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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.




... I walk into the studio and the light dances up the walls and glazes softly over my canvas.

... I mix paint with such a fervor the whole room sings with the slap of my knives on a glass palette.

... I can't be bothered to find new music after an album ends, and work to the sound of brushes sliding over canvas and the rhythm of my own breathing.

... I wonder how I could possibly be hungry after I had just eaten lunch (and then realize it's after 11:30 pm).

I've started a new series. All at once it's familiar and foreign and fresh and bold and subtle. It's the combination of small slices of self-evaluation and the meshing of five separate ideas. It's full of messages, reminders to myself, spelled out for the world more clearly than I've ever worked.

I poured myself into eight square inches yesterday and created something that's looking back at me now.

I can't wait to show you.