While the world grapples with crises, war plans leak like scenes from a reality TV show, and political chaos ensues, Donald Trump has something far more pressing on his mind: a painting. Not just any painting—one of himself, hanging in the Colorado State Capitol. And, in true Trump fashion, he’s not happy about it.
Taking to Truth Social—his personal megaphone for all things grievance-related—Trump fumed about the artwork, claiming it was “purposefully distorted” to an unprecedented level. The image in question? A depiction of Trump looking smooth-faced, cherubic, almost baby-like. A “Boss Baby” in a suit, if you will. Strangely enough, for a 78-year-old man, you’d think he’d welcome the chance to appear more youthful. But no—apparently, he’d rather look like he stepped out of a horror movie, dramatically lit like a villainous figure.
From an artistic standpoint, the portrait isn’t unflattering. Squint a little, and Trump almost resembles a freshly groomed Henry VIII. You’d assume he’d be flattered—Henry VIII had twice as many wives as Trump (so far). But instead of reveling in the regal comparison, Trump demanded the painting’s removal, and, unsurprisingly, his wish was granted.
“Nobody likes a bad picture or painting of themselves,” Trump lamented, directing particular frustration at the artist, who also painted Barack Obama. “The one on me is truly the worst,” he raged, subtly suggesting that the former president got the royal treatment while he was left looking like an overgrown Gerber baby.
It’s easy to dismiss this as another episode of Trump’s unending quest for validation, but in a way, his reaction is relatable. Who among us hasn’t cringed at an unflattering photo? The one where the angle is all wrong, the lighting cruel, and the pose unfortunate. We’re accustomed to the forgiving mirror version of ourselves—our personal illusion of control over our appearance. A candid photo shatters that fantasy, revealing the truth: the wrinkles, the double chin, the quirks we’d rather not acknowledge.
Worse still is a painting. An artist’s interpretation feels like an unfiltered judgment, a permanent capture of our flaws and features in a way we can’t control. A caricature? Even more brutal—exaggerated heads, rollerblades, oversized pencils. Maybe someone should send Trump one of those instead. “Sir, here’s you surfing while cradling a golden retriever puppy. Hope you like it better than the Henry VIII baby look.”
I get it. I once had my likeness sketched onto the wall of a bar in Los Angeles. At first, it felt like an honor. Then, I took a closer look. Puffier cheeks, exaggerated features, a face I barely recognized. It felt like a distorted reality—one that, even if technically accurate, didn’t align with how I saw myself.
And that’s the kicker. Trump, the self-proclaimed king of confidence, is just as fragile about his image as the rest of us. He may present himself as an unshakable force, but a single painting was enough to send him into a tailspin. Perhaps, deep down, he recognized what it was really saying—not just about his face, but about his entire persona. A man desperate to be seen as powerful, but instead captured as something else entirely: soft, childlike, and not quite fitting the role he so desperately wants to play.
Maybe, in that case, the artist nailed it after all.
