Some have spoken of Bush the Frat Boy. But here we see, in gentle, almost blotchy brushstrokes, the legendary Swedish golfer depicted off the green, wearing earrings and, perhaps, a sleek pantsuit. Assertive. A femininity confident in masculine domains — not one defined by the retrograde standards of Texas fraternities. This is the George W. Bush we know and remember today.

Poppy himself, as seen by his son. The withered paterfamilias gazes at his scion — and us — with the enduring love of a Langley man who was able to “take care” of Manuel Noriega, the Soviet Union, Richard Nixon, and possibly JFK, but not his own failson George. The flushed cheeks of our 41st president only hint at the enormous castration anxiety the painter wishes to connote to his audience. From Poppy’s loins we sprang. And to dust we shall return.