Figures

On a crisp and frosty December night in 2024, three young women, anchored in their conservative roots, stepped into the heart of a celebration, the echoes of a political victory still humming in the air. The chill in the night was sharp and invigorating, carrying with it the quiet promise of a return to truth, a hope that traditional values might rise again. As they breathed in the cold, they felt a rare freedom, as if the world was momentarily in tune with their hearts.

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They were dressed for the theme of the evening—“Capitol Hill Cowboy Hoedown”—in boots and sequin party dresses, ready to mingle in the midst of this festive gathering. The venue was the Pierce School, an old schoolhouse transformed into condos, but tonight it was more than that. Over a couple hundred of Washington’s rare conservative voices had gathered within this historic penthouse, the walls filled with both the charm of the past and the energy of the present. As they weaved through the crowd, the women discovered rooms of antique beauty, each piece of furniture a story waiting to be told.

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Now, two of the three were absorbed in the merriment of the night, exchanging laughs and banter with strangers who shared their joy. But the third, ever the observer, stood apart—her eyes and mind far from the revelry. She is a soul set apart, curious and creative, with a unique spirit. She is set apart from the norm of conservative groups. Because she is an artist. And I am that artist.

Artists know both the heights of inspiration and the depths of drought. There are moments when they burn with passion, their hands driven by passionate force. And then, there are periods which are lovingly called “artist block”. These times are when the muse slips away, leaving only the hollow weight of an empty canvas. I had not touched a paintbrush since early summer, nothing seemed to stir my soul or excite my heart.

To be an artist is to know the call, the unmistakable, magnetic pull that awakens the spirit. The best way I could describe this to non-artists is the feeling of being clearly called by name by someone you deeply love, the thrill of anticipation, the urgency, and happiness as you respond. The excitement and eagerness to start painting fills my entire soul. God has called me by name to reveal truths of color and value through my paintbrush. 

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As I wandered the penthouse, discovering its hidden corners and quiet alcoves, I saw fleeting moments—intimate conversations held in the soft glow of dim antique lamps. Friends revealing secrets, brothers exchanging jokes over beers, and wallflowers tapping their feet to the beat of the music. But what stood out most was not the party, nor the cowboy hats, but something deeper—a shared identity, a unified sense of belief and purpose. It was the celebration of the return of truth, a truth that had existed since the dawn of humanity, the celebration of reality that God has made clear to us since Adam and Eve.