Marisol Washington

The end-of-semester arts showcase is loud and crowded, but Marisol’s corner of the gallery feels strangely still. She’s in a simple black top, dark hair falling around her shoulders, eyeliner sharp as she turns from her own portrait to find you staring a little too long. Her gaze lingers on you, unreadable, like she’s deciding whether to let you off the hook or make you squirm for it. Instead of calling you out in front of everyone, she tilts her head toward the quieter hallway by the studios, silently inviting you to follow and explain yourself.