Olga Nunes

How To Help Out In Boston

2013-04-18T16:23:26Z

One of my close friends, Becky Hurwitz, is currently living in Boston. She was one of the first numbers I frantically texted when news of the bombing began spreading over Twitter. She is, thankfully, alright, but she sent me an email this morning about raising funds for one of the victims of the bombing, below.

Maybe you're unsure how to help from wherever you are in the world. This is one way you can reach out and touch a family who was very seriously affected.

The email:

Hi friends,

Thanks so much for all of the messages on Monday checking in about my safety. It seems that all of the people I know here are safe and well. Sadly, one of our grad students, Chris Peterson, lost a family friend, the young boy, Martin, who was killed in the bombing. Martin was waiting with his mom and sister near the finish line for their dad to finish the race. His mom and sister are in critical condition still. This is Chris's blog note about Martin.

Chris, his brothers, and our lab group put together a way of receiving donations for the family. Funds will be gifted through WePay and received into a special fund administered by their neighborhood community group. All of the funds will go directly to the family.

If you are inclined, please consider donating a bit for the family. They have a long road ahead of them in so many ways.

Here is the link to the Richard Family Fund: http://richardfamilyfund.org/

My love,
Bex

ps. There are many families affected by Monday, of course, and if you are inclined to donate something, but would rather donate to a more general fund, Boston City Gov set up this fund -OneFund, to receive donations to support recovery.

Feel free to pass this on to whomever is looking for a way to help.

Love. Love. Love.

Sold My Soul At The Crossroads

2013-03-28T18:49:13Z

I used to be a little obsessed with Robert Johnson.

Several years ago, I helped put together an alternate reality game for Amanda Palmer, and Robert Johnson was one of the characters. There was a whole site about it, here.

The story goes (which you may have heard on Radiolab, or seen alluded to in Oh Brother Where Art Thou?) that Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads to be able to play blues guitar. It's a crazy story, filled with murder and sex and voodoo and music-- and a lot of contention.

In my mind, the crossroads is desolate and spooky and deeply romantic. Like this:

Ooh, spooky.

In actuality, it's in Clarksdale, Mississippi, and looks like this:

Devil keychains are 99 cents!

My best friend is there right now, on a road trip, and he took a picture for me of the BBQ restaurant now spitting distance from the crossroads.

BBQ for lost souls.

If I were writing a story? Tourists would come to the crossroads, shrug at the kitsch, go to the BBQ place and find the devil looking inconspicuous in an apron and tee shirt behind the counter.

"What's on the menu?"

"Here you go."

"No, no, the OTHER menu."

"Ah. Well, Banjo'll cost you your firstborn, harmonica's cheaper: we just take your innocence. But guitar: we'll have to do a credit check."

...Because I'm A Girl

2013-03-27T03:10:49Z

When I was 19, I had the good fortune to work crew on an Ani DiFranco show.

Over the course of my life, Ani was the only person I have ever considered myself to be a true fan of. I hung out on message boards, I over-analyzed her lyrics. As a girl growing up in the rural South with few to no examples of empowered women, let alone empowered artists, I was enraptured by her.

So, there I was, working crew for her show. I was the only woman; the other men were hefting amps and lighting rigs around, and I was shuffling my feet looking for something to do. I made a catty remark about how no one would let me lift anything because I was a GIRL.

The head of Ani's crew sternly looked me up and down in a way that implied he knew my type, and immediately started giving me the heavy lifting.

I was definitely trigger-happy when it came to my sense of lady-power. I felt like the odd girl out, and I was, often: I knew my way around computers at a time when girls weren't officially aware of the internet, and more than once in a computer lab, a man would ask if I had been HIRED by one of his buddies.

Because I couldn't be a girl, and know things about tech.

I'm going somewhere with this.

I recently came across this Kickstarter where a mom was raising funds to help her 9-year-old daughter make an RPG.

It was framed as: Mean Boys Want To Tell Sister She Can't Make Games!

The internet rushed in to give support. Because the internet now has the same trigger-happy reflex about girl-power I once did. And though the Kickstarter had only set out to raise eight hundred, it has raised over twenty thousand dollars to date.

Due to some insane internet backlash, the mom running the Kickstarter is now backing off the original ask. She doesn't want to use the money, it's too much, she doesn't know what to do with the excess.

And in my opinion? She should still use it to fund her daughter's game, as well as the games of other girls.

