I had just hung up with my brother from another mother. It felt like wisdom to discuss with him the purity of my motivations for this week’s essay. There was a nagging feeling in my gut, the kind that always pulls me toward an uncomfortable truth. I needed his perspective.

The conversation began with my confession: “I feel petty for wanting to write an ‘I told you so’ photo essay.” His reply caught me off guard. “I agree with your first voice,” he said.

Confused, I pressed, “I know you want me to rise above pettiness, so what do you mean by ‘my first voice’?” He responded with his usual piercing clarity, “Your first voice told you not to write the ‘I told you so.’ The second voice came later and made you think it was worth considering.”

After many a tangent, as we are wont to do, we circled back to the idea of pettiness. I told my knowing friend, “No matter how carefully I write, an ‘I told you so’ essay would still come across as petty. And that wouldn’t be the truth. I have love in my heart, and pettiness would be a stain on that love I couldn’t tolerate.”

“Then what is your motivation?” he probed.

I took a moment to reflect. “The greatest compliment you’ve ever given me is that, over the years, you’ve seen me seek what is right over trying to be right. I hate that I was right this time—because when everyone loses, no one wins. Still, I tell myself that explaining how I was right could instill confidence in others about my discernment.”

He cut in, insightful as ever, “Knowing you, I believe that’s your motivation. But let me ask—how many times has that explanation instilled confidence in others? And how many times has it been misinterpreted?”

I didn’t need to answer. We both knew the silence held the truth.

I dug deeper, feeling the weight of Baldwin’s words. “So, do I ignore the subject and move on? But then I’m left wondering—am I being a coward? Mr. Baldwin would certainly have something to say about that!”

He chuckled, the kind of laugh that reassures and disarms. “Yes, very good. You should be concerned about that. Congratulations—and now, good luck finding the artistic way out of this.”

And there it was—the rub. As Baldwin said, the role of the artist is like that of a lover. We aren’t here to serve the obvious, the easy truths. We are here to care enough, to be brave enough, to give voice to the ideas and thoughts condemned to the outer edges of silence. But sometimes, the loudest truths aren’t found in what we say—they lie in the words we leave unsaid.

With this essay, as your lover, I have made you conscious of what you don’t see—in the words I choose not to write. I will dare to append to the great Mr. Baldwin’s words: “And sometimes, the role of the artist is exactly the same as the role of the lover. If I love you, I have to remain silent so that, on your own, you might grow conscious of the things you don’t yet see.”

This week’s photograph is one of several intriguing characters crafted by a Thai artist. The sculpture’s face, particularly its eyes, holds a quietness, a reserved emotion, as if something deeper is being kept within. Its slightly downturned gaze suggests inner conflict. The blaring sun nearly blinds its one eye, as truth is wont to do, while the other eye fades into outer darkness—which I consider a self-portrait of this moment.

In the end, silence—restraint—is its own kind of artistry. As I wrote in last week’s photo essay, we should not fear it. Silence can bring clarity. In silence, we find the space to fill our minds with the music of thoughts we cherish, rather than those we dread or labor under.

And now… know the photograph.