What else can I tell you? It’s August and no one’s really paying attention anyway.
I’m aware that my acknowledging the idiocy of this exercise does not exactly make it any more worthwhile. (Speaking of things not being worthwhile, note the works in the above by Nate Lowman and Dan Colen.)
But, you know, Ivanka Trump’s father could possibly be ushered into the executive office on a platform of nativism, sexism, general hatred for that which the lowest common denominator doesn’t understand, etc.
At least we’ll have these pictures of Ivanka Trump standing in front of mostly just astonishingly shitty art as a reminder of a time when the possibility of a Trump presidency was still far enough off that it seemed more or less OK to mock with heavy irreverence.
That Rothko is one of the not-shitty ones, I guess!
It’s hard not to think right now that we’re standing on the edge of some horrible precipice overlooking a jagged oblivion that we are far beyond being able to back away from.
Scarier still is how all of us have been more or less complicit in the rise of a fascistic demagogue.
If national political discourse has been forced to take seriously this grisly, hate-filled trainwreck of a man, it’s only because the entire country has found it so difficult to look away from his ridiculous orange mouth and all the terrible things it says, like some sunset over a polluted lake that you can’t help but stare into.
I mean, really, how embarrassing for all of us!
Fascism begins at home, am I right? Here’s hoping we’ll learn something from this, in the end. If not, we’ll always have this stupid blog post.