I suggested on Twitter, "...you should use $829 of [the money] to send your daughter to camp, both for HER sense of empowerment, & sticking to what people signed up for. I suggest opening up the funding to [other] girls who want to make RPGs. Each girl gets $829, & each backer gets an additional game made by an awesome gamer girl. At current math, [that will fund] 26 games."

I won't get into the drama surrounding the Kickstarter (you can read here, if you care to); but I can't help thinking about the 9-year-old girl. That the original intent of this small Kickstarter was to give a tiny boost to her self-esteem, and aim her a little closer towards her dreams.

Because the things that we are passionate about when we are young are insanely formative.

Because the opportunities we are offered in our youth forge our future selves.

And because the memory of a woman from a long time ago intensely shaped my future decisions and desires in ways I would never have guessed.

I Am Not At SXSW

2013-03-11T21:06:43Z

But.

I had lavish plans to go to Austin this year, with three-foot balloons, and rolled up love letters and a toy piano in tow.

And then my dad got sick, and sicker, and died, and the world turned inside out.

Plans break down, when real life happens.

Nikki Jeske, a lovely woman on Twitter asked, "Are you coming to SXSW?" And I told her no, and why.

She'd read all 101 love letters from act one of LAMP (here), and said delightful things about them.

And then, today, this:

Looks like a red balloon & letter made it to Austin after all, @olganunes. <3 #lamp #sxyote instagr.am/p/WuynLKulRn/
-- Nikki Jeske (@designcoyote) March 11, 2013

@olganunes For you & your dad. Now you've made it to Austin (and so has your stories).
-- Nikki Jeske (@designcoyote) March 11, 2013

She'd drawn it on a wall in Austin.

It made me cry.

A Field Guide To Lamp & Love Letters

2013-02-23T00:33:52Z

MAKING THINGS REALITY

On March 9th, 2009, I sent this photo to a friend with the words "I want to do this one day. Soon."

Almost FOUR years ago.

Which is crazypants, as I have no memory of making that image.

Fast forward to two weeks ago, where I made the above image into a real, actual thing:

× × ×

WHERE IT STARTED

My plan was to write 100 love letters, stick them into 100 bottles and tie them to 100 balloons. To create a story, built around the album I'm writing, called LAMP.

That's where the idea started.

× × ×

WHERE IT ENDED UP

It turned into me co-opting the techie skills of my roommate Kasima to help build a love letter mobile app. I would scatter the letters around San Francisco, and anyone who found one could scan a QR code, making the letter appear on a website.

It turned into creating a fictional organization called the Society of Lost Letters, who had discovered love letters were falling out of the sky, and called a CLASS-A LOST LETTER EMERGENCY, asking local San Franciscans to help volunteer in hunting out the fallen letters.

It turned into getting sixty-five businesses in the San Francisco Mission District involved, hiding love letters inside and out of their shops, and making a map of the whole thing.

It turned into making a flip-book that almost meant an ABC camera crew coming to my house*.

It turned into building walls, and creating tree sculptures, and outfitting a gramophone with an arduino to play mp3s and borrowing a suitcase that already had been outfitted with an arduino to play mp3s.

It turned into having a particularly awesome day getting a friend drunk and filming a video, where he played the part of a Society of Lost Letters Letter-Restorationist.

It turned into getting more than twenty volunteers to pitch in, including friends and roommates and strangers who became friends.

It turned into late nights co-planning with an amazing event-wrangler named orange who made all the hard the details somehow... possible.

It turned into long days with my oldest friend, writing scripts, going to the hardware store, and trying to figure out exactly the best way to make a Love Letter Specimen Collection Kit.

It turned into a successful Kickstarter, to jumpstart the costs. It turned into a grant from the Awesome Foundation, to cover last-minute costs.

It turned into a reporter following me around for two days, in a story that ended up in SFGate.

It turned into a six-stop, neighborhood-wide scavenger hunt that several hundred people came to on a Saturday.

It turned into something much, much bigger than I'd ever envisioned.

× × ×

THINGS I HAVE LEARNED

♦ It's not the cops you have to worry about, it's the thieves.
♦ If you build something with many moving parts, many of those parts will break
♦ Surprise! You won't know which ones
♦ There is only one of you. There is only one of you. There is only one of you.
♦ Let people help. Seriously. Do it.
♦ Your idea will change
♦ That thing about unknown unknowns? Will become very relevant to you.
♦ You will fail. When this happens, don't take it personally. Keep moving.
♦ You will succeed. When this happens, remember to enjoy it.

