Minerva

Manufactured in the early 1900s by the German dollmaker Buschow & Beck under their Minerva trademark, this rare tin-headed doll bears the marks “5 Germany” upon the back of its shoulder plate and “Minerva” across the front. Its tin construction, designed to withstand the fragility of porcelain and bisque, has endured for over a century—though not without visible scars. The paint upon its hand-rendered features has thinned and flaked with age, leaving her expression faded yet disturbingly resolute. Her left arm is absent, her dress—original to the period—shows four gaping holes, and her hair, once meticulously painted, is now shadowed with loss.

The doll is housed in a distressed black display cabinet, lined with deep green velvet, its podium raising her gaze to meet that of the observer. This cabinet, though modern in construction, holds her as if she were an artifact meant to be contained.

Its provenance traces to a family in Germany, where it belonged first to a young girl born at the dawn of the century. It was brought to the United States in the 1930s by her younger sister, who kept it through the war years and beyond. In her later life, the doll occupied a place of prominence in her bedroom—sometimes upon the mantel, sometimes in her favorite chair. After her passing, the doll remained in the untouched room, where strange occurrences began to unfold.

On quiet afternoons, a muffled voice—recognizably that of the deceased owner—would drift from the bedroom, speaking softly as if in private conversation. The voice would cease when the room was entered, leaving only the doll in place… though often not quite in the same position as before. A family dog seemed to hear it too, reacting with an eager wag of the tail, as if greeting a familiar presence.

When the doll was finally enclosed within a locked cabinet, the disturbances ceased. It remained there for years, traveling with its keeper from home to home. Whether by affection, superstition, or something deeper, its caretaker believed the spirit of the former owner lingered within it, using the doll as a vessel—a watchful, smiling sentinel through time.

One day, without warning, that sense of connection vanished. The doll, still smiling through the chipped remnants of its painted face, was placed into storage. Whether its task was fulfilled or its presence simply withdrawn, no one can say. Yet it remains as it always has—unchanging, unblinking, and quietly waiting.

Following its acquisition from the original family, and its arrival at our studio, activity began almost immediately - it seems the change of scenery awoke what was resting inside of her... Before the doll—now referred to simply as Minerva—was even removed from its shipping container, muffled knocks and abrupt bangs resonated from within the sealed package. Once unboxed and placed within the studio, faint female voices would occasionally surface—always fleeting, retreating into silence the moment one tried to listen closely, as though the speakers were shy of being overheard. These subtle manifestations escalated to full-bodied apparitions: a shorter figure gliding soundlessly through the hallway, its movement eerily effortless. On certain mornings, Minerva’s display case is found ajar, a quiet sign that she is inclined toward greater activity that day.