💚 RFK Jr. calmly sipping a green smoothie

I asked AI to do my political cartoon. I said I wanted dead flowers around Rosa Delauro. And to scan the article and design me a political cartoon, new yorker style. I mentioned I wanted RFK jr to hold a green smoothie .This is what it gave me:

AI rewrote my feelings on this, in the style of GUSTAVE FLAUBERT ( the French Author)

It is a curious thing, this experiment in juxtaposition—comparing the artificial creation of a political cartoon with the original conception that stirred in the quiet corners of my imagination. The machine, diligent as it may be, has drawn upon both the article and my prompt. That, at least, is admirable. There is a certain cleverness to it, a kind of mimicry that feels almost flattered by its own obedience. One could call it interesting. Even—how quaint—cool.

And yet, as my eyes wandered across the image, I found myself struck not by familiarity but by estrangement. That is not Secretary Kennedy. There is no trace of his likeness—neither in the gaze, nor the posture, nor in the subtle gravitas that ought to accompany a man who carries green smoothies into halls of power. As for the figures in the background—they are strangers. Faces without memory. Characters drawn not from the moment, but from the void of approximation.

And Delauro! Ah, Rosa DeLauro—the peacock of Capitol Hill, draped in layers of color that seem to shriek rather than speak—was here rendered as… what? A diluted essence. The monstrosity of her ensemble, that sartorial affront to decency, was not captured, not even gestured toward. I had asked—not idly—for her awful outfit, and yet the result was subdued, respectful even, as though the artist feared to offend fabric itself.

Then there is the MAHA Budget book—a detail that should have anchored the scene like a well-placed paperweight. But it sits, indistinct, poorly lettered, and forgettable. Worse still: the absurd presence of what appears to be raw ginger in the Secretary’s desk Ginger? Why ginger? Was he supposed to be eating it? Drinking it? Worshipping it? This detail is not merely incorrect—it is surreal. It tears at the coherence of the moment, like a laugh at a funeral.

Even the minutiae betray a lack of fidelity. The writing on Delauro’s paper? Illegible. The cans on the desk? Decorated with meaningless scribbles, void of satire or specificity. These are not Easter eggs for the observant viewer; they are the byproducts of haste, of calculation without vision.

One might be tempted, in a charitable mood, to copy this cartoon and “fix” it—redraw the elements, correct the likenesses, restore the punchline with human hands. But to do so would be to engage in a different act altogether: an act of love, of drawing. And love, you see, is the domain of the creative soul. It cannot be feigned. It is not assembled from pixels. And while this cartoon functions, it does not breathe. You cannot replace love forever..

Therein lies the chasm. The AI draws, yes—but does it see? Does it wonder? Does it despise a bad outfit, or delight in a petty jab? No. And so what it makes, however technically adequate, remains hollow. A simulacrum. A rehearsal for something that has not yet lived.

Art, to be great, must not merely copy the world. It must insult it a little.