Margaret Woodbury Strong, the museum’s founder, was an avid collector of dollhouses. A ticket from 1958 invited guests to the “First Public Showing of Mrs. Homer Strong’s World-Famous Collection of Doll Houses” at her residence in Pittsford, New York. The nearly 100 dollhouses exhibited represented only a portion of her collection. In celebration of Margaret Woodbury Strong’s fascination with spectacular miniatures, The Strong National Museum of Play has opened Dollhouses Unveiled. The exhibit provides a unique opportunity to view dozens of rare dollhouses and miniatures from The Strong’s collections (many not seen on public view in decades along with others new to the museum).

The dollhouses on display provide a sample of design and play patterns from the 1830s to present day. A few highlights include the Mystery House and Blue Roof Victorian Mansion, as they have been called. Around 1890, the famed FAO Schwarz toy store carried a line of dollhouses with delicately carved wood accents. Dollhouse expert Flora Gill Jacobs later named the series “Mystery Doll Houses,” because she couldn’t identify the maker, though some speculated that prisoners made them. The elaborate houses signaled luxury and were correspondingly expensive. One version sold for $80—nearly a half-month’s salary for a lawyer at the time. During the same decade, the Mortiz Gottschalk Company created an elaborate mansion with a blue roof. FAO Schwartz also featured this house as a Christmas exclusive. Its construction of lithographed paper on wood created a spectacular design with a wondrous concoction of gables, turrets, spindles, and balustrades.

Nearly 100 years later, Barbie moved into her Magical Mansion. Felix Burrichter, co-editor of Barbie Dreamhouse: An Architectural Survey, said the pale walls and fluffy sofa reminded him of the suburban house in the 1987 thriller Fatal Attraction. Snobs might have scoffed, but kids loved ringing the functioning doorbell and phone. While thinking about life in plastic, one of the most striking objects on display is the Kaleidoscope House manufactured by Bozart Toys in 2001. Designed by artist Laurie Simmons and architect Peter Wheelwright, the Kaleidoscope House has sliding transparent walls, an arced-slab partial roof, and modern art pieces. The creators sought to update the conventional dollhouse with subtle touches, like sliding walls that allow for play with color, design, and light. The Kaleidoscope House provides just one example of how the history of dollhouses reveals shifting ideas about domestic life, innovative design, and imaginative play.

Aside from the dollhouses that include Margaret Strong’s childhood dollhouse and elaborate recent  residences marketed to grownups, guests to the exhibit can complete a scavenger hunt for teeny tiny miniatures that replicate everyday life, play with the lights and sounds we’ve added to the 1837 Amsterdam House, and view vintage dollhouse advertisements and photographs. Dollhouses Unveiled will be on display through January 4, 2026.

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Hasbro based My Little Pony on their earlier My Pretty Pony. At about 11 inches high, My Pretty Pony was made of hard plastic and came in one color—brown with a white blaze. What made it endearing was the trigger beneath its chin that twitched its ears, winked its eyes, and swished its tail. Despite My Pretty Pony’s relative success, a Hasbro executive’s wife suggested that kids wanted a pony that was smaller, softer, and fun to brush. The Research and Design team soon got to work on a new concept. Hasbro filed a patent for My Little Pony in 1981 and listed Bonnie Zacherle, Charles Muenchinger, and Steven D. D’Aguanno as the inventors. Hasbro designer Maureen Patterson recommended the ponies come in pastel colors rather than natural colors. In a trial of test ponies, it was clear that children loved fantasy colors.

In 1983, Hasbro trotted out My Little Pony, six petite horse figures, each made of a soft vinyl with a silky mane and unique rump mark (symbols like stars, dots, and flowers later referred to as “cutie marks”) that reflected its name. The first characters of the line—Cotton Candy, Butterscotch, Blossom, Blue Belle, Minty, and Snuzzle—and the ponies that followed, had rounded bodies and anthropomorphized faces that made them irresistible. More varieties including Pegasus Ponies, Unicorns, and Sea Ponies followed.

My Little Pony combined doll play with modern marketing strategies. Hasbro understood the importance of storytelling and developing character personalities to expand play and collectability. Detail-oriented kids and adults coveted the latest pony with a new cutie mark. Hasbro also hired industrial designer Khipra Nichols to create play sets like My Little Pony Dream Castle, which included Spike, a baby dragon who rode up and down the castle in a basket inspired by a dark scene in the 1954 Alfred Hitchcock movie Rear Window.

By 1984, Sunbow Productions, an animation studio created by Hasbro’s ad agency Griffin Bacal, partnered with Marvel to create the My Little Pony (rebranded Rescue at the Midnight Castle) television special followed by Escape from Catrina. In “Toy Makers Frolic in Fantasy Land,” a New York Times article published two days before Christmas in 1984, Philip S. Gutis explored this new “prepackaged fantasy” trend in toy marketing. Gutis reported that some parents and children’s advocacy groups worried that these background stories prevented children from using their own imaginations. In response to the concerns, a Hasbro spokesperson said, “we give children the framework and they fill in the blanks and expand the fantasy.”

