 【到】【了】【傍】【晚】，【德】【莱】【尔】【回】【来】【了】，【爱】【丽】【丝】【却】【仍】【然】【不】【见】【踪】【影】。 “【德】【莱】【尔】【先】【生】。”【凌】【檬】【笑】【着】【和】【德】【莱】【尔】【打】【招】【呼】，【苏】【晨】【就】【跟】【在】【他】【身】【后】，【牵】【着】【他】【的】【手】。 【德】【莱】【尔】【对】【两】【人】【点】【点】【头】，【佣】【人】【过】【来】【把】【德】【莱】【尔】【的】【外】【套】【和】【帽】【子】【拿】【去】【挂】【着】，【德】【莱】