Art, at its core, is subjective. This truism emerges starkly in the recent controversy surrounding President Donald Trump’s portrait hanging in the Colorado Capitol. Following an unflattering critique of the painting by the president himself, the conversation spiraled into a broader examination of what constitutes a "bad" portrait, and whether any artwork can ever satisfy the eye of its subject.
On a seemingly ordinary evening, Trump took to Truth Social to express his dissatisfaction with the portrait painted by Colorado Springs artist Sarah A. Boardman, claiming, “Nobody likes a bad picture or painting of themselves.” This straightforward declaration unveiled a complex interplay between personal perception and artistic expression. Trump’s critique aligned him with a unifying sentiment shared by many: the inherent dislike for representations that fail to capture our desired image.
This sentiment is not unique to Trump. Throughout history, numerous leaders have harbored similar grievances about their likenesses in art. Consider Winston Churchill, who loathed his 1954 portrait by Graham Sutherland so intensely that it was destroyed under his direction. Theodore Roosevelt notably banished his own portrait to a closet, deeming it unrepresentative before opting for a replacement that better suited his self-image. The dissatisfaction experienced by these historical figures raises questions about the nature of representation in art and its psychological impacts.
In a contemporary context, Boardman’s portrait—created to align stylistically with portraits of Trump’s presidential predecessors—was met with mixed reactions. Trump specifically described the artwork as "purposefully distorted," a statement that may say more about his expectations than the execution of the piece itself. While subjective judgment in art leads to a myriad of interpretations, the assertion of distortion signifies a deeper battle over identity and representation.
Interestingly, Boardman described her work as “thoughtful” and aimed to avoid extremes in emotional tone, hoping it would ultimately allow Trump to fit seamlessly into the historical narrative of the presidency. However, this objective faced friction in a world where Trump’s supporters and detractors alike expect a dramatic portrayal rather than a neutral representation. In attempting to render Trump "neutral," Boardman may have inadvertently stripped the portrait of the vigor that defines his public persona, leading to accusations of blandness over distortion.
This brings us to the fundamental query: What makes a portrait truly “bad”? Artistic integrity aside, the criteria is innately subjective. One person’s lifeless likeness may evoke laughter or scorn, while another might find beauty in the same. The conversation challenges us to confront our biases and beliefs about art and identity—do we judge based on technical execution, emotional resonance, or personal taste?
Moreover, Trump’s assertion about nobody liking a bad portrait cleverly leads us down a philosophical rabbit hole. Out of the myriad portraits people encounter—both good and bad—can we agree on what constitutes a failure in art? If a portrait manages to evoke strong feelings, whether positive or negative, could it still hold artistic value despite its “bad” status? Such discussions split the art community; a supposedly "bad" portrait of a universally unliked individual may, in fact, gain unexpected appreciation.
Ultimately, the dialogue ignited by Trump’s critique of his own portrait reveals a multifaceted understanding of art: it intertwines our perceptions of self, societal context, and historical narrative. Like any other important figure, Trump deserves the chance for sincere representation—after all, art should never be static, and neither should our beliefs about it. Perhaps reinstating Boardman’s portrait with a second examination of intent and artistic vision could lead to a breakthrough, not just for the artist and the patron, but for the community that views it.
Art is a reflection of the self, and grappling with the challenge of what we define as “bad” may ultimately teach us more about who we are as individuals and as a society. In the case of Trump’s portrait, both he and Boardman can benefit from this dialogue; it broadens our understanding of art’s role in shaping personal and collective identities. As the debate continues, we might ask ourselves—what do we want our portraits to convey about us, and how do we navigate our complex reactions to those representations?
