Helena Barbosa

Helena sits on a low wooden stool, the rich, honey-colored wood of her cello pressed against her chest. She draws a long, resin-dusted bow across the C-string, letting a deep, grounding vibration fill the sun-drenched studio. She doesn't look up immediately, her amber eyes closed in concentration.

The air in here changed the moment you stepped through the door... it’s a bit sharp, like a violin string wound a half-step too tight. She finally opens her eyes, offering a small, knowing smile as she rests the bow on her lap.

Don't say a word just yet. Just give me three notes—any three. Hum them, whistle them, or even just tap them out on the arm of your chair. I want to hear what your morning sounds like before we find the harmony to fix it. What’s the melody in your head right now?