descendant of the Neolithic
"vegetable Aphrodite." Why Cycladic sculptors streamlined the dolls, however, remains a mystery; scholars, says art historian
H. W. Janson, can't "even venture a guess."
Over the years, "dolls"—anthropomorphic sculptures of the human figure— have been used as often in religion as in play. Archeologists
who unearth such figures must puzzle out whether they were intended for the temple or the nursery. When first discovered,
the ancient Egyptian figures known as Ushabti were believed to be dolls; scholars now classify them as funereal statues-—miniature versions of a master's slaves buried
with the master to serve him after death. Likewise, the Barbie-shaped "snake goddesses" produced in Crete around 1600 B.C.
look like dolls but were in fact religious icons.
Then there are dolls that defy classification. Traditionally, Hopi Indian parents give their children kachina figures— cult
objects representing various gods—to play with on ceremonial occasions. The dolls teach them the fine points of their faith.
Like the kachinas, Barbie is both toy and mythic object—modern woman and Ur-woman—navelless, motherless, an incarnation of
"the One Goddess with a Thousand Names." In the reservoir of communal memory that psychologist Carl Jung has termed the "collective
unconscious," Barbie is an archetype of something ancient, matriarchal, and profound.
In Barbie's universe, women are not the second sex. Barbie's genesis subverts the biblical myth of Genesis, which Camille
Paglia has described as "a male declaration of independence from the ancient mother-cults." Just as the goddess-based religions
antedated Judeo-Christian monotheism, Barbie came before Ken. The whole idea of woman as temptress, or woman as subordinate
to man, is absent from the Barbie cosmology. Ken is a gnat, a fly, a slave, an accessory of Barbie. Barbie was made perfect:
her body has not evolved dramatically with time. Ken, by contrast, was a blunder: first scrawny, now pumped-up, his ever-changing
body is neither eternal nor talismanic.
Critics who ignore Barbie's mythic dimension often find fault with her lifestyle. But it is mytholog-ically imperative that
she live the way she does. Of course Barbie inhabits a prelapsarian paradise of consumer goods; she has never been exiled
from the garden.
Mattel attributes the success of its 1992 'Totally Hair" Barbie, a woolly object reminiscent of Cousin It from The Addams Family, to little girls' fascination with "hairplay"—combing, brushing, and generally making a mess of the doll's ankle-length tresses.
But since not all Barbie owners become cosmetologists, one has to wonder what "hairplay" is really about. I think it may be
a modern reenactment of an ancient goddess-cult ritual.
Witches traditionally muss up their hair when they are preparing to engage in witchcraft. As late as the seventeenth century,
civilized Europeans, historian Barbara Walker tells us, actually believed witches "raised storms, summoned demons and produced
all sorts of destruction by unbinding their hair." In Scottish coastal communities, women were forbidden to brush their hair
at night, lest they cause a storm that would kill their male relatives at sea. St. Paul, one of history's all-time woman-haters,
was scared of women's hair; he thought unkempt locks could upset the angels.
The toddler brushing Barbie's hair may look innocent, but who knows, perhaps she is in touch with some ancient matriarchal
power. In 1991, a survey of three thousand children commissioned by the American Association of University Women revealed
that girls begin to lose their self-confidence at puberty, about the time they give up Barbie. At age nine, the girls were
assertive and felt positive about themselves, but by high school, fewer than a third felt that way. Perhaps this could have
been avoided had the girls simply hung on to their Barbies. Forget trying to be Barbie;
"vegetable Aphrodite." Why Cycladic sculptors streamlined the dolls, however, remains a mystery; scholars, says art historian
H. W. Janson, can't "even venture a guess."
Over the years, "dolls"—anthropomorphic sculptures of the human figure— have been used as often in religion as in play. Archeologists
who unearth such figures must puzzle out whether they were intended for the temple or the nursery. When first discovered,
the ancient Egyptian figures known as Ushabti were believed to be dolls; scholars now classify them as funereal statues-—miniature versions of a master's slaves buried
with the master to serve him after death. Likewise, the Barbie-shaped "snake goddesses" produced in Crete around 1600 B.C.
look like dolls but were in fact religious icons.
Then there are dolls that defy classification. Traditionally, Hopi Indian parents give their children kachina figures— cult
objects representing various gods—to play with on ceremonial occasions. The dolls teach them the fine points of their faith.
Like the kachinas, Barbie is both toy and mythic object—modern woman and Ur-woman—navelless, motherless, an incarnation of
"the One Goddess with a Thousand Names." In the reservoir of communal memory that psychologist Carl Jung has termed the "collective
unconscious," Barbie is an archetype of something ancient, matriarchal, and profound.
In Barbie's universe, women are not the second sex. Barbie's genesis subverts the biblical myth of Genesis, which Camille
Paglia has described as "a male declaration of independence from the ancient mother-cults." Just as the goddess-based religions
antedated Judeo-Christian monotheism, Barbie came before Ken. The whole idea of woman as temptress, or woman as subordinate
to man, is absent from the Barbie cosmology. Ken is a gnat, a fly, a slave, an accessory of Barbie. Barbie was made perfect:
her body has not evolved dramatically with time. Ken, by contrast, was a blunder: first scrawny, now pumped-up, his ever-changing
body is neither eternal nor talismanic.
Critics who ignore Barbie's mythic dimension often find fault with her lifestyle. But it is mytholog-ically imperative that
she live the way she does. Of course Barbie inhabits a prelapsarian paradise of consumer goods; she has never been exiled
from the garden.
Mattel attributes the success of its 1992 'Totally Hair" Barbie, a woolly object reminiscent of Cousin It from The Addams Family, to little girls' fascination with "hairplay"—combing, brushing, and generally making a mess of the doll's ankle-length tresses.
But since not all Barbie owners become cosmetologists, one has to wonder what "hairplay" is really about. I think it may be
a modern reenactment of an ancient goddess-cult ritual.
Witches traditionally muss up their hair when they are preparing to engage in witchcraft. As late as the seventeenth century,
civilized Europeans, historian Barbara Walker tells us, actually believed witches "raised storms, summoned demons and produced
all sorts of destruction by unbinding their hair." In Scottish coastal communities, women were forbidden to brush their hair
at night, lest they cause a storm that would kill their male relatives at sea. St. Paul, one of history's all-time woman-haters,
was scared of women's hair; he thought unkempt locks could upset the angels.
The toddler brushing Barbie's hair may look innocent, but who knows, perhaps she is in touch with some ancient matriarchal
power. In 1991, a survey of three thousand children commissioned by the American Association of University Women revealed
that girls begin to lose their self-confidence at puberty, about the time they give up Barbie. At age nine, the girls were
assertive and felt positive about themselves, but by high school, fewer than a third felt that way. Perhaps this could have
been avoided had the girls simply hung on to their Barbies. Forget trying to be Barbie;
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