Strong, Unwavering

The woman in the painting has the kind of face that could silence a room—strong, unwavering, as if she’s spent a lifetime listening to other people’s nonsense and has exactly zero time left for it. Her profile is all sharp lines and sun-warmed earth tones, the kind of face that looks like it belongs on currency. She’s wearing a red scarf that cascades over her shoulder in thick, confident brushstrokes, and you just know she tied it without even thinking about it. Meanwhile, I have spent entire mornings trying to get my own scarf to look effortless, only to end up looking like a Victorian orphan who lost a fight with the wind.

Her earrings dangle, geometric and unmistakably intentional, like they have stories of their own. They aren’t there for decoration—they’re an announcement. The background is a soft, textured blue-green, a whisper compared to the reds and purples of her clothing, as if the artist knew better than to compete.

There’s something about the whole composition that feels like Taos itself—unapologetic, deeply rooted, unwilling to cater to tourists looking for a cowboy fantasy. This is the real thing: a portrait of someone who belongs here, who has endured, and who will likely outlast whatever boutique gallery moves in next door.

Taos is full of people like this—painters, weavers, farmers, sculptors—who do their work not because it’s trendy, but because it’s who they are. Resilience here isn’t a marketing campaign; it’s a fact of life. It’s in the adobe walls that have stood for centuries, the dirt roads that refuse to be paved, the way people still barter eggs for pottery like it’s 1823. And this painting? It’s a tribute to that resilience. The kind that doesn’t just survive—but thrives, whether anyone’s watching or not.