IT IS easy to laugh at the image of a Donald Trump-designed White House, if not at the idea of Mr Trump himself as an occupant. Emblazoned with the family name in two-foot-high bronze letters, fitted with gold fixtures and marble surfaces, the Trump House’s Lincoln bedroom would perhaps be renamed after a president who was not such a loser that he got himself assassinated (Sad!). People might pay not to stay there. Harper Lee, writer of “To Kill a Mockingbird”, would have been one of them. “The worst punishment God can devise for this sinner,” she once wrote to a friend, “is to make her spirit reside eternally at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City.”
Yet the Trumpian aesthetic, like the man himself, does have mysterious power over some. “It’s sensational, it’s magnificent opulence,” one gawper told the Philadelphia Inquirer in 1990 upon visiting the Taj when the casino opened, complete with bejeweled elephants, imported palm trees and far more minarets than its humble namesake. “You almost feel you should be charged for just walking in.” It is not just the unwashed masses. No less an authority than the...Continue reading
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