I'm olive feinberg. I live in 27 Tauri, where I work in my studio.

I was born in Veracruz, México — the cradle of Spanish presence on the North American mainland. A land of salt and fire, sea and storm. I grew up in the 80s, raised by very young parents: a tech-obsessed father who believed in machines, and a mother whose soul was woven from a dozen disciplines—and boundless love. My first computer was the legendary Commodore 64. I was only five years old, yet the moment I touched those keys, something ancient sparked inside me. The screen flickered like a doorway, and I stepped through. Later, I chose to study theoretical physics. Why? Because someone had to ask the impossible questions. My father urged me toward computer science — but a man's got to chase his own myths, even when the world says otherwise. And yet, if I'm honest, I was always more artist than scientist. That part of me — the wild, expressive, aching part — was buried. I buried it. I don't blame anyone. I used to draw. I composed electronic dreams in college, mixing and sampling sounds. I joined game jams, danced with reckless abandon, inherited from my mother a love for movement. So what happened? Somewhere along the way, I strayed. But now — now I’ve returned. I’ve arrived. Finally. 😔
I built SALTA Studio — a sanctuary, a forge, a temple — where I can create without shame: stories, games, music, animations, stop-motion films, motion graphics, puppetry, and whatever else my heart demands. SALTA was born to rekindle the flame of my first love: storytelling. I live to craft tales that stir souls, make people weep, and provoke thought long after the final word. The name comes from a soon-to-be-published children’s book of the same name — SALTA, which, in a quiet twist, is simply ATLAS spelled in reverse. The studio's name also whispers of older roots: from Quechua, salta means: A place to settle down. So I did. 🥹🥹🥹