When My Little Pony: The Movie hit theaters just two years later, film reviewers criticized it as “the longest self-advertisement.” Despite the all-star cast including Danny DeVito, Cloris Leachman, Madeline Kahn, and Rhea Perlman, one reviewer noted “the real theme song is the ring of the cash register as Hasbro attempts to turn unwitting young viewers into customers.” Another observed “the sugary cuteness of My Little Pony masks a corporate greed as cold and sharp as a razor blade.” In her review, Nina Darnton declared “the little ponies are like those pastel heart candies that have little messages on them such as ‘I luv you.’ You can eat a few, but too many make you sick.” While these snarky commentors expressed concerns about children being immersed in consumer culture, they often failed to acknowledge that kids have independent thoughts, use their imaginations to fuel play, and demand that brands live up to their high expectations.  

By the time Hasbro discontinued the My Little Pony line in the United States in 1992, the brand had sold more than $1 billion worth of toys, clothing, home decorations, and other consumer goods. Many felt it was time for Hasbro to get off their high horse, as My Little Pony licensing deals seemed to run wild, but its popularity never truly died. Hasbro re-launched My Little Pony in the U.S. and continues to introduce new products today.

Many fans credit My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic with the resurgence in popularity. Lauren Faust, the show’s creator, wanted to change the negative perceptions of animated programs geared toward girls. She wrote that the show was “wonderfully free of ‘token girl’ syndrome, so there is no pressure to shove all your ideals of what we want our daughters to be into one package.” The show also appealed to an unexpected audience—males between 13 and 35 who labeled themselves “bronies.” My Little Pony proved that unbridled femininity comes in many forms and continues to suggest that toy aisles don’t need to be defined by gender. In 2020, Hasbro did a cross-over between two of this year’s inductees My Little Pony x Transformers, further disrupting the gender stereotypes that were fervent when the toys came out in 1984.

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Advertising executive John Stover founded Grandmother Stover’s during World War II. The company’s origin story was frequently printed with slight variations, but the central element was that Stover became interested in miniatures when he attempted to furnish a dollhouse for his three daughters. Stover found that due to the war, many of the miniatures made in German cottage industries were no longer being imported to the United States. In addition, restrictions and material shortages made it difficult to produce toys. He wondered if artisans working in miniature could succeed in Ohio.

Stover named the company after his mother, Anna J. Stover. Their early miniatures were handmade, often with help from his mother and daughters, and featured realistic detailing. He soon ran advertisements for workers who began to make miniature towels, bedspreads, food, books, and other accessories. The miniatures were grouped thematically and packaged on cards. Stover sometimes included Dowst Brothers metal premiums, charms, and game tokens, and Eppy charms in the packages. Grandmother Stover’s miniatures were an immediate success.

In the late 1940s, Stover had the clever marketing plan to invite manufacturers of food and household supplies to pay for the reproduction of their labels in miniature form, which he then applied to accessories and sold under the Grandmother Stover’s brand. An early advertisement for a group of miniatures touted “for small girls or mini-mad grownups.” A package of miniature nursery items, for example, included a box of Sunshine Baby Arrowroot Biscuits, a type of biscuit invented in the late 1880s and intended for children’s delicate digestions. He also secured permissions to print miniature editions of newspapers and publications like The New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Merriam-Webster Dictionary.

During the 1950s, the miniature business declined, but Stover, resourceful as always, reinvented his company with miniature items packaged as party favors. The company offered miniature umbrellas to garnish a cocktail, plastic babies for party games at baby showers, and tiny champagne bottles to decorate tables at a wedding, among many others. Adults who did not frequent toy stores now discovered Grandmother Stover’s products at gift and stationery stores.

The adult market proved fruitful, and Stover began making Fun Miniatures, which combined satire with card art and made for the perfect, inexpensive gag gift. Despite the scale of Fun Miniatures, the trinkets and artwork made a big statement. In the era of Mad Men, the Advertising Genius miniature kit included a dictionary, cocktail shaker, popular magazine titles, and a bottle of milk. The 1960s was a pivotal period of transformation in the advertising world. It included the formation of advertising conglomerates, the rise of television, and the advent of new technologies. In 1963, David Ogilvy’s Confessions of an Advertising Man became a bible for the advertising industry.

