An employee of the White House gift shop (yes, there is a gift shop in the White House. Classy!) approached me and another tour guest, both of us gawking at an artwork that looked egregiously out of place, as if someone clandestinely snuck a flea market find into the hallowed halls of the National Portrait Gallery. “It was just hung yesterday,” he offered, staring up at its patriotic putrescence. “You’re actually the first tour group that ever gets to see it.”

IT was the squinty, eye bag-scrunching, glowering Kubrick stare and pursed beak-like lips of an arresting Donald Trump portrait, his typical irradiated glow and golden hairsprayed swoop blanched into a shocking ghostly white as if he materialized in the middle of a night terror as the ghost of White House Christmas past, present, and future. Over the top of his exsanguinated pallor are the vertical stripes of red and star-flecked blue, the colors of his beloved and, at times, molested American flag, which make him look like he’s either in a Proud to be American prison or debuting his new identity as a professional wrestler. Though done on canvas, I’d be hard pressed to confidently call the artwork a painting, appearing as it does as if it were printed like a bargain deal from a Redbubble clearance sale. Surprisingly for a well-known size queen, this unframed canvas was dwarfed by the two other paintings beside it: more traditional portraits of Laura Bush and Hillary Clinton, both hung in lavish golden frames, which only served to highlight the absence of Trump’s penchant for gilt gaud. The same store worker informed me these two paintings had been there for years. Leave it to Donnie to boorishly wedge himself in, attempting to upstage and unseat Hillary yet again, even though it would have made much more sense if a new inclusion featured Melania, as the East Wing was mostly filled with portraiture of the First Ladies, who typically oversee the public tours.

An elegant portrait of always enigmatic Melania would have been much preferred. As I’ve previously laid out in detail, Trump is an astoundingly abysmal portrait subject. This was no exception. In fact, I have trouble discerning why he’s so proud of this portrait that he’s bestowed it the great honor of being his Truth Social profile pic, while being so notoriously repulsed by Sarah A. Boardman’s portrait at the Colorado State Capitol. He’s just as jowly here, but I guess the threatening Clint Eastwood “Get off my lawn” glare is better than Boardman’s dull, placid smirk if you’re going for macho man menace. That being said, this Trump portrait might just be better than the adjacent one of his archnemesis and maybe soulmate Hillary, otherwise known as Lyin’ Hillary, Beautiful Hillary, or Crazy Hillary (if you want a laugh or an eye roll, check out Wiki’s astonishing rundown of Trump’s various nicknames. Tag yourself. I’m George Slopadopolus). Painted by Simmie Knox in 2004, Hillary is proportionally alarming. Why is her pea head so tiny? Why is her smile so big? It’s like the Cheshire Cat is disappearing, head first. And where the hell is she? Two over, Laura Bush stands near the mantle of the Green Room; Hillary, though, exists in a vague backdrop abyss like she’s getting a high school yearbook photo and brought some tony White House china for the occasion. This isn’t to say Laura’s portrait isn’t slightly off, too. While nowhere near as weird as Hillary (or Trump), on closer inspection, Laura is levitating. Spooky. At least, though, even with one freaky grin, both Hillary and Laura appear welcoming to the American public stomping through the People’s House. In contrast, Trump lurks. He looms. He intimidates. He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows when you’re contemplating stealing a White House mug from the gift shop.

It wasn’t until after I returned to my hotel room and studied my photos in more detail that I perked up at the sight of the Trump portrait artist’s laughable pseudonym: Maga Langelo (get it?!). After a curious Google, I discovered Maga Langelo, when not creating loving tributes to Donnie, her most frequent and beloved subject, also paints animals smoking cigars and hot ladies and swashbuckling pirate motifs on whiskey barrel tops. A true outsider artist! The Trump portrait, titled Free America. Trump, is (self-)described as “a masterpiece that embodies his [Trump’s] unwavering love for the United States.” It was such a masterpiece that Trump previously purchased the work for Trump National (I’m not sure if this White House portrait is a new buy or if he yanked it off the Bedminster walls). My only complaint, after perusing Maga Langelo’s website, is that Trump didn’t buy more to scatter around the other rooms. Wouldn’t The Wizard of US just look perfect in the Green Room?