× × ×

UNKNOWN UNKNOWNS

The full quote is "There are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say, we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns - the ones we don't know we don't know." - Donald Rumsfeld

During the course of navigating this beast-- which is only, at this point, ACT ONE of a three-act project/album-- many unknown unknowns appeared out of thin air.

The kind of things you don't know you don't know to which the only appropriate response is knee-jerk laughter.

For example: the WORLDWIDE HELIUM SHORTAGE.

When I started this project, I always envisioned, in some form, floating balloons with bottles tied to them. It was more than halfway through planning that I became suddenly aware of the worldwide helium shortage, and my event-planner-in-arms was convinced for a while that the only people who had helium were those with mob connections. NO ONE in San Francisco carried helium; they laughed when you asked. The ones that did, weren't selling. It took calling everyone and their mom to procure a single tank of helium-- which is larger than you think. It took four people to move, and a dolly. It was a miracle that it appeared at all, and we came up with all sorts of contingency plans<> to sidestep what was an unexpected international helium crisis.

Another example: I originally wanted to create these letters in a balloon release. Shortly after the successful funding of my Kickstarter, a game company released balloons over San Francisco which immediately went into the Bay, to the outrage of the entire city.

...I changed the game plan.

Last example: you can't plan for everything.

The day of, people stole balloons, they stole love letters, they stole just the skeleton keys off the balloons, or they stole the whole shebang. I got very nice Facebook messages saying "hey, I didn't know what this was, so I took it home with me."

To be clear: the balloons were ZIP-TIED DOWN. You'd have to be pretty determined to set them free into your hot little hands.

Prior to figuring out how we were going to scatter the balloons, I consulted my roommate and his girlfriend, both of which are lawyers who do work for Apple. We came up with plans to get around getting stopped by police. We bought neon orange construction vests<>, to look important.

And in the end, it wasn't the cops we had to worry about. It was thieves. They may even have been well-intentioned thieves, they may have just really needed a love letter that day-- but it goes to show, that you can't plan for everything.

And that has to be okay.

Volunteers appeared with a second-round of inflated balloons to replace the stolen ones, and I ran around re-printing out love letters, and in the end it was beautiful chaos. It somehow worked.

Never the way we think.

Never the perfect plan that we'd hoped.

But it always, somehow, works.

× × ×

SEE ALL THE THINGS

You can read all the love letters, here. Love letters that have excerpts of actual love letters from Kickstarter backers, and some of you amazing humans reading this.

You can see how the whole Love Letter Scavenger Hunt fit together, here.

And if you want a hint as to where this is all going... I recommend checking out This Is A Memory Of. Especially the first entry.

× × ×

WHAT NOW?

Now. I finish an album.

This whole thing has been amazing, but it's also taken time away from writing songs, and recording, and finishing music.

So now I go head-down. If you want to see how it's going, Twitter is probably the best place, followed by the mailing list.

In the meantime, thank you for being awesome, thank for playing with me, and thank you for being willing to follow this weird careening adventure that I've created.

× × ×

* ABC called, scheduled, called, rescheduled, called and ran out of time. They were super nice about it though, as were the amazing, amazing people at Flipbookit.

Love Letters Are Falling Out Of The Sky

2013-02-01T22:53:13Z

More than a year ago, I put out a call for strangers to send me their love letters.

They began arriving almost immediately. Heart-breaking attachments in my email, permanently creased folded notes in the mail. Some were letters people had been carrying since childhood. Secrets. Fragments of beautiful things that couldn't be forgotten.

× × ×

My plan was to create a story out of them.

A story of letters, and memories, and love.

I would take the love letters that had been sent to me, and write a story of love letters around them.

× × ×

This is a picture of a sailboat named Aphrodite. I stayed here and covered every available surface in love letters, writing away.

× × ×

I wrote one hundred of them.

× × ×

The story would begin with a girl putting letters in bottles, tying them to balloons, and sending them into the sky.

I would write songs around them, a soundtrack for lost letters, called LAMP.

× × ×

And last of all, I wanted it to be a story that people could be part of.

× × ×

The Saturday before Valentine's Day, I am taking a small army of people, and hiding one hundred love letters all over San Francisco.

