I was actually asked to do the Christmas design for the White

Host: The gallery lights glowed like captured stars, their soft radiance spilling across polished marble floors and the faint echo of whispered awe. In the center of the hall stood a half-finished model of the White House, carved in intricate detail, surrounded by rolls of blueprints, paint samples, and ornamental sketches scattered like forgotten dreams.

Jack stood beside the model, leaning on the table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his eyes fixed on the architecture before him. Jeeny stood a few feet away, her hands clasped behind her back, studying the play of light and shadow across the miniature windows.

The air smelled faintly of pine, paint, and old paper — a strange blend of creation and memory.

Jeeny: “Jonathan Scott once said, ‘I was actually asked to do the Christmas design for the White House. I thought it would be interesting, given that it has such a rich history, to decorate around some real beautiful oversized images of the history of the White House and the history of the country.’”

Jack: “A decorator turning history into art. It’s poetic, in a patriotic kind of way.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than poetic. It’s reverent. He wasn’t just hanging ornaments — he was telling America’s story through beauty. That’s rare, Jack.”

Jack: “Or manipulative. Dressing nostalgia in tinsel doesn’t change what history really is — messy, conflicted, full of contradictions. You can hang a thousand ornaments; the ghosts still live in the walls.”

Host: A faint draft moved through the room, rustling the papers, as if unseen spirits were eavesdropping on the conversation. The model White House seemed to glow under the overhead light, both sacred and cold.

Jeeny: “You always do that — reduce art to cynicism. Not everything beautiful is deception.”

Jack: “And not everything beautiful is truth. Tell me, Jeeny — when someone designs a Christmas for the White House, is it really about joy? Or is it about image? The illusion of unity under carefully chosen light?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe the illusion is what people need to believe in. At least for a moment.”

Jack: “That’s the problem — a moment. We celebrate symbols without confronting the substance. A garland over a crack doesn’t fix the wall.”

Jeeny: “And yet it reminds people the wall is still standing. Isn’t that something?”

Host: The silence between them tightened, the lights above humming faintly. Jack walked toward the model, his finger tracing the outline of the columns, his reflection fractured across its glassy surface.

Jack: “You see art as healing. I see it as anesthesia. You numb the pain with decoration.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You misunderstand what Scott was doing. He wasn’t hiding history — he was honoring it. Those oversized images, those echoes of the past — they weren’t distractions. They were reminders.”

Jack: “Reminders of what? That we can aestheticize everything? Even struggle, even power?”

Jeeny: “Reminders that beauty can carry truth without lying. Think of it: a house built by many hands — slaves, craftsmen, presidents, poets. Every corner has a story. To decorate it isn’t to erase the past — it’s to converse with it.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft, yet it filled the room, wrapping around the air like velvet. Jack paused, his eyes flickering with something almost like guilt.

Jack: “You talk about decoration like it’s redemption.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Think of what Christmas represents — rebirth, renewal, grace. Maybe Scott wanted the design to remind people that a country, like a person, can always try to become better than its past.”

Jack: “That’s a comforting illusion — but illusions are fragile. You can’t hang forgiveness from a chandelier.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can hang hope. And that’s the first step toward forgiveness.”

Host: The light caught Jeeny’s face, her eyes shimmering like candle flame. Outside, through the gallery window, the first snow began to fall, whispering against the glass like tiny confessions.

Jack: “You think hope can be designed?”

Jeeny: “Everything can be designed — despair, beauty, even belief. The question is who’s willing to put their soul into it.”

Jack: “And you think Jonathan Scott did that? By decorating the White House?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because to him, design wasn’t vanity — it was storytelling. He wasn’t just dressing a house; he was reminding the world that even the walls that held power could hold memory and compassion.”

Jack: “But memory can’t be curated without distortion. Every choice — every color, every ornament — carries bias. It’s selective history.”

Jeeny: “Of course it is. But that’s what all storytelling is. We all choose the parts we remember, the parts we can bear to tell. Art is never about completeness; it’s about meaning.”

Host: The snow outside had thickened now, coating the streets in white. Inside, the warmth of the lamps made the room feel like a sanctuary of thought — a place where ideals wrestled with reality.

Jack: “You know, you sound like a theologian tonight.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like a cynic who once loved beauty and forgot why.”

Jack: “I didn’t forget. I just saw what beauty costs. For every celebration, there’s a silence. For every ornament hung, there’s someone who can’t afford the light.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s exactly why art matters — because it gives the weary something to look at while they rest. Because even the poor deserve a glimpse of grace.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer to the model, her hand hovering over its roof as if blessing it. Jack watched, his face softening. The firelight from a distant room flickered, painting gold across the white model, like a heartbeat within marble.

Jack: “You really believe beauty can redeem history?”

Jeeny: “Not redeem it. Illuminate it. Show it for what it was — and what it could still become.”

Jack: “Then maybe decoration is just a form of prayer — fragile, fleeting, but sincere.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every wreath, every light, every color chosen with care — it’s not a denial of pain, it’s an offering. A way of saying: ‘We remember, and still, we hope.’”

Host: The clock struck softly, its sound blending with the quiet whisper of snow against the windows. Jack exhaled, long and slow, his breath like mist in the cold air.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Jonathan Scott understood — that to honor a place, you must first listen to its ghosts.”

Jeeny: “And to heal it, you must dress those ghosts in light.”

Host: The room fell into stillness. The model White House stood there, glowing under the lamp — a miniature of history and hope intertwined.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How something as simple as Christmas lights can hold centuries of meaning.”

Jeeny: “Not strange — miraculous. Beauty is the quiet rebellion of the human spirit against forgetting.”

Host: Outside, the snow kept falling, soft, steady, like forgiveness itself descending from the night.

Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, watching the small White House glow — a reminder that art, like history, is never finished, only renewed by those brave enough to touch it again.

The lights dimmed, leaving only the faint golden shimmer on the model, and in that glow lived everything they had said — beauty, memory, and the fragile hope that even in a house of power, there could still be grace.