💚 The Wild One

She’s the devil that bit me back.

The past month has been a time of intense shifting and change—some comforting, some profoundly sad. As chapters close and new ones open, I’ve grown restless, craving disruption to my rhythm. And she waited patiently, ready to be formed in the wake of it all. Lime was the first colour to come to me for this new series of 10: The Rainbow Devils.

She comes from a world that is wet, squishy, spectral, and glowing. A place that drips like a dream—half rave, half swamp—where femininity doesn’t care to be cute.

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💛 The Child

I’ve never stopped reaching. As a kid, I was overflowing—with ideas, questions, and a hunger for something I couldn’t name. I talked too much. I wore everything at once. I’d pile on five dresses and pin them into layer-cakes. I danced to feel like I could fly away. But no one around me spoke the same language, so I learned to shrink. Eventually, those feelings found a body. A soft, strange one.

The Yellow Devil lives in a room that’s a bit too big, too empty, and just slightly off. Her world is made of memories that have warped over time. It’s that feeling when the room empties out and it’s just you, the carpet, and the toys. Her space is filled with mirrors, wooden bleachers, dance floors, and walls of floral wallpaper that blur your vision. Everything is made of cotton canvas, plush, oversized, and edging on absurd. Somewhere in the distance, a music box plays, but you can’t tell from where.

The Yellow Devil doesn’t explain things. She just invites you to feel.

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🧡 The Risk-taker

She reminds me to burn through the nice version first—to get to the real thing. To start things before I feel ready, and to finish despite perfection. Orange is the fire that clears the way so something honest can take root.

This is the world of the Orange Devil. These photos pull me straight back to my ’80s childhood in Manitoba: grocery stores, gelatin salads, wood-paneled walls, public television, oversized stuffed animals. My memories feel distant now—like dreams, or lives I didn’t live but watched on TV. But it’s that eerily strange performance that fuels my imagination now.

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🩷 The Girl

As I transformed from a child to a teen, I began feeling like my favourite colour, pink, was too soft for my angsty soul. Too precious. Too performative. Too tied to the feminine-coded labor of looking cute, being sweet, staying small. But I’ve reclaimed it. The Pink Devil has me coming back around.

She’s both the unmasked child and the adult who remembers what was lost—the one who danced alone, collected beautiful scraps, dressed up her toys and arranged them into elaborate scenes and stories. Here, pink isn’t decoration—it’s confrontation. It’s girlhood re-examined, exaggerated, and rewritten as a celebration of the soft and surreal.

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🟫 The Root

She’s the quiet one holding the weight of the room. A steady presence—the pause at the end of the story, asking us to reflect.

She’s the witness and the record keeper—the part of me that remembers what couldn’t be spoken aloud. Her world feels like a waiting room at closing time, where nothing moves but something heavy hums beneath the surface.

She stays. The anchor.

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🩵 The Dreamer

Her planet hovers just beyond reality—a soft haze of powder-blues and sweetness, laced up tight to protect something stranger underneath. She built this world as shelter—a floating archive of everything she loved most.

She moves through it quietly, part creature, part conduit. Here, skin is latex and spikes rise from the pores, hidden beneath a veil of ribbons and pearls. Terrifying. Beautiful. She moves like a signal, inviting us to close our eyes and follow.

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🟣  The Oracle

In stillness and contemplation, she waits—for what is unresolved, and for what is yet to come. She allows life to unfold with patience, trusting that the dreams she planted years ago will deepen and take root, blooming when the time is right. And when they arrive in unexpected ways, that’s how she knows they’re genuine—not forced. That’s the magic.

She embodies the process, not the product. Attuned to something deeper—something hard to name—she carries an inner psychic understanding and guides us to recognize it within ourselves, too. It’s a steady, meditative walk toward the great unknown.

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💚 The Witch

She knows when to let go and begin again—like nature, reclaiming itself, healing, and renewing in cycles.

The Witch teaches by being—rooted in memory, shaped by time. Her wisdom lives in the body, passed down through generations. It’s survival through adaptation: a knowing older than words, often felt before it’s understood.

She reminds us to care and love deeply, to return to what matters: our bond with the living world. She places grass where it doesn’t belong—until it overtakes everything: the world, the body, the forgotten self.

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💖 The Siren

Amid the plastic furniture and shimmering fabrics of our youth, she thrives. Everything feels too perfect, too staged—a fantasy she consumed, its textures weaving into her very skin.

Twirling through life without apology—bold, fearless, and radiant with laughter—she commands your gaze. The hollow, glistening surfaces of her world appear suffocating from the outside, yet she shapes them from within, exacting her control.

This stage is hers by design, the gaze her creation—warped, bent, and tied into knots. It is both art and armour, a seamless blend of disguise and truth. Linger long enough, and you may glimpse your own reflection.

In the words of bell hooks: “There is power in looking.”

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💚 The Disappearing One

She is the shapeshifter—a facet of ourselves that drifts inwards, not to escape, but to transform in secret. Dwelling in states of liminality—neither here nor gone—she slips between unseen worlds. You may not notice her departure, but you’ll feel her return. She embodies transformation itself.

When things get too loud, she drifts into fantasy between memory and dream. This is the most inspiring place I know: the weave of past and possibility, where all we’ve gathered finds new meaning.

Like her, dolls capture this in-between realm, where form is fluid yet tethered to imagination. With subtle, provocative features, she mirrors the language of toys while beckoning toward mystery. As in childhood, she urges us to hold fast to our inner escape, serving as a talisman for those who wander between worlds.

She lingers between play, nostalgia, and estrangement, bearing traces of old bedrooms, warped mirrors, and overheard conversations. Small enough to cradle in your palm, but holding a thousand quiet expressions. At times, she whispers from the seams of your bag; at others she simply observes.

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