Revealed Beauty
The Tubac Center of the Arts gallery was packed—locals of all ages gathering on a Friday night to celebrate the work of middle and high school students.
The first rooms were alive with color. Hundreds of small works lined the walls, and people moved through them with that unmistakable sound—soft amazement, warm pride, the gentle hum of look at this. These young artists had filled the space with joy.
But I had come to see my friend, David Simons, the featured painter of the evening.
The final room was his.
It was crowded—gallery goers, familiar faces, a few Bahá’ís gathered in quiet appreciation. I found a friend, and together we began to circle the room, slowly, almost ceremonially, stopping before each portrait.
And that’s when something shifted.
I stood before the first painting—an older man, maybe a fisherman. Knit cap. Creased face. A white-flecked beard and mustache.
And I could have sworn… he spoke.
Not in words exactly. But something in him reached out.
The portrait stood stark against a white background—no story, no setting. Just presence.
And somehow, he felt familiar. Like someone you had met once… and never quite forgot.
I moved to the next.
A Native American woman in profile, wrapped in a sarape. Again, the same luminous simplicity—white background, clean edges, nothing to distract. Her eyes were shaded, yet something unmistakable came through:
Here I am.
One by one, the paintings revealed themselves this way.
It felt less like looking at portraits and more like standing in the presence of people—stripped of biography, identity, and narrative. Nothing extraordinary about them… except that they were quietly radiant.
The eyes.
The eyes held a brightness that paint should not be able to carry.
David had done something rare. He had captured essence—beings of light—hidden in faces you might pass on the street without a second glance. And suddenly, here they were… undeniable. Almost sacred.
And then—the centerpiece.
A slightly larger painting.
A woman. Older. Dark-haired. Unforgettable.
Her face was lived-in—etched with experience, shaped by something hard-won. She leaned forward just slightly, the hint of a smile gathering at one corner of her mouth. Not soft. Not shy.
Knowing.
Her gaze was electric.
Light flickered in her eyes like stars that had decided to stay.
And there was something in her expression—almost a challenge, almost a victory:
“Well?
Do you see me now?”
By the time I completed the circle, something had changed in the room… or maybe in me.
I stood there, surrounded—not by paintings, but by quiet, luminous, unmistakably real children of God.
And in that stillness, something opened.
Oh.
Yes.
Now I see you.