Pierrot was my first crush, and I mean the very first one, the one before real life boys, girls, etc. It all began with a life size doll [the size of a 6 year old anyhow] of a crying jester. More of a fusion of Pierrot and Harlequin, he had long noodly limbs, painted fingernails and a white made up moon-face with permanent blue teardrops slightly raised on the plastic surface. I assigned him a variety of appropriately tragic personalities in accordance with whatever game I was playing that day.
The name “Pierrot” didn’t hold any meaning until I read Buratino – Tolstoy’s version of Pinnochio. He was Buratino’s dismal friend, eternally pining for Malvina the blue-haired doll. I was smitten by his dapper costume in the 1975 film version of the book. The magnificent ruff and floor-length sleeves on the squeaky pallid boy left a permanent impression.
Soon I started noticing his portrait in art books, admiring his powdered skin and elegant outfits.
Eventually I learned more of the Pierrot saga; his love for the cruel Columbine and Harlequin’s betrayal with her.
His story of eternally unrequited love was captivating, and thus a wee gothlette was conceived. To this day I’m weakened by the site of sullen powdered boys. I blame Pierrot for everything.
On a related note: Perrot paper doll.