Sabrina Carpenter, Olivia Rodrigo, and Nagai Blast Homeland Security’s Art Grab

Mia Reynolds, 1/3/2026 When government agencies co-opt art for divisive campaigns, beauty becomes a battlefield. Hiroshi Nagai’s tranquil beach, Olivia Rodrigo’s feminist anthem—each repurposed without consent, each a reminder that art’s heart can’t be commandeered. Whose story are we really telling when beauty is borrowed, not cherished?

For those who let city pop records set the mood, Nagai’s art cues an instant daydream: pastel beaches scored by the gentle splash of a ride cymbal, touched with the wistfulness of a 1950s America as remembered by someone who never actually lived it. The color palette alone whispers of old Kodachrome photos—warm, a little bit faded, nothing to spoil the quiet.

Not long ago, though, this peaceful vision found itself torn from its roots. An unlikely villain: the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. With all the certainty of a government memo—and zero artistic nuance—they stamped a loaded caption across the tranquil beach: “America after 100 million deportations.” Then, hammering their point home, the kind of tagline that would probably send any art lover hunting for antacids: “The peace of a nation no longer besieged by the third world.” If subtlety were measured on a scale, this one snapped the needle right off.

Nagai, now 78 and nearly mythical among fans of contemplative illustration, spotted the post as most artists do these days: through a flurry of mentions, retweets, and that familiar dread of seeing your own brushstrokes weaponized online. His response was almost understated—a public reach for advice, tinged with the disbelief and tiredness that only decades in creative industries can brew: “This image is being used without permission from the US Department of Homeland Security. What should I do about this?” One can picture him standing by his easel, troubled, not so much by outrage as by the emptiness such a misreading produces. To have one’s work so misunderstood must sting in ways that lawyers can’t really mend.

What’s particularly painful, here, is that Nagai’s landscapes are as far from exclusionary as a thunderstorm is from a drought. These images are built of spaces—highways, rooftops, quiet beaches—left empty precisely so onlookers can fill them with their own memories, not someone else’s politics. No shouting. No hidden crowds invisible in the wings. It’s all about longing, not division; the silence that says, “There could have been someone here,” not “there shouldn’t be.”

Apparently, no lesson was learned from last year’s brush with controversy. The same federal agency had taken Thomas Kinkade’s signature brand of cozy Americana—children hustling off to school, pickup trucks parked under candy-colored skies, the stars and stripes waving dutifully on a tidy green lawn—and slapped their own messaging on it. Did anyone ask? No. Was the meaning irreversibly twisted? Well, that depends on whom you ask, but the Kinkade Family Foundation’s stance was pretty clear: “The use of his artwork was unauthorized, and we have requested that DHS remove the post.” More than that, they condemned both the divisive slogan and the broader policy it propped up, stating, “this is antithetical to our mission.” Strong words from a company built on gentle light.

Things didn’t stop at visual art. Music, that other universal language, got pulled into the fray. Olivia Rodrigo, barely weeks past her first Grammy sweep, watched as her pointed anthem “all american bitch” was drafted as the backing track for a White House video urging undocumented migrants to self-deport. Her reply—equal parts fury and exasperation—landed with the distinct finality of a slammed door: “Don’t ever use my songs to promote your racist, hateful propaganda.” Of course, the government’s answer, true to form, managed to miss the entire point, urging Rodrigo to “thank them for their service.” In translation, that's somewhere between a shrug and a veiled threat.

No surprise, really, then, when Sabrina Carpenter felt obliged to post her own disapproval after “Juno”—a carefree pop track—was underscoring footage of immigration raids in Chicago. Her response came out unequivocal and sharp: “This video is evil and disgusting. Do not ever involve me or my music to benefit your inhumane agenda.” If there’s one upside, it’s artists finding their voices twice—once in the studio, again on the digital battlefield.

These cases are more than a series of copyright skirmishes; they raise a question that refuses to loosen its grip on the creative world. In a year like 2025, where reposts and re-edits travel at the speed of a click, who truly controls the meaning of art—the creator or whoever happens to screenshot it first? And when does nostalgia become a Trojan horse for ideology?

Take a step back and consider the contradictions: agencies, draped in the authority of government, choosing to borrow—clumsily, forcefully—the warmth and goodwill that art naturally generates, only to steamroll the very spirit that made these works beloved in the first place. Meanwhile, artists and estates are forced into the awkward position of defending their work against misuse that seems both cynical and curiously tone-deaf.

Art, by nature, isn’t decoration; it’s memory, resistance, sometimes even a dare. A painting or a song can become a flag, whether it wants to be or not. That’s what’s at stake here. In the wrong hands, even the gentlest beach can be drafted into service as a billboard for someone else’s battle.

It’s difficult, maybe even impossible, to restore the original meaning once it’s been hijacked by power. Still, every new uproar brings its own echo of warning—about the responsibilities that come with creative ownership, and the all-too-easy temptation of repurposing what isn’t yours. Perhaps the real takeaway for 2025 is a simple one: before sharing or manipulating a work, ask—whose summer day are we trespassing on? Whose memory, quietly waiting at the water’s edge, might we be erasing with a slogan typed in haste?

