The video has been witnessed by all: the dawning shock of Donald Trump realising he is under gunfire, the startling acceptance that he is a bullet’s target, transitions swiftly into a profound realisation that he’s in the midst of a media spectacle. The sequence of events is nearly concurrent: the echoing crack of bullets, Trump’s hand moving to his ear, his subsequent tumble beneath the lectern, engulfed by an outcry of Secret Service agents. Then, blood smeared on his face, he’s hoisted back to his feet by the accompanying agents. Yet, before they can escort him offstage to safety, he pauses, lifting his fist in defiance, mouthing “fight” over and over. This man has a keen, almost intimate understanding of the importance his image carries in every context possible.
The video is remarkable in numerous ways, most notably the unsettling sense of historical familiarity it induces in the viewer, a nervous suspicion that something dreadful, yet uncannily quaint and utterly unprecedented is being set in motion. We are all too familiar with this spectacle — its key players, the prevailing American narrative of the “lone gunman” — those triply-named figures from the annals of history — John Wilkes Booth, Lee Harvey Oswald, James Earl Ray. But the most profound aspect is how much Trump himself appears aware of the spectacle, and his adept manipulation of it. There’s no denying that he embodies the role strikingly well.
In a 1983 treatise on the sequence of political assassinations in America, novelist Don DeLillo alludes to John Hinckley Jnr’s attempted murder of Ronald Reagan as a “self-referring event.” Hinckley, who was fixated with the movie Taxi Driver and sought to assassinate the president to win the favour of its young starlet, Jodie Foster, saw his attempt on Reagan’s life as a sort of enactment. He was mindfully playing out the role of the lone gunman, claiming the trope as his own. Despite his mental instability, he possessed a bizarrely nuanced grasp of his circumstances. Trump, in his bone-chillingly sensible manner, interpreted the scenario he found himself caught up in as a form of performance. That too was a deeply introspective event.
Reflect on the predominant image resulting from the assassination attempt: Trump enveloped by protective agents, captured from a low angle by Evan Vucci’s lens. A clenched fist against a cerulean sky, the US flag rustling behind him, while a thin stream of vivid blood, akin to the stripes of the flag, flows over his defiant expression. Viewing this photo, if one foresees a second Trump term as a worldwide catastrophe, affords a foretaste of impending turmoil and pandemonium – an intensification of already prevalent disorder. What meets your gaze when you inspect this photograph is an almost excessively exaggerated portrayal of bravery and hyper-politicised masculinity – a depiction Mussolini would have longed for to the point of murder.
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Whilst it may seem ludicrous to label a photograph taken merely a week ago as ‘iconic’, the accelerated cadence of cultural shifts and the near-instant dissemination and absorption of images – via memes, shares, and analysis – forces us to take such a classification into consideration. Trump himself certainly gives it due consideration. In a New York Post interview the day subsequent to the assassination attempt, he shared: “Many assert it’s the most iconic photograph they’ve come across. They’re correct and I’m still alive. Normally one has to pass away to have such an iconic photograph taken.”
It may not be immediately apparent what Trump is implying in his statement – is the taking of a significant photograph inherently associated with death? However, the mention of the word “iconic” in itself suggests an underlying depth of meaning. The origin of “icon” is a Greek term, translating to “image” or “representation”; its principal usage carries a religious connotation, typically associated with a holy image of a significant figure in a religion. Primarily, we refer to Christ when discussing icons in this context, with Christ being another Greek term, translating to “the anointed one.” I must clarify, though, that I am not insinuating Trump knowingly triggered these correlations in his remark; even if you have your own subjective opinion of the individual, I trust we can concur that whimsically engaging with Greek linguistics would not be in line with his style. My proposition is that these connotations already come inherent in the language we utilise, irrespective of whether we intend it; they are, in essence, already ingrained.
Let’s not disregard that this individual, to his most ardent supporters, already has a kind of divine aura. Moreover, don’t forget that this is the same man who the US Supreme Court, consisting mainly of conservatives, has recently granted power comparable to an emperor (or even a mafioso). In a declaration on Truth Social, his own social media platform, Trump proclaimed, “Only God could prevent the unimaginable from occurring.” To further this divine narrative (which, I presume, we aspire to do), the subsequent words were “FEAR NOT”. If these words stimulate a sense of déjà vu, it’s because it mirrors what Christ says to his disciples in the Gospel of Matthew, post completing the miracle of walking on water: “be not afraid.” The belief here is that something miraculous has unfolded, and we are consequently thrust into an area of sacrilegious godliness of an intrinsically American nature.
There he stands, illuminated in his very own lifeblood, sanctified. Trump – a figure birthed and moulded by the mass media – grasps the potency of imagery. The snapshot itself, truly reflective of Trump’s tenure, revolves solely around him. Essentially, it paints a portrait of an influential man who recognises the strength of such portrayal. To his followers, it signifies a call not to fear. Conversely, for everyone else, it conveys a stark warning: be scared.