Her head curves in a slow arc, beak nestled against the soft cascade of her own feathers, as if
caught in a moment of quiet reflection. The sweep of her neck draws the eye into the folds of rose
and coral plumage, each strand rendered in colored pencil and then coaxed into softness with the
wash of rubbing alcohol - my first time turning dry pigment into something fluid. She was born in the
early days of my art, when I was still learning what my hands could do, each stroke both a guess
and a revelation.