The New Father kit included the supplies needed for a late-night feeding and a box of cigars. The card featured an illustration of a disheveled man dressed in pajamas trying to feed a screaming baby. The set was sold in the mid-1960s, when the fatherhood movement communicated to men that although economic support was part of being a good father, it was also important to spend regular time with their children. Despite this discourse, stereotypical representations of fathers as clueless persisted. The For Those Who Do Very Little Housework set included a broom, a dustpan, a spider, a bottle of beer, and laundry soap. In the 1970s, studies indicated that the amount of time women spent doing housework showed no historical decline, despite more women securing paid employment outside of the home. A close look at the illustration on the header For Those Who Do Very Little Housework provides a social commentary—women were burned-out. Not all Fun Miniatures demonstrated progressive thinking and many people today would find those insensitive and offensive.

In the late 1970s, Stover retired to West Palm Beach and opened a shop. In a 1979 article, Ruth Drinkle noted, “In his store one can purchase anything for a doll house from a mouth-watering roast of beef, surrounded with potatoes and carrots on a blue platter ($1.50) to a bear rug ($8.00), a patch work quilt, or a Victorian arch and mantel.” I could spend many more hours looking at these packets and I have unanswered questions—such as was the miniature book How to Lose Weight first packaged with Mattel’s Slumber Party Barbie or with Grandmother Stover’s miniatures and what happened to the company’s records? The best resource I have found to date is the book Grandmother Stover’s Dollhouse Miniatures by Patty Cooper. And now, thanks to a generous donor, the museum’s online collections will also prove valuable to researchers and miniature enthusiasts.

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To fully understand the significance of The Topps Company’s trading cards, I think we need to go back to the 1950s. In 1954, the Association of Comics Magazine Publishers put together the Comics Code Authority. The code included a crackdown on sexually explicit images, werewolves, zombies, and ghouls, violence, drugs, and vulgar language. It also implied that criminals could not triumph over good and authority figures must be respected, as should the sanctity of the family (no divorce, for example).  Comics that met the 41 restrictions carried the official seal of approval. Many scholars credit Dr. Fredric Wertham as the reason for these guidelines. In his book, Seduction of the Innocent, Dr. Wertham correlated juvenile delinquency with violence and sex in comics. Parents navigating the postwar era were happy to indulge his theories. But not all artists wanted to sanitize their work. And what would art be without rebellion?

Soon the counter cultural “Underground Comix” movement was born. It involved the publication of small press comics filled with rude or satirical art. Artworks based on underground comix, stylized cartoons, and the burgeoning punk scene poked fun at conventional life. Young artist Art Spiegelman was inspired by the skepticism of politics, media, and society presented in works born out of the underground comix movement. While attending college, Spiegelman met Woody Gelman, art director of The Topps Company. Gelman invited Spiegelman to join the company as a freelance illustrator. He joined the team that developed Wacky Packages, a series of collectible trading cards that parodied commercial products like Ratz Crackers and Cracked Animals. Both of these were pulled when the company received cease-and-desist letters from the manufacturers of the products being spoofed, but that did not stop The Topps Company or Spiegelman from continuing to push the envelope.

In the early 1980s, The Topps Company decided to parody the Cabbage Patch Kids dolls with a series of collecting cards. The project was spearheaded by Spiegelman, cartoonist Mark Newgarden, and artist John Pound. The first Garbage Pail Kids set was released in June 1985 and sold for 25 cents per pack. Garbage Pail Kids looked remarkedly like Cabbage Patch Kids, but instead of encouraging nurture play and cuddling, these characters had rebellious attitudes and shock value. Kids intrigued by the gross-out humor and detailed illustrations could not get enough of them. Many parents and educators argued that the characters were vile—some administrators went so far as to ban them from school grounds.

Between 1985 and 1988, Topps released 15 series of Garbage Pail Kids. In 1988, Topps decided not to release any additional sets as the possibilities seemed exhausted, but in 2003, Garbage Pail Kids made a comeback. Garbage Pail Kids proved a pop-culture phenomenon. The chase for artist sketch cards, coupons, and parallels kept the brand fresh. Many collectors focused on a single character from the series, while others enjoyed set collecting. I personally like to look for any card with a puppy on it. Ancient Annie (sometimes referred to as Wrinkled Rita), for example, is adorned in a tropical print dress and holding the leash of a miniature poodle. It’s not a kind portrayal of aging, but that lends to engaging social commentary.

Topps banked on the success of Garbage Pail Kids with future projects like Gross Bears & Big Bad Buttons, a button collection set by artist Tom Bunk. Gross Bears mocked the popular and super sweet Care Bears originally created by artist Elena Kucharik. Instead of charming names like Cheer Bear and Funshine Bear, Gross Bears included Punk Bear, Melted Bear, and Trash Bear, among others. Barf Bear, the one that I can’t look at without feeling ill, had the tagline “Ready for Lunch?” The Gross Bears line did not enjoy the same success as Garbage Pail Kids and was cancelled until 2016, when the Gross Bears Big Bad Stickers were released.