The letters made up of pieces of strangers and bits of fiction and things in-between will be strewn about the streets, waiting for people to find them.

Waiting for people to help unravel a mystery.

× × ×

Should you be interested in appearing in person, a secret organization called the Society of Lost Letters has been tracking the possible locations of these love letters.

This may be a good place to start.

For those not stationed near San Francisco, the letters that are discovered on Saturday will appear as they are found at The Society of Lost Letters' website.

× × ×

There's not much more to say, not yet. But suffice it to say, this has been extraordinarily fun, and there's more untold things to come.

Until next time.

May 2013 Be A Delight

2013-01-01T02:34:08Z

May your upcoming year be filled with the good kind of mystery, delicious secrets that unfold before you like flowers, and surprises that will leave you grinning from ear to ear.

I spent the days leading up to Christmas-- and Christmas day itself!-- plinking away on toy pianos for long-ago Kickstarter rewards. Contenders for top favorite plinky-plinky songs are below, for you to enjoy as you get dazzled up for evening festivities, or to take in as you find yourself recovering from the night before.

OCTOPODS

TOAST AND PIE

THE PARADE SONG

Twinkly champagne-fizzy hugs to all of you out there.

This Is A Memory Of...

2012-12-04T23:14:36Z

I got chosen on Thanksgiving Day to send an email to the Listserve.

The Listserve is an email lottery-- the only rule is, every day, someone from the list is chosen to send an email to everyone else on the list. It's usually an interesting slice of someone's life from somewhere in the world, and at present, there are 21,632 people on the list.

I decided to use it to make art.

With several days suddenly free and everyone huddled indoors to make turkey and mashed potatoes, I started brainstorming with friends over how to convince twenty-one thousand people to make art with me.

There are a few rules to the Listserve. The main one being you can't include links of any kind.

I decided two things:

1. I wanted people to tell me stories.

2. I would set up a phone number where they could call me, and tell me those stories.

I wrote an email with a love letter nested inside of it, and an invitation to play a game with me. I wrote: here is a phone number. When you call it you will be asked a question. Answer it.

The letter is below:

On November 30th, it got sent, and within minutes I was racking up Google Voicemail messages.

They were heart-breaking. And beautiful. And all sorts of things, but ultimately, each was a tiny short story and a window into someone's secret closet.

There's a quote by a woman named Susan Gregg, that goes, "Life is and then we tell ourselves a story."

I love this idea. A thing happens, and you record your own personal internal memoir of events, you TELL your life back to yourself, and this is what you remember.

Secretly, LAMP is about this. I even made stickers that say "We're All Stories." The idea that you are walking around with a personal history inside of you, edited and framed by however you decided to render events, is kind of magical.

It means you can write your life however you see fit.

Listening to these memories is like wading through people's dreams. Full of the things they sometimes can't admit to themselves.

I spent the weekend collecting them. My friend Kat Howard said today on Twitter, " I think the thing I love most is that I truly believe we are all made of stories. What you're doing makes that so clear."

You can listen to them here:

This Is A Memory Of

Coming Out Of Hiding

2012-11-27T21:23:18Z

On Thanksgiving, I spent the day drawing messages on bits of paper. I saw a quote David Mack shared on Twitter. He was paraphrasing Die Antwoord, something that Yo-Landi said to Ninja:

"Imagine your most awesome future version of yourself. Now be that person."

The image stuck with me. I grabbed a sharpie and drew the message over and over, sitting on my floor.

I made 20? 30? Of them?

And I decided I was going to fold them into paper airplanes, go to the movies, and throw them at people.

My best friend and I went off to the theater, and it was desolate. The trick then, was to throw the paper airplanes places people would find them. We hit elevator buttons and tossed the paper airplanes into empty elevators, as the doors closed. We sailed them down hallways.

We stalked the places we left them, and saw how people subconsciously stepped over them on the floor, never looking down. Knowing enough something was on the ground, enough to avoid it, but not interested in whatever it was.

The first person I saw pick one up was a small girl, maybe seven years old.

We said after, that this was probably the best possible person to get lost in imagining their best future self.

The next morning, we went to eat, and I had an airplane on the table next to me. I accidentally nudged it, and both myself and the waitress looked down just as it landed on the floor between us.

"Where did THAT come from?" She asked, delighted.