When asked about the honor of having her work on display at the White House by Newsmax, Langelo responded (while wearing an American flag bustier), “It says a lot about this nation that all your dreams are achievable.” Amen, honey. Mine certainly were. As soon as I saw Trump’s grump face scowling off the wall, I had to scurry to a free corner, snort, and try not to pass out in pure glee. It was, as Trump recently said in Qatar, “what they call perfecto.” And when the store worker presented me with the dubious distinction of being a part of the first crowd to ever lay eyes on it, I shivered with delight. THIS is what I came to the White House for—what I hoped, fantasized, and prayed I would find when rushing to badger my Representative Dan Goldman into getting me booked on a White House tour as soon as Melania announced on X that White House tours were once again open to the public. I wanted to see what Melania had done to the place, but instead, I found what Donnie did.

This isn’t too much of a surprise. Between my application for a tour (party of one!) in February and my actual visit in late April, Trump emerged as the Tinkerer in Chief. He not only micromanages nonsensical tariff policies, an avalanche of executive orders, and harebrained Boomer Truths about tariffing foreign films after a conversation with Megalopolis boner star Jon Voight, but he spends what little free time he has ceaselessly redecorating parts of the White House, transforming it in his own trashy image. The most obvious—and extreme—redo is the ongoing alteration of the Oval Office, which is rapidly morphing into a (only slightly) restrained version of his phony Louis XIV-inspired Trump Tower penthouse. It’s only a matter of time before he drags a tinkling, chlorine-stenching indoor fountain into the already crowded room.

The evolution of the Oval Office started small, but has increased with mentally deranged intensity in the short months Trump has inhabited the space. Initially, it was just the storied red Diet Coke button embedded in a fancy lacquered box that sits near his phone on the Resolute Desk, ready for any time the Commander in Chief needs a dose of aspartame (surely, RFK Jr. has something to croak-out about that) and a comparatively reserved collection of historic golden gewgaws, some more curious than others like a trio of busty ladies holding up some kind of dish, of which I’ve been particularly fixated ever since obsessively zooming into photographs of the room. Over time, these golden baubles launched an outward expansion. What, at first, simply sat on the table behind the Resolute Desk appeared on any and all surfaces where gold trinkets could be placed—the mantle, a bookshelf, and tables were now crowded with bowls, bins, baskets, plates, and eagle sculptures as if Trump raided the White House storage closets for anything sporting a speck of gold leaf. The most ridiculous has to be the absurdly tacky golden Cupids, like indoor lawn decorations, that now live in the arch above the doorways. Not everything was sourced from the White House archives, though. No historian can convince me those Cupids weren’t a TJ Maxx impulse buy spray-painted gold. Then, there’s the hefty golden brick with “TRUMP” emblazoned on its sides that I’ve previously expressed my adoration for ever since the Ukrainian rumble between Zelenskyy, Vance, and Donnie. No addition has been as amusing—or as tacky—as the plastic-looking floral gold appliques and their hostile takeover of the room, hot-glue-gunned to the marble mantle, the cornices, and randomly on the walls between the looming chaos of the salon-style hang of any presidential portrait with a gold frame and enormous Rococo mirrors.

The latest entry in this increasingly crowded office overpowers even the Declaration of Independence lurking behind a heavy navy curtain, likely perfectly symbolically blanching out with each dramatic reveal: a small bronze sculpture of Trump’s crucifixion…I mean…assassination and triumphant fist-pumping “Fight, Fight, Fight” resurrection, surrounded by Secret Service agents. This sculpture is only a mini-model of what artist Stan Watts intends to be a whopping 9-foot tribute. I hope it will also be squirreled away in the hoarder Oval Office, which I assume is going to withstand yet another gold explosion post-swanky trip to the Middle East.