Topps also published Trashcan Trolls, a series of trading cards that parodied the Norfin Trolls fad in 1992. In the 1980s, marketing executive Eva Stark imported Thomas Dam’s troll dolls and rebranded them as Norfin Trolls. The troll dolls had sprigs of colorful hair, big eyes like those from a Margaret Keene painting, potbellies, and a tag marked “Adopt a Norfin.” Like Cabbage Patch Kids, Norfin Trolls were not conventionally cute, but they pulled at the heartstrings of Americans. Trash Can Trolls took the unconventional even farther with edgy and dark illustrations led by art director and editor Mark Newgarden and artists like John Pound, Tom Bunk, Drew Friedman, Irene Rofheart, and Patrick Pigott, among others. The cards came six to a package and had the tagline “totally trashy troll stickers.” Character had names like Barfin’ Barb, Herbert Sherbert, and Dustin’ Justin. The line seemed like a continuation of the bathroom humor and depictions of dirty things that started with Wacky Packages.

While some people consider these cards offensive and risqué (and I would agree that some of them are), they reflect a style of art and humor that has resonated within American popular culture for decades. Many of these cards still circulate as collectibles and several of the artists have gained a certain level of prominence among mainstream culture—not that they care.

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Influenced by Martha Nelson Thomas’ Doll Babies, art student Xavier Roberts combined his interest in needle molding with the quilting skills he learned from his mother to craft soft sculptures he called Little People. Roberts’ creations featured a pudgy face with close-set eyes and hair fashioned of colored yarn. They were funky rather than conventionally pretty, contrasting sharply with mass-produced plastic beauties. He dressed his homely babies in clothing picked at garage sales and gave them names he took from the 1938 birth records in his native Georgia. So far, the tale reads a bit like a storybook with a few red flags (who is Martha Nelson Thomas?), but it gets more complicated.

Roberts did not exactly “sell” Little People to customers. Instead, he offered them up for “adoption”—in return for a fee. He included a birth certificate and adoption papers with each doll. His marketing strategy proved interesting, considering that the Baby Scoop Era had come to an end. You’ve probably heard of the Baby Boom years, but the Baby Scoop Era has been defined by scholars as occupying the years following World War II through the early 1970s. During this period, an increase in out-of-wedlock pregnancies led many expecting women to adoption as the only option to navigate social expectations, poverty, illness, and family crisis. Within this social context, Roberts’ use of birth certificates and adoption papers to sell baby dolls seems completely unrelated to the feminist movement and the female experience. But the tactic proved fruitful.

Next on Roberts’ agenda was the organization of Original Appalachian Artworks, Inc. He transformed a turn-of-the-20th-century abandoned medical clinic into the company’s headquarters, and named the complex BabyLand General Hospital. Staff dressed as doctors and nurses greeted guests with southern hospitality. With national print and television media attention on his softly sculpted Little People, Roberts struggled to satisfy consumer demand.

In 1982, Original Appalachian Artworks negotiated a licensing agreement with Coleco Industries (a company founded in 1932 to make leather goods and named the Connecticut Leather Co.) to produce the dolls with vinyl (instead of soft-sculpted) heads and cloth bodies. Given that Fisher-Price already had a line of toys called the Little People, marketing wiz Roger Schlaifer renamed the dolls Cabbage Patch Kids and developed the logo and packaging. With his wife Susanne Nance, Schlaifer also double-downed on the surreal legend of the birds and the bees—or more specifically the Bunnybees and magic crystal dust. A sanitized birth story such as this fits with the history of adoption in America.

The first dolls were ready in time for the 1983 holiday season. But Coleco couldn’t keep up with the massive wave of orders. As the holiday season progressed, parents and adults became more desperate to find them for their kids. Retail stores everywhere reported disturbances as frenzied customers battled each other for the few available dolls. While adult behaviors exhibited the power of scarcity, Cabbage Patch Kids expanded children’s notions of nurture and fantasy. At the peak of their popularity, more than 2,000 products featured the Cabbage Patch Kids brand name.

For more than 40 years, the brand has intended to convey messages about unconventional beauty and belonging. As a kid, one of my favorite dolls was a bald, brown-eyed Cabbage Patch Doll marketed as a “preemie.” The appeal for me was in the doll’s baby powder scent and weighted bottom. As an adult, I find the mass-marketing of adoption, premature babies, and the consumer culture it created unsettling, but the success of Cabbage Patch Kids is undeniable.