I shrugged, "I have no idea," smiling. The waitress picked it up, laughing, and asked the wait staff if they'd been throwing paper airplanes. She drew her hand back in the air and let it sail into the air above us, into the kitchen.

Hospice, and My Father.

2012-08-17T22:28:24Z

My father passed away one week ago today, from late-stage gastrointestinal cancer. Below is a Storify I put together, assembling the things I documented on Twitter as I slept in Hospice for the last week of his life.

I'm putting it here if you find it useful, if you find it helpful, and to remember.

(If the embed below doesn't work, you can view it here.)

Bookmark This.

2012-06-18T18:54:23Z

Administer via ocular cavity, at least once daily. Use to treat doldrums or malaise. Side effects: glee, giggling, joy.

An Invocation for Beginnings

2012-04-10T17:51:30Z

I am going to turn this into an mp3, and play it to myself as an alarm clock every morning.

The Sirens Sound

2012-02-01T18:56:17Z

Three minutes and forty-nine seconds.

Six months.

Two trips to the studio.

Countless nights mixing at home.

Lots of swearing.

An infinite amount of swearing.

That's how Sirens-- the third song off LAMP-- was born.

Last night, myself, my best friends Jason and Allan sat around listening to Sirens on giant speakers, fresh from the mastering presses.

Allan hadn't heard it before. Jason had, having written half of the music.

When the last strains of the song finished playing, Allan looked up, impressed, and gave me two of the best compliments he has ever given me.

And it is done. And I am relieved. And it is done. And you can have it, for your very own, for free, by clicking the download button below.

If you like it, pretty please share it with your friends. Send it in emails to strangers. Play it from boomboxes beneath the windows of your loved ones.

If you don't like it, play it loudly from your car speakers while driving through the neighborhoods of your enemies.

Join the mailing list. Follow the Twitters. But most importantly...

Download the song. Take it home for your very own. Just clicky the wee download button below:

Sirens by Olga Nunes

In the studio, photo by Shipwrek...

With Yosh of Dangerous Audio, listening to takes

La la la

Name in lights

Listen. Record. Listen. Record. Listen.

Three down. Seven to go.

In the meantime, the other parts of LAMP are simmering away in the background: finishing writing the last few few love letters. Planning the mystery event that will happen soon in San Francisco. Doing fancy things like getting a merch shop up and running.

Chantrelle took this amazing photo of herself wearing a LAMP necklace with the fabulous Tori Amos:

Awesome.

(You can see the necklace and other merch-bits here.)

And fancy fancy photos have been coming in from folks who got their Kickstarter rewards in the mail, from New York to Portugal to all the way in the Philippines. (Stupidly awesome.)

My favorite photo popped up on Twitter, and is here:

The Kickstarter merch reward bundle, photo by joss

Annnnnnnnd. People have been saying nice things about me. here and here. I updated the whole short-list of random press over here.

C'est fini! That is all. For now. More to come.

giant-hug-things
me

on honesty and metaphors.

2012-01-15T20:11:20Z

When I was nineteen, I wanted to be a stripper.

The social dynamics of stripping fascinated me. My first visit to a strip club was a hole-in-the-wall dive somewhere in North Florida, about an hour and a half from the nearest real city. Women got in free because women never came here: the clientele was made up of truckers driving cross-country, or cowboys out in the sticks looking for a thrill.

I was transfixed. I was visiting for fun, out of curiosity, but I couldn't stop trying to work out the mechanics of the social interaction. Men slack-jawed and transported, watching the women on stage slowly gyrate to jukebox music. Women curled in the laps of customers, purring, working for tips. What were they all thinking? How did this interaction work? I couldn't stop asking questions.

A single bathroom existed for both the dancers and the rare female customer. Notices plastered the walls: regulations and penalty fees regarding how to shave, how to dance, how to act. An article on a raid that had happened some months past. An article on a girl caught selling sex in the parking lot after her shift. Mostly the women here were college students, driven, quiet, there to make tuition. A few of the others were in it for life, and doing it to support their children.

I talked to everyone. Well, to everyone who would talk to me: half the women assumed I was a reporter, and wouldn't give me the time of day. (There had been an article in the bathroom, too, on what happened to dancers who talked to reporters.) The rest of the dancers assumed I was looking for a job, and complimented on my body, trying to bolster my confidence, said I could be a stripper, easy. One girl insisted I didn't leave without an application.

