As we live less than an hour from the National Portrait Gallery (right by the Verizon Center), a few friends and I decided it was incumbent upon us to make a pilgrimage to Stephen Colbert’s portrait, hanging next to a bathroom in that esteemed institution through February as part of an elaborate prank by the show. (The need to fill time without writers might have something to do with it). We weren’t the only ones—the place was packed, and we kept turning corners and running into vaguely familiar people, possibly from campus.
The whole third floor—American history portraits—was like a regression to those golden 10th grade days of manageable names and concrete, noble theories. A room devoted to the pioneers—“Go west, young man!”—was ironically located right next to portraits of Native Americans. A temporary exhibit showed disturbingly Freudian ads for war bonds from WWI, all pink-cheeked Lady Liberty and phallic cannons. The Civil War exhibit—red, claustrophobic rooms full of stern white men with amazing facial hair—included good old John Brown, with a wild mass of hair above and below his head; the description mentioned that some considered the radical abolitionist guerrilla to have “a touch of insanity.”
There was a line for Colbert himself, and we dutifully got behind a disparate group of too-old hipsters, college kids and moms waiting to see the third floor bathroom and water fountains. Once it was our turn in what Tyler referred to as the “Facebook profile picture assembly line,” we gaped, read the description (“While this triple portrait is not one that would typically be accessioned into the Portrait Gallery’s permanent collection, NPG agreed to go along with the joke and hang the portrait for a limited time.” Brave of them, really), and took our obligatory, awkwardly-posed photo. And then all used the bathroom. Hey, it was right there.
That somewhat perfunctory task done, we moved on to the American Presidents exhibit, where I marveled at Andrew Jackson—quite attractive with his emo-guitarist shock of white hair—and the utter ugliness of Martha Washington. At John Tyler’s portrait we ran into a woman having her picture taken with that forgettable of presidents, who turned out to have been her great-great grandfather. We nodded politely. While walking away, Anna whispered, “I thought he was a racist who stole Texas from the Mexicans.” We nodded again, less politely. [Ed. note: that was Polk.]
In the next room for Presidents of the modern era, politico Or had something to say about every old white man. At Jimmy Carter, described as a centrist leader with a “can-do” attitude: “Can-do attitude, can’t-do Iranian hostage crisis.” JFK, the lone modern painting, all green abstract lines: “The 60s are coming, the decade of free love. I will be painted in green!” At FDR: “God, couldn’t our president stand up for his own portrait?!” which earned us a truly scathing look from the woman at his elbow, who, apparently, didn’t hear the sarcasm.
The last “portrait” was a mirror, marked “The Next President of the United States?” Exactly what Stephen would have wanted—He’s America, and So Can You!