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Born in 1914, Dare Wright spent her early childhood with her mother, famed portrait artist Edith (Edie) Stevenson Wright. Edie treated Dare like a companion and the pair often created imaginary worlds through reading, writing, drawing, carpentry, and sewing. Dare loved to read Robin Hood, Grimms’ fairy tales, and The Lovely Garden, and she spent countless hours occupied by her dolls. Following Dare’s enrollment at Laurel boarding school in the fourth grade, Edith purchased Dare a 22-inch-tall Lenci doll on installment for $12.50 from the Halle Brothers Department Store. The doll wore a curly mohair wig, had flirty, side-glancing eyes, and sported an orange felt bonnet and organdy dress. Dare named the doll “Edith” after her mother. As most girls do with increasing age, Dare became preoccupied with other activities and eventually packed Edith into a trunk. In 1933, Dare graduated among the top five in her class.

It doesn’t matter which version of Dare’s post-school life you read, because they all resemble a film script. She traveled internationally, modeled for Esquire, Cosmopolitan, and Maidenform, reconnected with her alcoholic brother Blaine, continued to play dress-up with her mother, and naively cast a spell on single and married men. Dare also converted a bathroom into a darkroom where she taught herself to process and develop film. Dare’s mother helped her develop an eye for artistic composition and she soon transitioned into a professional fashion photographer.

In 1950, Edie was the midst of a move, and she began to send Dare trunks filled with her childhood belongings, including Edith. The doll became a primary subject of Dare’s photographs. The following year, Dare began to style her own blonde hair in a high ponytail with short bangs. Soon Edith sported the same look. Dare replaced Edith’s mohair wig with a false chignon wig and pierced her ears with delicate gold hoops. She sewed Edith white ruffled cotton underwear, a white eyelet petticoat, and a pink and white gingham dress. Dare also began to stage photographs of Edith with two teddy bears gifted to her by Blaine. The three playthings became the main characters of a children’s storybook about the adventures of a lonely doll and her two friends.

In 1957, Doubleday and Company published Dare’s The Lonely Doll, a series of photographic illustrations featuring Edith and the bears. The simple text conveyed the story of a lonely doll who befriended Mr. Bear and Little Bear. Dare’s photographs were sophisticated, almost glamorous. The story conveyed childhood fear of punishment and loneliness, while exploring unconventional and unconditional love—themes that many critics believed ran rampant in Dare’s own life. The Lonely Doll quickly became a best-seller. In the October 13, 1957 edition of The New York Times, a literary critic noted that although Edith was a doll, “she seems in these photographs, lifelike too. Little girls will undoubtedly recognize their own moods in hers: her rainy-day crossness, her innocent mischief (dressing up in grown-up finery and lipstick), her contrition and final relief when all is forgiven.” Dare published nine more books in the Lonely Doll series.

Dare and Edith became the subject of biographies, analysis of mother-daughter relationships, study of how photography mobilized the body and life through the figure of the doll, and idols for female artists such as Cindy Sherman and Kim Gordon. The pair also held a special place in the life of dollmakers. Several doll manufacturers made their own variations of Edith. The Alexander Doll Company produced the first version of Edith dressed in her signature pink and white gingham dress in 1958. The company obtained the license for the doll, again, in 2003 and turned out a version paired with a teddy bear for their Classics Collection.

At a quick glance, Madame Alexander and Dare Wright seem an unlikely pair. Madame Alexander presented herself as demure, while Dare posed freely in the nude. But the two both proved to be ambitious, detail-oriented, and free from conventional norms. They had a passion for play and for using their talents to foster a child’s imagination. You can see this for yourself in the new display, 100 Years of Madame Alexander, at The Strong National Museum of Play.

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In 1900, Binney & Smith ventured into the school supply business. The company created handy multicolored non-toxic wax sticks in black, brown, orange, violet, blue, green, red, and yellow. Alice Binney combined the French words for “chalk” and “oily” (craie and olea) to make “Crayola.” The crayons hit the market in 1903 and kids snapped them up. Over the years, appealing new colors tracked fashion trends and cultural change.

One of Crayola’s most problematic colors was called Flesh Tint. First introduced in 1903, Flesh Tint came packaged in the No. 51 box. Flesh Tint was not available in boxed sets between 1935 and 1939 and between 1944 and 1949, but the reason for this is unclear. It was reintroduced as Flesh in 1949. Coincidentally, this was shortly after Kodak created Shirley Cards, reference photos used by technicians to calibrate colors and hues. Shirley, the Kodak model photographed for the cards, had ivory skin. For decades, Shirley defined what a photo-worthy skin tone should be, and she signified that the idealized consumer was white. What does this have to do with Flesh Tint? It reminded me of Harvard Professor Sarah Lewis’ essay, “The Racial Bias Built Into Photography,” in which she noted that “being seen accurately by the camera was a key to representational justice.” Lewis further explained that inclusive representation matters so much because “you can’t become what you can’t accurately see.”

We are inundated with notions of beauty from a young age and kids are paying attention. In the early 1960s, doctoral candidate June Handler researched kindergarten children’s prejudices toward Black people. In her abstract, she found that white children made disparaging comments toward their Black peers, including taunts that Black children “don’t have flesh,” because their skin tone did not match the Flesh Crayola crayon. Handler wrote to Crayola to advocate a name change. In 1962, Crayola renamed Flesh to Peach.