A stretch of quiet coastline, windswept by salty breezes and flanked by gently bowing palm trees—there's a kind of built-in nostalgia to such a scene. Imagine a vintage sedan, its paint faded from too many summers, waiting at the water’s edge. Nobody around. Maybe the car’s owner wandered off down the sand, or maybe nobody was ever there at all. This is classic Hiroshi Nagai territory, where longing hangs in the air like humidity, and the world feels paused between yesterday and some sunlit tomorrow that never quite existed.For those who let city pop records set the mood, Nagai’s art cues an instant daydream: pastel beaches scored by the gentle splash of a ride cymbal, touched with the wistfulness of a 1950s America as remembered by someone who never actually lived it. The color palette alone whispers of old Kodachrome photos—warm, a little bit faded, nothing to spoil the quiet.Not long ago, though, this peaceful vision found itself torn from its roots. An unlikely villain: the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. With all the certainty of a government memo—and zero artistic nuance—they stamped a loaded caption across the tranquil beach: “America after 100 million deportations.” Then, hammering their point home, the kind of tagline that would probably send any art lover hunting for antacids: “The peace of a nation no longer besieged by the third world.” If subtlety were measured on a scale, this one snapped the needle right off.Nagai, now 78 and nearly mythical among fans of contemplative illustration, spotted the post as most artists do these days: through a flurry of mentions, retweets, and that familiar dread of seeing your own brushstrokes weaponized online. His response was almost understated—a public reach for advice, tinged with the disbelief and tiredness that only decades in creative industries can brew: “This image is being used without permission from the US Department of Homeland Security. What should I do about this?” One can picture him standing by his easel, troubled, not so much by outrage as by the emptiness such a misreading produces. To have one’s work so misunderstood must sting in ways that lawyers can’t really mend.What’s particularly painful, here, is that Nagai’s landscapes are as far from exclusionary as a thunderstorm is from a drought. These images are built of spaces—highways, rooftops, quiet beaches—left empty precisely so onlookers can fill them with their own memories, not someone else’s politics. No shouting. No hidden crowds invisible in the wings. It’s all about longing, not division; the silence that says, “There could have been someone here,” not “there shouldn’t be.”Apparently, no lesson was learned from last year’s brush with controversy. The same federal agency had taken Thomas Kinkade’s signature brand of cozy Americana—children hustling off to school, pickup trucks parked under candy-colored skies, the stars and stripes waving dutifully on a tidy green lawn—and slapped their own messaging on it. Did anyone ask? No. Was the meaning irreversibly twisted? Well, that depends on whom you ask, but the Kinkade Family Foundation’s stance was pretty clear: “The use of his artwork was unauthorized, and we have requested that DHS remove the post.” More than that, they condemned both the divisive slogan and the broader policy it propped up, stating, “this is antithetical to our mission.” Strong words from a company built on gentle light.Things didn’t stop at visual art. Music, that other universal language, got pulled into the fray. Olivia Rodrigo, barely weeks past her first Grammy sweep, watched as her pointed anthem “all american bitch” was drafted as the backing track for a White House video urging undocumented migrants to self-deport. Her reply—equal parts fury and exasperation—landed with the distinct finality of a slammed door: “Don’t ever use my songs to promote your racist, hateful propaganda.” Of course, the government’s answer, true to form, managed to miss the entire point, urging Rodrigo to “thank them for their service.” In translation, that's somewhere between a shrug and a veiled threat.No surprise, really, then, when Sabrina Carpenter felt obliged to post her own disapproval after “Juno”—a carefree pop track—was underscoring footage of immigration raids in Chicago. Her response came out unequivocal and sharp: “This video is evil and disgusting. Do not ever involve me or my music to benefit your inhumane agenda.” If there’s one upside, it’s artists finding their voices twice—once in the studio, again on the digital battlefield.These cases are more than a series of copyright skirmishes; they raise a question that refuses to loosen its grip on the creative world. In a year like 2025, where reposts and re-edits travel at the speed of a click, who truly controls the meaning of art—the creator or whoever happens to screenshot it first? And when does nostalgia become a Trojan horse for ideology?Take a step back and consider the contradictions: agencies, draped in the authority of government, choosing to borrow—clumsily, forcefully—the warmth and goodwill that art naturally generates, only to steamroll the very spirit that made these works beloved in the first place. Meanwhile, artists and estates are forced into the awkward position of defending their work against misuse that seems both cynical and curiously tone-deaf.Art, by nature, isn’t decoration; it’s memory, resistance, sometimes even a dare. A painting or a song can become a flag, whether it wants to be or not. That’s what’s at stake here. In the wrong hands, even the gentlest beach can be drafted into service as a billboard for someone else’s battle.It’s difficult, maybe even impossible, to restore the original meaning once it’s been hijacked by power. Still, every new uproar brings its own echo of warning—about the responsibilities that come with creative ownership, and the all-too-easy temptation of repurposing what isn’t yours. Perhaps the real takeaway for 2025 is a simple one: before sharing or manipulating a work, ask—whose summer day are we trespassing on? Whose memory, quietly waiting at the water’s edge, might we be erasing with a slogan typed in haste?