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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.



Studio Rituals
Have I ever told you about my muse?

She is a thing of smoke and vapors, giddy and clever, caring not for the clock or food or sleep or restless dogs or dinner dates.  Yesterday I spent the afternoon fussing about in the studio, combing through cabochons, pushing bits and scraps of silver around, driving to the art store and buying a handful of new watercolors.  There was this thing, this idea, this phrase I wanted to bring to tangible life.  I knew the visceral movement of it, the emotional evocation, the balance, the ascetic, the raw feeling of it, but the physical form fleeted just out of reach.

A nebulous, potent idea, like grasping air or balancing water.

Then, after the studio was closed down for the night, after dinner and wine and tea and this ridiculous flourless-chocolate-cake-from-WholeFoods-my-newest-gluttonous-addiction, and teeth brushing and face washing...
After all that, my muse woke up.
(how fabulously, terribly typical)
I was so tired, so physically done, but my mind came alive with color.  In the dark shadows of the bedroom I could see it, translucent and spacial, arcing and sparking.  The essence of idea distilled to form.  I felt that if I could just close tight my eyes and trace those colors with my fingertips, the glowing line left behind would hold the key to unlocking this visceral riddle like a land map to buried treasure.
I laid in bed and debated.  It was cozy under my hive of blankets and the studio was no doubt hovering around 39 degrees.  Sancho was already snoring.  And so I asked her, with a bit of chagrin, if she could please just let me sleep and come back in the morning after coffee.
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