who is she ... If I were trying to pass off as innocent I would dress in white and wear a grin or a pout that would put me somewhere in the age range of three to eleven. But I would never be caught lighting fires, making paper cut outs of dismembered children, or displaying my immense collection of shiny cutlery.

If they were as tall as me it would be one thing, but the dolls by Jill Penney stand thankfully below a foot tall and are the type of creations that either take your breath away or. . . take your breath away.

Jill, not too different from her dolls, is a phoenix based artist obsessed mostly with clay and cloth dolls. She claims, "they are all my children, but without the law suites and abuse charges resulting from the things I put them through." A three day process from waking to sleeping yields another creation. With a built in sketch in her mind she starts to sculpt. Usually only the head, hands, and feet are made out of the oven baked plastic clay. The skeleton of her characters is a heavy gauged wire. For substance the wire form is wrapped in strips of quilting batting which is neatly tucked away from the eye by the doll's clothing. All the clothing is hand dyed, hand sewn, beaded, or embroidered. Fitting the dolls like a perfectly tailored ball gown or a maximum security prison wardrobe.

"When I have money there probably won't be a difference between me and my creations." Standing 5'4" I would say that plan is already well on it's way. Naturally her face was designed for this obsession - large eyes, a cheshire grin. Her hair is purple and playfully sculpted. Just like a doll's, her voice certainly hasn't changed since she was eleven. Her wardrobe is stripes and vibrant colors - a hint of how she sees the world around her.

The range of her dolls is vast - from dark to sweet, to futuristic and the fantastic. Each collection Jill produces shows a different vein of a multifaceted imagination that will, without fail, live longer than an artist's ability to create, leaving a military bent on holding an audience yet unaware.
by Daniel Torrente