A normal person looks at the arts and says, WOW! A narcaccist wants to know what it all has to do with him?

I worked for the Kennedy Center Honors. I’ve always considered it one of the greatest tributes to American artistry ever created. Founded by George Stevens Jr.—one of my great mentors—the Honors were designed to celebrate the creative giants among us: the musicians, dancers, playwrights, actors, and cultural icons whose work has shaped the soul of this country.

Each December, the White House would welcome these legends—Aretha Franklin, Yo-Yo Ma, Stephen Sondheim, Meryl Streep, Ray Charles, Bette Midler, Al Pacino, Chita Rivera, Carol Burnett, Herbie Hancock, Oprah Winfrey—with music, laughter, and gratitude.

There was no loyalty test. No one asked who they voted for. There was no litmus test for political correctness, no requirement to flatter the president or align with any party. What mattered was the work—its excellence, its impact, its truth. What mattered was how deeply these artists moved us, who they lifted up, who they inspired. Art was honored for what it revealed about our shared humanity—not for how well it flattered power.

The Kennedy Center Honors every year held a formal dinner at the White House, attended by the president who would personally thank each artist and give them the award. It wasn’t just a ceremony. It was a national thank you. A reminder that art is not ornamental—it is foundational. It heals, provokes, connects. It gives voice to the voiceless, and form to the formless. And the White House—no matter who lived there—was meant to be a beacon of that shared cultural spirit.

Not anymore.

There is no art in this White House. For a rich New Yorker, he is unusual in his avoidance of art-collecting. Not surprisingly, art about Trump appears to be the only kind that interests the president.

Thus, no poetry readings. No music. No jazz reverberating off the Resolute Desk. No schoolchildren’s drawings pinned proudly in the hallways. No Kennedy Center Honorees embraced by the president with reverence and joy and honor. 

There are no pets. No dogs lying faithfully at a leader’s feet. No cats curled in sunbeams by the East Wing windows. No signs of gentleness. The only animal instinct left in this place is cruelty. And I don’t even think that is an animal instinct; that is uniquely human instinct. 

There is no joy. No footage of the Obamas laughing on the beach. No Bushes fishing with grandkids. No Reagans on horseback. No Kennedys tossing footballs barefoot in Hyannis Port. Just Trump, alone on a golf course, always wearing the same red tie, a man so allergic to warmth he can’t even pretend to hold a grandchild.

No spontaneous moments of tenderness. No First Lady planting a garden. In fact, Melania Trump ripped out the historic Rose Garden. She bulldozed Jackie Kennedy’s living tribute to grace and growth and replaced it with sterile symmetry and stone.

Roses—symbols of beauty, of love, of fragility and remembrance—were torn from the ground like they meant nothing. It was the perfect metaphor for this administration: take what is tender and meaningful, and erase it to make space for loyalty and domination.

Tear up roses. Pave over decency. Sterilize the soul of the nation.

There are no schoolchildren visiting for science fairs or holiday concerts. No artists honored. No laughter, unless it’s cruel at the expense of people they grab off the streets and deport without record to a life of true misery and torture.

The White House, hiding behind the cross, has become a fortress of bitterness, filled with men who fire people, punish critics, and serve only the rich. Here, families are separated. Whistleblowers are silenced. The sick are mocked. The poor are disposable. The powerful are immune. A Bible is held upside down while tear gas clears the streets.

What once was the “People’s House” now belongs to a man, and woman, who can’t stand the people.

We used to have presidents who understood the role of culture in democracy. Who made room for violinists, sculptors, gospel singers, and poets laureate. Now we have a man who surrounds himself only with gold leaf, flatterers and flags.

The art is gone. The music is silenced. The roses have been torn out by the roots. And all we’re left with is marble, marble, everywhere—and not a single flower in bloom.

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