There is much to be examined about Trump’s uh…unique design sensibilities. Like much of his administration, he spent the four intervening years since his first term plotting how he was going to spruce up the place he once allegedly called “a real dump” (a diagnosis he denies, but it does sound like him, doesn’t it?). Trading traditionally pared-down American decorative arts for Frenchy opulence (despite his VP JD Vance’s constant bitching about Europe), Trump’s Oval Office intends to inspire awe, exude oligarch extravagance, and spark a little fear. I’m not the only one who thinks so. Carolina A. Miranda in The Washington Post compared this gaudy overabundance to the “Let Them Eat Cake” overindulgence of Versailles:

“Behold the new Sun King, a wannabe emperor who views his powers as absolute — who governs by executive order, and has been recorded giggling in his gilded chamber with Salvadoran autocrat Nayib Bukele as his administration defies a unanimous Supreme Court ruling that he facilitate the return of a Salvadoran immigrant who was wrongly deported. God save us from the king.”

She’s not wrong. That is what Trump is going for, but I think she’s giving him too much credit. Rather than a Moldbug monarchy masturbatory vision, this Versailles has gold garbage glued to the walls bought in bulk from Home Goods. Just like his penthouse full of Louis XIV replicas rather than real antiques, this is a trash approximation of what outsized power and wealth should look like rather than what it is. Upon closer inspection, everything, like the plants in Trump’s penthouse, is cheap, fake, or swiped from the dusty corner of the White House basement.

Though the Oval Office has understandably received the most attention as the most frequently photographed room in the West Wing, Trump’s goldfinger has touched more than just one room. Case in point: an entire wall of the Oval Office Dining Room is newly lined with commemorative plaques featuring The New York Post’s covers that trace Donnie’s 2024 return to power. These covers join another Post goodie—Trump’s distinctive Never Surrender mugshot, which glares at passersby in the office of one of Trump’s secretaries, located between the Oval Office and the Cabinet Room. Alongside this wall of NYC tabloids hangs at least two prominent pro-wrestling belts, further evidence that Trump is trashing up the joint.

With these changes to the West Wing, surely things must have shifted around the velvet rope-lined touristy East Wing, where we American slobs are allowed to meander, too. More than coffee, this dream propelled me toward the White House before 7 AM, reminded several times by the stringent White House tour instructions to get to the line at least fifteen minutes before the tour time. From across the street, I had no problem discerning where this line began—a gaggle of teens in MAGA hats guided my way like red beacons. My fellow Americans booked for the bright and early session were, uh, not exactly diverse. Beyond the MAGA hat cohort, there was a Boy Scout troop, a trio of Boomer women behind me who refused to adhere to the repeated warnings not to bring any bags (to the Parks employees’ dismay), and throngs of polite, perky, chubby families, the happy-go-lucky dum-dums I can instantly identify as eager Trump fanatics (I say this with affection—I like them. I wish I was a happy-go-lucky dum-dum too). It was as if I were back at Trumpamania at Madison Square Garden. The only possible outliers were an older lesbian couple, one of whom sported Philadelphia Eagles gear, leading several Secret Service agents to shout, “Go birds!” Other than them, even then maybe, most everyone was visibly there for the Trump White House tour.

And so was I. Loitering for the long fifteen-minute wait, trying not to pass out in the sun while individuals from DC’s copious homeless population rattled by the increasingly lavish People’s House with shopping carts, my mind reeled with dual anticipation and worry: Would this even be worth it? Sure, I buzzed at the thought of standing in the State Dining Room, the storied location where Ol’ Abe once peered down thoughtfully at the dissolution of his beloved country, as represented by Trump’s greasy buffet of McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Chick-fil-A, and other assorted fast-food goodies served to visiting Clemson athletes. This phenomenal scene was responsible for a photograph so sublime that Trump later hawked a T-shirt emblazoned with its image and the all-caps phrase “LEGEND.” Perhaps I could convince a Secret Service agent to let me attempt to recreate the photo, minus the reeking, drippy food. Even still, that was one room. What if I just saw the same damn Red, Blue, and Green Rooms as every other tour from the previous administrations? Would it be just an interesting historical collection of federal-style American decorative arts and dusty paintings of past presidents? What if I put in all this effort to bear witness to a White House tour indistinguishable from Jill Biden’s, minus her soulless Christmas decorations? What if the only thing I got from this tour was *gag* an honor to be one of the people who got to set foot into the building, the culmination of nearly 250 years of our democratic experiment?