Some early companies began to recognize the importance of play in building self-esteem and respect, but it was not until the 1990s that several major manufacturers were receptive to inclusivity and diversity. Consumers, educators, and minority-owned businesses demonstrated that there was a market for Black toys. Crayola introduced Multicultural Crayons in 1992. The set included mahogany, peach, tan, sepia, burnt sienna, and apricot. Black and white were included for blending. The names suggest that these colors already existed and were not in anyway unique to individual skin tones. In 2019, Mimi Dixon, manager of brand equity and activation at Crayola, examined this multicultural initiative and determined it was time for an authentic change.

Dixon knew it was critical to involve researchers and designers from outside of the organization. She said, “At Crayola, we do know color. That’s who we are. But we don’t necessarily know skin tones. No one has mastered diversity and inclusion; no one has because of the journey.” Dixon believed the beauty industry had successfully introduced colors that reflected diversity and inclusivity and advised Crayola to engage with consultants from that field. Crayola sought out Victor Casale, formerly Chief Chemist and Managing Director, R&D of MAC Cosmetics and Cofounder and Chief Innovation Officer of Cover FX, to help diversify their product line.

In 2020, Crayola introduced Colors of the World, crayon shades that achieved a representation of all-inclusive shades and undertones into a palette. The 24-pack included medium almond, medium deep rose, light medium almond, light medium rose, light almond, light rose, light medium golden, very light almond, light golden, very light rose, very light golden, extra light almond, deepest almond, extra deep golden, extra deep rose, extra deep almond, very deep almond, deep golden, medium deep golden, deep almond, very deep rose, deep rose, medium deep almond, and medium golden. The 32-pack also included four hair and four eye color crayons. Crayola also created the “Draw your #TrueSelfie campaign” and invited participants to use the crayons to draw self-portraits, which are seen as an artistic expression of self-esteem. By July of 2020, the campaign resulted in 2.4 billion media impressions and celebrity social advocates like Patricia Arquette and Holly Robinson Peete.

In 2021, the Census Bureau released a report that the number of non-Hispanic Americans who identified as multiracial had jumped by 127 percent over the decade and kids are at the forefront of this change. To create equal and accurate representation, we need to ensure a sense of belonging. Crayola demonstrated the importance of accountability and intentional actions.

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On November 10, 2022, Masters of the Universe took their place of honor in the National Toy Hall of Fame. This is not the first time He-Man, Skeletor, and Castle Grayskull made recent headlines. Mattel Creations just launched a Masters of the Universe Origins He-Man 40th Anniversary Pack and fans who attended the San Diego Comic Con posted the grandiose Eternia play set to social media. Just this past July, Masters of the Universe: Revelation, developed by Kevin Smith, began streaming on Netflix. I championed for Masters of the Universe to get into the NTHOF, yet I did have one reservation. Do the images of He-Man impact male body image? Is He-Man the equivalent of Barbie whose voluptuous body and tiny waist has generated criticism since her inception in 1959?

The story of Masters of the Universe begins in 1979 when Ray Wagner of Mattel formed a Male Action Team to explore creation of the company’s next big action figure line. Until that point, Mattel’s action figures had been limited to Big Jim, a brawny sports hero, and a product that received a ho-hum response from kids at best. The company recognized that it needed to compete with the movie-fueled success of Kenner’s Star Wars action figures.

Roger Sweet, a member of the team, found inspiration in Charles Atlas (“the world’s most perfectly developed man”) and Frank Frazetta (painter of “The Destroyer”) when he decided to add modeling clay to bulk up Big Jim. Sweet wanted his action figure to make all other action figures look like wimps. If He-Man was scaled up to 6’1”, he would have weighed 720 lbs. (all of it vascular, sculpted muscles). In turn, Mattel illustrator Mark Taylor developed the proposed aesthetics for the action figure and, voila, He-Man was born. Instantly distinctive among competing toys, He-Man was super-ripped, scantly clothed, larger-than-life, and possessed brute force unlike any other action figure.

In my limited search, I was unable to find much criticism from the 1980s of He-Man and his friends and foes (all the males in the series had the same chiseled abs). There are academic studies of action figures and the male body. In “Evolving Ideals of Male Body Image as Seen Through Action Toys,” Harrison G. Pope, Jr., Roberto Olivardia, Amanda Gruber, and John Borowiecki measured the waist, chest, and bicep circumference of selected action figures and scaled these measurements using classical allometry. In comparing different versions of G.I. Joe, they found that the earliest figures had no visible abdominal muscles, but the modern figures showed distinct serratus muscles. The mid-1990s version, G.I. Joe Extreme, featured the equivalent of a 55” chest and a 27” bicep. A 1998 Batman had a 57.2” chest and 28.8” biceps and Wolverine had a 62” chest and 32” biceps. One could argue that Batman and Wolverine are superheroes and are not fully human. And while the advent of steroids and Arnold Schwarzenegger’s appearance in the 1977 film Pumping Iron, inspired some to bulk up, G.I. Joe Extreme was literally larger than life.

