A McDonald’s, Three Artists, and the Question of Art

In an unassuming McDonald’s somewhere between neon lights and greasy burgers, three men sit together—men who couldn’t be more different: Albert Anker, master of idyllic rural scenes; Arnold Böcklin, creator of fantastical dream worlds; and Harald Nägeli, the graffiti artist of Zurich. They have gathered here to talk about art—or rather, to argue about it.

Anker, dressed in a fine suit with a pocket watch, stirs his coffee thoughtfully. “Art must be craftsmanship,” he begins, scrutinizing the orange plastic tray on which his meal has been served. “It should depict the world as it is—or rather, as it should be. It’s about precision, detail, and truth.”

Nägeli snorts, his burger half-eaten, the paper bag carelessly tossed aside. “Truth? Your realism is nothing but nostalgic glorification! Art has to live in the streets, it has to provoke. A spray can might have more impact than an entire museum full of finely painted pictures.”

Böcklin, silently inspecting his fries, finally looks up. “You are both too narrow-minded,” he says in a quiet voice. “Art is not just about copying the world; it must transform it. Myth, dreams, the unconscious—that’s where the true power of art lies.”

Anker shakes his head. “Nice words. But without discipline and technique, it’s all just fantasy.”

“And without relevance, it’s just decoration!” counters Nägeli.

Böcklin sighs, his gaze drifting through the fast-food restaurant. A synthetic world built from plastic, wiped spotless yet strangely soulless. Perhaps, he thinks, this is the true art of the modern age—a place where the beautiful, the fantastic, and the rebellious collide, yet completely talk past each other.

The argument continues as their burgers grow cold.

An Unexpected Guest

While Anker, Böcklin, and Nägeli remain entangled in their heated debate, the McDonald’s door suddenly squeaks open. A striking figure with orange-tinted skin and an unmistakable hairstyle enters the room. Donald Trump. Dressed in a tailored suit with a conspicuously red tie, he confidently orders a Big Mac with extra cheese and a large Coke. As he scans the room with his tray in hand, his eyes land on the three arguing artists.

“What are you guys even talking about?” he asks with his signature mix of curiosity and condescension.

Harald Nägeli, the only one who perceives Trump’s presence as somewhat entertaining, leans back grinning. “We’re discussing art.”

Trump sits down at their table without hesitation and takes a big bite of his burger. “Art? Art is simple. Art is what wins. Look at my buildings—golden ceilings, huge letters—everyone immediately knows: That’s Trump. That’s success. People want to see that because it radiates power.”

Anker rolls his eyes. “Art is not about power or money. Art is precision, craftsmanship, and a love for detail.”

“No, art is about impact,” says Nägeli. “A graffiti tag in the right place can challenge an entire system.”

Böcklin shakes his head thoughtfully. “You’re all thinking too simplistically. Art is not just a tool—it’s a gateway to other worlds.”

Trump takes a sip of his Coke and laughs. “Other worlds? Fake news! People don’t want other worlds; they want a better world. And do you know who gives it to them? Winners. People like me. Not losers, like the Democrats.”

Nägeli laughs out loud. “When you talk about winners, are you also thinking of the artist Jeff Koons? He makes giant shiny balloon dogs, sells them for millions—fits perfectly into your Trump Towers.”

“Koons is fantastic!” Trump exclaims. “He gets it. Make it big, make it expensive, make it instantly recognizable. That’s real art. Those old masters, sure, they were good, but they never understood that it’s all about branding.”

Anker shakes his head in disbelief. “That’s not art anymore, that’s just the market. Back in my day, things were different.”

“And what’s wrong with the market?” Trump shrugs. “People love what they can buy. They love success. And real art—that’s what sells. That’s why I’m bringing paradise back.”

For a moment, silence falls over the table. Böcklin stares into his empty fry container, Nägeli just grins, and Anker looks like he’s suppressing a wave of nausea. Then Nägeli stands up, pulls a black spray can from his jacket, and swiftly paints a large, wild inscription on the McDonald’s table:

“Art is free.”