I didn’t need to worry. The Trumpification of the White House tour began even before entering the storied building itself. After running the gauntlet of Secret Service ID checks, we were filed through a TSA-style body scanner and pat down. Here, the tour first caught a glimpse of the man himself, in photographs lining the walls of the security check. Framed in simple i.e. discount faux gold frames that looks like they were bought in bulk at Marshalls, most photographs featured his (be) better half Melania, who, in the only one I was able to quickly and surreptitiously snap a pic of before surrendering my phone to the Secret Service, stands next to the Resolute Desk holding an Executive Order as Trump, seated, glances at her.

Inside the White House’s entrance were four more of these types of photos in the same frames, only now they were hung two on each side of carved wooden walls on either side of towering doorways. While most were as innocuous as the Oval Office scene at the security check—Melania with a cohort of teens in the White House’s theater, the First Couple dancing at this year’s Inaugural Ball, Melania strutting outside the White House as if she were on a catwalk—one stood out. In this photograph, the first I noticed when walking in, Trump signs an executive order surrounded by a group of young girls, many in sports uniforms. Yes, this was the signing of the Keeping Men Out of Women’s Sports executive order. A nice dash of alienating transphobia to start the experience! Like the trio of paintings near the gift shop, these comparatively small photographs clashed with the surrounding artworks—all conventional paintings of First Ladies like Barbara Bush, Rosalyn Carter, and, my favorite, this portrait of Nancy Reagan:

She looks like she’s about to perform a human sacrifice or star in The Handmaid’s Tale.

Again, Trump wedged himself into a hallway typically reserved for honoring First Ladies. Plus, the number and size don’t even make any sense. Why are there four? Why not mimic the same larger vertical aesthetic as the other paintings? Who is the curator here? And while I’m bitching, I was disappointed with the selection both in the entrance and the TSA check. Other than the phobe undercurrent, they’re boring. What about Trump’s short stint as a McDonald’s drive-thru worker? Or a garbage truck driver? What about the aforementioned Donald McDonald photograph in front of his awe-inspiring fast-food spread? And since we should include Melania, how about her famous photo marching through her demon Christmas forest?

With this Trump-heavy introduction, I anticipated similar photographs to be hidden away in other nooks and crannies of the tour, like a scavenger hunt for little MAGA Easter eggs, and not just the fancy, delicate, artist-made commemorative Easter eggs still on display from the egg roll days earlier. But it wasn’t to be. This isn’t to say there weren’t some subtle Trumpian choices that I, as an avid scholar of Trump aesthetics, noticed. One hallway, still toward the tour’s entrance, was lined with photographs and pre-photo illustrations of a seemingly random sampling of presidential administrations. Strangely, this included Nixon, whose malignant presence I would assume the White House would want to smudge out with sage rather than giving him a space of honor. Yet, there was Tricky Dick. Alongside peculiarly hysterical entries into the Nixon Family photo album like Dick and Pat making a snowman or Pat wearing a fetching sky-blue ensemble with a ploofy neckerchief in the Blue Room stood The King. Yes, there was a photograph marking the deeply odd occasion of Elvis’s entry into the building during his random swing by the White House to prattle on and on about the dangers of drugs while likely on drugs. This has Trump’s bronzer-stained Elvis-worshipping fingerprints all over it. The man not only puts Elvis on all his listen-and-sway playlists but frequently delusionally compares himself to the King’s beauty (or says others have in the past…sure).

Other rooms answered some of my most pressing questions about the population of the gilt invasion in the Oval Office. The State Dining Room boasted at least two of the sexy lady bowls that began behind the Resolute Desk, next to photographs of Fred Trump, only to scamper across the room to the golden mantle display. I gasped when I turned around and saw them, plopped on tables near the visitor pathway. Close enough to snatch. Finally, I might figure out what the fuck they are. I lingered awkwardly to ask one of the Secret Service agents, who hover in each room to answer questions and occasionally yell at us, the tactless unwashed American masses, to stop feeling up the drapes (seriously). However, this agent was caught in an in-depth, lighthearted discussion with a teenager about the killing of Osama Bin Laden. I let it slide, only later digging into the White House archives and learning these Three Graces baskets were made by the Parisian firm Denière et Matelin and were purchased for the State Dining Room in 1817 during James Madison and James Monroe’s terms. Given they were purchased for the State Dining Room, Donnie must have nabbed a few for the Oval Office’s ever-growing cavalcade of gold crap.