Contemporary scholarship suggests that these action figures do impact male body image. Dr. Raymond Lemberg, a clinical psychologist with a focus on male eating disorders, believed “the media has become more of an equal opportunity discriminator. Men’s bodies are not good enough anymore.” Action figures and the messages associated with these toys suggested more muscles mean more power. When considering the build of male action figures, Dr. Lemberg noted “only one to two percent of males actually have that body type. We’re representing men in a way that is unnatural.” Research suggested that children will resort to unnatural means to obtain a certain physique. In a 2012 study published in Pediatrics journal, the authors warned that “38 percent of middle-and high-schoolers surveyed were using protein powders and supplements to bulk up.” Some of these children also admitted to taking steroids.

When I casually asked my husband and a few of his friends if, as children, they aspired to have bodies like those of the characters from Masters of the Universe, I got a resounding “no way” and “it was just fun to play with them.” They also thought I threatened to “take the fun” out of He-Man and Skeletor by even discussing body image. Let’s not forget that this generation also grew-up listening to bands like Skid Row, Motley Crue, and Twisted Sister whose members were predominately white with long, permed hair, and long, slender legs clad in the tightest of pants. Anyhow, unattainable body images have been portrayed since Doryphoros of Ancient Greece.

All of this led me to the same thought I had about Barbie—despite the piling on by cultural critics and observers, when I look at these action figures, I see opportunities for creative play. Toys represent just a fraction of the ideas kids receive about body image. Frankly, I’m more concerned with educating my kids on the privilege implied by mass fitness, the health at every size movement, the dangers of misogyny, and the power of confidence. Mattel’s main-man, after-all, regularly asserted, “I have the power.” And self-esteem, in itself, is reason to celebrate the induction of Masters of the Universe into the National Toy Hall of Fame.

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The Strong recently acquired a few anthropomorphized fashion dolls. A dog with a human-like body and an extensive wardrobe is really something to behold. As much as I admired these dolls, I could not help but to ask why did these show-up in the toy aisle and were they successful?

Giving human characteristics to animals has existed for centuries. Ancient gods were frequently presented as hybridized human-like animals. In the 18th and 19th centuries, as naturalists discovered and classified new species of birds and animals, children’s book illustrators reflected an interest in the personality of animals. During the same period, the rise of the urban middle class led to the emergence of modern pet keeping of a variety of species. People who had little contact with working or wild animals tended to romanticize both nature and animals. In La Chatte Blanche (The White Cat), Marie-Catherine d’Aulnoy wrote about a cat who is dressed in various miniature outfits suited for different occasions. Some children and women took to dressing their pets in clothing, which is still a favorite pastime for many, especially social media influencers (your veterinarian might advise against this). Modern research suggests that people who are lonely or who experience social anxiety are more inclined to attribute human-like emotions to their pets. Yet, researchers warn not to put too much stock in your dog’s look of shame, as they probably do not realize they misbehaved. In my limited research, I did not find much on why Peteena, Pinkie Cooper, or Enchantimals Hawna Huskey hit the market.

In 1966, Hasbro, Inc. produced a fashion doll with the head of a Poodle. Peteena was a “pace setter,” a “swinger,” and a “bit on the wild side.” While many dolls served as a single aspect of self-adornment, Peteena encouraged pampering. Her wardrobe included various styles such as “Surf’s Up,” a lime green polka dot bikini, coordinating hat, and yellow sandals, and “Zero Cool,” a lime green and aqua jumpsuit, jacket, skis, hat, and gloves. Other outfits were “Campus Capers,” “Oh La La,” and “Twinkle Toes.” Hasbro only produced Peteena for a brief period, but she remains a popular commodity for adult collectors. The Peteena flickr group, “a place to post photos of the bizarre yet utterly fabulous Peteena the Pampered Poodle,” has more than 6,500 photographs to browse. The photographer of one of my favorites, “Turning on the Kettle,” detailed all the supplies she used to create the shoot. These included Blythe doll shoes, handmade tights, Maileg produce, and vintage miniatures. The meticulous details demonstrate the seriousness of play for many collectors.

