contact Kelly

Thank you for your email. Please understand if it takes a few to get back to you. 



I am UmberDove.

And by that, I mean an artist.  One who hears stories in the wind, who paints because it is what her soul tells her to do, who smiths because the muse moves through her fingertips, who loves nothing more than the promise of an unexplored trail, the sound of the ocean in her ears, and scent of a serious cup of coffee.


Back in Oregon and Other Woes of an Artist


Well technically I'm back in Seattle as I sit her in my ol' faithful white sweat pants (see Jordan? Every gal breaks out the sweats!) but I was back in Oregon all last week.  To be more exacting, I was vacationing in a true vacation house alongside the Umpqua River in prime wine country with my BC and a couple of old friends.  It was also prime insect country as I quickly discovered (I don't care how much time you spend in the woods, when a 2.5 inch - 6.3 centimeter - moth flies into the bird's nest of hair you keep perched on top of your head, dive-bombing your scalp and trying to evade your swatting fingers, you DO squeal).  
While the house allegedly offered internet in it's long list of amenities and I had grand plans of daily blog-photo posting, the service ended up being worse than dial-up.  Dial-up people.  I just don't do dial-up (I gave it up years ago along with margarine and spiked belts).  So mercifully, it was a techie-free week.  
Does any one else find bliss in not being able to check their email and voice messages-oh-oops-I'm-out-of-range-reading-by-the-river-so-sorry?  
At any rate, the week consisted largely of painting, reading, wine tasting and eating.  As all good vacations should.

I was lucky enough to find a spare patio table, drag it off to the very edge of the yard overlooking the river and set up a mini-studio.   Absolutely beautiful, exactly what I needed and wanted.  I watched the river slur by at a fast clip and a loud swush, light playing off every peak and unexpected splash.  I sat in the phosphorescent glow of afternoon light filtered by a thousand sheer maple leaves.  I ran down to the water one afternoon, rubber gloves still on, brush in hand, to watch a whole family of wood ducks flitting across the water, the young small enough to fit in my palm and in numbers no less than 15.  I listened to the Stellar's jays fighting over the best way to build their nest, chasing robins off prime materials.  I swatted the fat summer flies and hummed little tunes to myself, the song of oil pooling on a tight drum of canvas, an ode to pushing and pulling neat piles of paint with my palette knife, a ballad of the slick bend of my favorite round brush.
And herein lies the difficulty.  
I have been suffering from an acute case of studio restlessness.  Please don't get me wrong, I love my studio, it is truly my space and I've built something there.  But sometimes I long for a space close enough to jaunt into the house to pour up that second cup of joe, a space that looks out into the trees, a space I can work late into the evening (my studio is not in the best part of town...).  I don't mean to complain, not at all, but sometimes I wish I DID just have it all AND a slice of dark chocolate cake too.

I'm writing up new goals.  I think I need them, printed in bold lettering, in my best handwriting, to clear my head and focus my direction.  I know where I want to be (figuratively), but I need to uncover where I want to be (literally).  But this time of indecision, well, I'm done with it all together.  It's just too exhausting.

I'm making my way.  A bird of bright plumage, buoyed up by the currents of her clan, flying soft across the deep summer moon.

~ Side Note ~
EEK!  It's so tiny, only 5 inches square! I've been on a bit of a kick with these little canvas, so intimate, cradled in my hand, each one a complete thought, like a single sentence in the novel of my life.  I could make a thousand and every one would still be individual, still be able to stand on it's own two feet, but grouped together they weave a complex tale.  In this, painting makes more sense to me than the very molecules of oxygen and carbon dioxide that play tag team in my lungs.