The most dramatic addition to the tour was saved for last, a violent grand finale and concluding reminder of exactly whose current residence you just stepped foot in before being booted out the front door (the tour winds out the front entrance), directly in the middle of a family selfie. Turning the corner of the White House Cross Hall, which also features a bust of Abe and aggressive floral arrangements, I came face-to-face with Trump’s painted blood-streaked countenance, poking out of a squabble of protective Secret Service agents. Yes, this painting by Marc Lipp was yet another heroic interpretation of Donnie’s Stations of the Cross in Butler. There, in the middle of that huddle of suited Secret Service agents, he—and the United States—was reborn. Now, I’ll admit, this may just be the best Trump portrait I’ve seen. That’s not saying much. There is still an errant arm belonging to no one, and Trump’s face resembles the withering orange you forgot in the produce bin in your fridge. And it does look like the airbrushed aesthetic of a painting you’d find in a booth at a county fair, consistent with Lipp’s other painterly subjects like poodles and Audrey Hepburn blowing a big pink gum bubble outside of Tiffany’s (I must have missed that scene). Still, at least it has an appealing sense of frantic movement and dynamic fist-pumping resurrection that feels accurate to the Butler Farm Show Grounds scene.

Like wedging himself next to Hillary through Maga Langelo’s portrait, this Butler painting’s placement is also petty. Trump had to unseat the former spot of Obama’s painting by Robert McCurdy, which is also deeply odd, with Obama lingering in a strange white void like he’s ascended into heaven or popped up to narrate an episode of The Twilight Zone. Obama’s portrait now hangs on the opposite side of the hall next to an ornate piano, forever doomed to sit across from the Birther in Chief and ponder if this all would have happened if he didn’t mock Donnie at the 2011 White House Correspondence Dinner. A rough purgatory, but perhaps one he deserves for a litany of reasons, like not convincing Ruth Bader Ginsburg to stop doing planks and retire.

Like Trump intended, both in paint and in real life, he overpowered Obama’s legacy even here. Nobody, other than me, took photos of Obama’s portrait. Instead, Lipp’s Butler painting was by far the most popular moment of the tour, with various tourists lining up near the velvet rope to take selfies with Trump’s bloody face. Nobody cared about solemn JFK or George Washington’s nosy bust. Nobody was that impressed by the fancy blue chairs or the library only holding American books that we weren’t even allowed to peruse. It was all about the “Fight, Fight, Fight” conclusion. Clearly, Trump knows how to leave an impression. “This is my favorite part! This is my favorite part!” yammered a pre-teen boy to anyone who would listen. He exited the White House doors while still yelling about it to his uninterested parents.

I followed him out—not disagreeing—completely unaware that sometime around that moment two things were occurring: the DOGE children had their hands on the grant-giving organization that was funding a project I was working on that would be canceled just two days later (alongside many, many, many other arts, cultural, and science grants) and the Micromanager in Chief was meandering around the White House grounds pointing to the staff where he wants to place two nearly 100-foot flag poles. Which means not only is the White House going to continue to evolve into Donnie’s palace for the next four years, so much so that it may be completely unrecognizable by 2028, but there are a lot of creative people with less money who have ideas. Tap me in, Donnie, I have thoughts! What about pumping artificial burger and fry smells into the State Dining Room to give an immersive sense of being at one of the fast-food buffets? How about hanging some of those abysmal Trump portraits shadily purchased with charity money to save face at auctions? What about a replica of the Diet Coke button, perhaps in the Red Room, to give a nod to Coke’s red logo? Or add some photos from Trump’s various pro-wrestling appearances? Video of the Battle of the Billionaires? The gift shop also needs an update—who wants classy White House totes?! Give me trash! What about Butler bobbleheads? Mini-Butler statues? Trump dancing hologram postcards? Trump’s T-shirts that just say “Garbage”? Trump Ice water bottles since we weren’t allowed to bring in our own? And if all of this is too much, shouldn’t, at the very least, “Y.M.C.A.” play on a loop throughout the entire tour?