Pinkie Cooper and the Jet Set Pets, another line of fashion dolls with the head of a dog, were designed by Carter Bryant (creator of Bratz dolls) and his sister Anjanette Abell and developed by The Bridge Direct in 2013. Bryant wanted to create a doll that was sweet and “more sophisticated, glamorous, and not as edgy” as the Bratz line. The designers decided to create a doll that looked like Abell’s cocker spaniel, Pinkie Cooper. The line also included Ginger Jones, an expert designer with the fashion mantra “a smile is the best accessory,” and Pepper Parson, a famous DJ with the refrain “don’t be afraid to break the rules!” Pinkie, Ginger, and Pepper attended the World of Original Fashion (WOOF) school, had a passion for fashion, and had their own dogs (think Mickey Mouse with Pluto—confusing) Lil’ Pinkie, Sprinkles, and Saltine. While there are some avid fans of these jet setters, the line was not nearly as successful (or controversial) as Bratz dolls. In some ways, I am pleased to see a fashion doll that allows for hair and fashion play but does not objectify women.

With Enchantimals, Mattel took the popular animal aesthetic of social media filters and married it with a product and stories that encouraged friendship and empathy. Mattel described Enchantimals as a “group of lovable girls who have a special bond with their animal friends, and even share some of the same characteristics.” Hawna the Husky has pointy ears, a bushy gray tail, and whiskers. Bree Bunny has pink ears and a cottontail. Sage Skunk has a black and white tail and white markings on her face. Through social media, the brand promotes the idea of caring for all creatures. In the stop-motion video, “How to Care for Animals,” various Enchantimals demonstrate ways to care for a critter such as making sure “their tummies are full” and “provide love and attention.” The messages seem reminiscent of Victorian parents and moralists who felt that pets helped children to cultivate virtues.

Other anthropomorphic fashion dolls in the museum’s collections include Mattel’s Gorgeous Creatures, Madame Alexander’s French Kitty Ooh La La, and Lanard’s Catwalk Kitties. Looking at the history of anthropomorphic characters, it was only a matter of time before they became toys. Whether you’re a dog person or a cat person, it’s fun to find the play in the absurd.

By Michelle Parnett-Dwyer, Curator

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Spending time learning about Edward Gorey was anything but a dull afternoon. Born in 1925, Gorey was an only child and a prodigy. He began to draw at the age of two, and the following year he taught himself to read. When Gorey was an adult, many gossiped about his character. He was a conversationalist, wore a floor-sweeping fur coat, declared his favorite journey was “looking out the window,” and claimed the greatest love of his life were cats. After serving in the army during World War II and completing his academics, Gorey accepted a position at the publishing firm Doubleday Anchor. He also began writing and illustrating his own works. Published in 1953, The Unstrung Harp was his first illustrated novella. In his work, Gorey dispensed with happily ever after. Many cruel things happened to children in his stories, but he also took children’s anxieties seriously. His creativity didn’t end with his writing. The New Yorker article “Edward Gorey’s Toys” reported that he was also an obsessive creator of stuffed toys. He used whatever fabric he had on hand, stitched the pieces together, and filled them with rice. He made hundreds. There were also a few attempts at commercial toy lines. In 1978, Toy Works, a company that operated out of a chicken house on White Feather Farm in Greenwich, New York, contracted with Random House to make a run of Gorey toys from hand-printed fabric patterns. The line ran for only two years, so stumbling upon stuffed animals of Gorey-inspired cats dressed in sweaters and bowtie-wearing pigs was a special treat for me.

Finnish author Tove Jansson, a contemporary of Gorey’s, dropped out of Paris’s École des Beaux–Arts and had many preoccupations with the devastation of World War II. During this time, Jansson created the Moomins, a close-knit family of white hippo-like creatures who lived in a peaceful land. Jansson expressed that she was “feeling depressed and scared . . .  and wanted to get away from my gloomy thoughts to something else entirely.” The Moomins consisted of Moomintroll, Moominmamma, Moominpapa, and Moomintroll’s girlfriend, Snork Maiden. In 1945, she published her stories and drawings as The Moomins and the Great Flood. One critic praised Jansson as “an artist with two native languages—words and images.” Through the Moomins, Jansson created a world with anxiety, grief, fear, and loneliness. Yet, despite this darkness, the Moomins also exhibited optimism and a deep connection with nature. Jansson’s sentiments suggested that she related deeply to her characters. In 1963, she wrote home, “I was woken by another TV crew  . . . feeling pretty cocky, but also trying to maintain my image: gentle cultivated, enraptured children of nature.” In the 1950s, the London Evening News  invited Jansson to turn the Moomins into a daily comic strip. Eventually there came a television series, trinkets, and toys. Today, the Moomins have a cult-like following.

By studying the words and images, colors, and visual metaphors of picture books readers can see our vulnerabilities and curiosities. Gorey and Jansson are just a few of the authors represented in the museum’s collection. Many artifacts inspired by picture books are on display in The Strong’s Reading Adventureland exhibit, a life-size pop-up book. And throughout the museum you’ll find books that you can check out with a Monroe County library card. You’ll need to supply your own stuffed animal, though.

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