Sometime in the winter of 2018 this scenario presented itself of the president, in his long overcoat, walking through ruins, no one else around. Buildings collapsed and smoking, destruction everywhere. I didn’t use any reference and I don’t recall exactly what fresh hell was afoot at the time but this was way back at the beginning.
This painting fought me all the way, I struggled with whether it was helpful/ useful/ good in any way to even pull this image into existence which is not the challenge most paintings present. I was reluctant to give it the consideration of a worked out composition and resented the run-of-the-mill one I landed on. I didn’t work out a color palette beforehand, now I think I could have done at least that but I was conflicted. I even, after the painting was begun, I decided it wasn’t worthy of the professional paint so switched to the student grade stuff I have around. This painting was the red headed step-child. Before it reached this mushy incomplete state, I’d turned it to the wall for more than a year, twice.
I am not usually psychic but in this I was right on the nose. I’m sure many others could and did fathom this was where we were headed because we are familiar with the shambolic activities of this particular individual. We’re from the same town and he has been clowning like this for all the world to see since (at least) 1985.
Early Spring, 2026:
I walk past a local furniture store. In 1970 or so my parents bought a kitchen table and chairs set there. It was a big, white round thing, the chair seats were covered in a bright yellow vinyl; very cool, very mod. Today the store windows display ornate gold and crystal be-crusted suites for every room. LED chandeliers, all things Rococo on a junior scale, sparkly and crenelated. I only ever have one thought when I look in the windows whether there’s anything new in to see. ‘Who chooses this?’ I am mystified. Looking at the housing stock around, nothing intimates even a whiff of this Le Hermitage grandeur. Art snobbery, admittedly. Something spoke to me softly, saying “Here”. If he could just sit here in this window on the turnpike. He would be surrounded by the baroque furnishings he loves, resplendent and glinting in the sunlight, he could alternately wave or gesticulate in fury at the people walking past. I would put up with this crude display in my neighborhood if assured that this would be the limit of his influence from here on out. Most people are zipping by unaware in cars but there’s a workaround for that __ it’s possible there are enough of his fans in the area that he would draw a modest crowd most days and the sidewalk is wide enough here to accommodate them. More daily foot traffic would benefit the laundromat and the barber shop, the florist and the corner store.
This painting gave me much less aggravation than the first one. I had reference for the outside reflections in the window and the furniture inside the window and a clearer idea of what I wanted to say. Yet when it came time to add “the portrait” I went at it a couple times unsatisfactorily. The soft voice told me I didn’t need it, it would be more distracting. Perfect. I painted the most distinguishing feature and left it at that. Since a lot of my work qualifies as “Home Entertainment” there is inside commentary that might go unnoticed: I gave him AI hands. BAM!
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