Donald Trump shakes his head. “Wrong,” he says. “Art is business, you losers.”

He gets up, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and leaves the restaurant while pulling out his phone—presumably to tweet about the incident.

What remains are three artists who may not agree on anything—except for one thing: art has found a new enemy—or perhaps just its greatest misunderstanding.

Pipilotti Rist Joins the Discussion

Harald Nägeli leans back in his plastic chair, still holding the spray can, when he suddenly spots a familiar figure walking past outside. Pipilotti Rist, the renowned video artist, is strolling by with a spring in her step. Without hesitation, Nägeli jumps up, opens the door, and calls out:

“Pippi, come in! We’re talking about art—whether it’s dead or just getting started!”

Pipilotti, wearing a shimmering, colorful dress, pauses briefly, takes in the scene through the glass window, and steps inside with a knowing smile. She surveys the room: Albert Anker, still stunned by Trump’s departure, Arnold Böcklin, lost in thought, and Nägeli, grinning mischievously.

“What a bizarre place for an art debate,” she murmurs, sitting down and pulling out her phone as if ready to turn the whole scene into a new video.

Anker clears his throat. “I suppose you’re also one of those who believe that art only matters if it provokes or uses modern technology?”

She laughs. “No, no, dear Mr. Anker. Art is play. A flow. A dance. A rush of light, colors, and sounds. Why should it be static? Why only on canvas or in stone?” Arnold Böcklin, his imagination sparked by her words, nods thoughtfully. “Interesting… maybe your art is a kind of modern dream world. A new mythology, but in pixels.” Harald Nägeli takes a deep sip of Coke. “See, Pippi—that’s exactly the point. Art should be everywhere! In the city, in life, in the air, in motion. I spray on walls; you project on facades—and what does the world do? It either criminalizes our art or labels it ‘niche.’”

Donald Trump, who has just reopened the door because he forgot his sunglasses, overhears the last sentence and can’t resist chiming in. “Maybe because it’s not real art? I mean, come on—big video projections? That’s not a business. Where’s the profit? Who buys that?”

Pipilotti shakes her head. “You don’t get it, Donald. Art isn’t made to be bought. It’s made to be seen, felt, experienced. It sneaks into people’s minds—and changes them.”

Trump laughs. “Sweetheart, if you want to change something, you must sell it. Otherwise, it’s meaningless.”

Albert sighs and carefully folds his napkin. “Maybe we’ve reached a point where art and commerce can no longer understand each other. What I paint is meant to last forever. What Mr. Nägeli sprays will fade. What Ms. Rist projects is fleeting. And what Mr. Trump builds may be big, but it is soulless.”

Böcklin picks up a fry, twirls it between his fingers, and murmurs: “Perhaps art is nothing more than a dream that exists as long as we share it.” Pipilotti Rist smiles. “And maybe it’s at its strongest when it can’t be captured.”Nägeli grins. “Then let’s start something new. Art can’t win or lose. It can only happen. Why do you think I spray my little figures on walls?”

Trump shakes his head, grabs his sunglasses, and leaves. “You artists are all crazy. Europeans are crazy.”

As the door swings shut behind him, silence lingers for a moment. Then Pipilotti pulls out her phone, films the sprayed message on the table, spins once to capture the neon light, and murmurs:

“Crazy? Maybe. But that’s exactly the point.”

“Let’s order another Coke—I have a drop of something to refine it.”

The characters

Albert Anker, painter, *1.4.1831 - †16.7.1910

Arnold Böcklin, painter *16.10.1827 - †16.01.1901

Harald Nägeli, graffiti sprayer, * 4.12.1939 -

Donald Trump, 45/47th President USA, *14.6.1946

Pipilotti Rist, video artist, #21.6.1962

©thomasvonriedt 2025

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