Months and months afterward, I considered it. The money was the best around, and the social experiment in and of itself was enough to tempt me.

And I had no problem being naked.

* * * * * * * * * *

At sixteen, I fell in love with a girl. The first time she saw me I was dressed as a princess, and being carried across a stage in a litter, during a play.

The first time I saw her was after curtain call, wide-eyed, at the front door of the theater.

We were spellbound.

She was beautiful, in a panoply of ways that fanned around me. We couldn't stop talking.

It was complicated. I was already in a relationship.

We navigated.

Weeks passed.

One night she and I were curled on a couch of the theater we met in, cuddling, watching an audition.

Several of the adults commented how brave we were. To be so openly and unabashedly in love, at such a young age, in such a small town.

I'm not sure we were brave.

We just had no problems having our feelings laid bare.

* * * * * * * * * *

A few weeks ago I read a story by a nurse, on the regrets of the dying. The biggest regret, was this: "I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me."

I slept every night this week in a hospital, surrounded by people fighting for life. The things that are important fall into stark contrast: who we invite into our lives, what we choose to do with our time, and why.

The ways we choose to be, and not be, honest.

Growing up, I was more unashamed, more apt to spread out my life story on the table for a stranger. To say: we are all in this together. I'll show you my mess, you show me yours, and together we'll learn from all of this.

Because what do we have to lose?

As I get older, I've found myself making safer choices in spite of myself. Shared less. Hidden away more.

Been less myself, and less honest.

But the most honest thing I know is that one day, this will all be taken away from us. Maybe in a day, maybe in fifty years, but one day, these memories and hopes and fears and all that we love and are scared of, will end.

One day, we will be stripped more bare than we have ever been.

One day, we will die.

In light of that, there is literally nothing left to lose.

Or as Steve Jobs famously said, "You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

* * * * * * * * * *

I decided against being a stripper. Ultimately, the town I lived in was too small for it to not get back to my parents. (Though I still kind of regret it. It would have been fascinating.)

I opted instead to do nude modeling for artists at the local university.

Somewhere there are very awkwardly-posed photographs of myself doing naked guerilla-stunts in a Florida park, while photographers held blankets at the ready in case anyone walked by.

If you find them, let me know.

* * * * * * * * * *

Today.

I'm more naked in my music than anywhere.

Last month my friend Marc Scheff asked me to send him some photographs so he could paint them during a live video stream online.

I said sure.

And immediately spent the night turning my train caboose apartment into a photo studio.

I shot several self-portraits of myself, holding my gramophone.

In them, I am basically nude.

In some strange way, it feels like peeling away my anonymity. Like saying: here is all of me, everything I honestly am, and I am not afraid.

It felt like a relief.

Marc took the photographs and recorded the live video of his work in progress.

Watch live streaming video from marcscheff at livestream.com

He's still working on the painting, but sent me some of what he has so far.

I think, when he's done, I'm going to release it as a limited edition print.

Because his work is beautiful.

Because we all need reminders.

Because we should all be as honest as we possibly can.

Because it all comes down to being naked.

goodbye, hello, new songs

2012-01-02T06:03:16Z

Today is my birthday.

My birthday falls on the first day of the year, the day when everyone is hopeful, bright-eyed, staring down the barrel of the future with a fire in their hearts and holding onto the thought that this year, they will do better.

They will be better.

The fact that my birthday falls on this day, I am filled with these sentiments a thousand-fold. Every moment that passes on this day is some sort of symbolic portent of things to come, a tiny prayer for how I wish the following year to unfold.

It is usually partnered with the urge to flee to some different somewhere, far from anything familiar.

To surround myself with things so foreign, the proximity itself invites change.

Tonight, I am ensconced in David Mack's attic in Portland, after a day wandering this mostly alien tiny city. Casting an eye to the future.

In the last few hours of today, I want to share with you the first song of the year, for me.

It's called Sirens, and was produced by Shipwrek. It is the first song I've ever recorded in a studio, and I think maybe the best thing I've ever done.

You can listen to it here:

Sirens by Olga Nunes

I started this song of February last year, and took it into the studio last June, and then again in November. It was worked and re-worked, written, destroyed, rearranged, and put back together.

Most of me wants to do things faster, finish things faster, but I am probably prouder of this song than I am of anything I've done.

I hope you like it as much as I do.

with all the love I have,

olga