In the neighbourhood school where I learned the three Rs, portraits of King Baudouin and Queen Fabiola hung in every classroom. I still remember what they looked like. The King wore a uniform and observed us attentively, but not unkindly, through his spectacles. The Queen had a white fur shawl draped over her shoulders and wore a tiara. In our typical single-sex school of the mid-1960s, she was the only woman in the classroom. The blurred backgrounds of the photos heightened the impression that these people lived in another world. At the same time, however, they were there with us. Every portrait generates a presence, the carefully contrived royal portraits most of all.
For centuries, royal portraits have functioned as markers of the expanding involvement of the state in society. Toward the end of the Middle Ages the emergence of composite monarchies increased the demand for representations of the rulers, not least in the more peripherical parts of their domains. Portrait galleries retraced the line of succession to the present generation. At court, the rulers and their effigies took centre stage in the ritual legitimation of monarchical power. In the administration, councils deliberated under the watchful eye of their likenesses. The use of the plural is deliberate. If anything, female rulers made at least as much use of such imagery as men, if not more. In foreign relations, portraits belonged to the repertoire of diplomatic gifts and often played an important role in marriage negotiations. We don’t know much about how the increasing demand for royal portraits was met. Most studies concentrate on the prototypes created by the leading portraitists of the day or — if they have been lost — on high quality copies of their works. Yet the reserves of museums make it clear that there was a market for copies of copies, even the blatantly mediocre ones. Less costly still were the engravings that brought the royal image within reach of city dwellers.
The icons of monarchy that we instantly recognize were never made by paparazzi who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. They were without exception meticulously curated. Henry VIII’s bold stare and menacingly spread legs eternalised by Holbein. The statuesque stillness of the Habsburgs posing for Velázquez. The studied Bourbon nonchalance of Louis XIV’s hand on the hip frozen in time by Rigaud. Van Meytens’ tables overflowing with Maria Theresa’s crowns. Napoleon’s right hand tucked in his waistcoat captured by David. The contrast between the young Elizabeth II and the age-old regalia in Beaton’s coronation photograph. The postures, the garments, the attributes, the scenery, nothing was ever left to coincidence. The goal was evoking majesty. In order to attain it, royal portraits diverged to a lesser or greater degree from reality. ‘Warts and all’ was always the exception, if not just a myth. In Hyacinthe Rigaud’s iconic Louis XIV in his Coronation Robes the sixty-three-year-old king is dressed the way he was when he was crowned as an eleven-year-old. The heavy blue mantle, embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and doubled with ermine had only rarely left the wardrobe since. Surely its size must have needed upgrades over the years.
The striking similarities with the self-fashioning on today’s Instagram are obvious. Although the process definitely unfolded at a slower pace, royal portraiture also chronicled the lifecycle of the sitter. The progression from the portraits of princesses made in childhood, when coming onto the marriage market, at the time of succession, all through to widowhood can be retraced with relative ease. Other significant markers are harder to interpret. Dresses told a story that could go beyond the fickleness of fashion. The fabric that was used or the shape of a ruff could be laden with significance. So could the wearing of national costume. Sometimes the sitter was almost entirely dressed in black, except for the ruff and cuffs. In the case of a woman, the jewellery was often reduced to pearls and black precious stones. Such attire conformed to the dress code when the court was in mourning, an observance that lasted for months or — when deaths came in close succession — for a year or more. It is tempting to speculate that portraits in mourning attire were made or presented during periods of court mourning. Similarly, in his first portrait type as co-ruler of the Habsburg Netherlands Archduke Albert wore a breastplate, had the red Habsburg sash bound round his left arm and held a baton of command. During the Twelve Years’ Truce these attributes disappeared. It would therefore seem that the posturing as a prince at war had given way to depictions of a prince at peace. If that interpretation holds true, royal portraits might actually have chronicled political developments more closely than we tend to think.
Accustomed as we have become to celebrate an artist’s creativity, we sometimes fail to take full account of how much royal portraiture was steeped in — if not governed by — tradition. To a degree it drew on court etiquette. Ambassadors from other powers were often surprised by how unnerving an audience with a Habsburg was. The ruler or consort would stand almost motionless under a canopy and next to a table. His or her face rarely betrayed any emotion. The ambassador was expected to expound his business and could count on an attentive listener. The audience was then concluded by a few noncommittal phrases. The definite response would come in writing after due consultation with ministers. The royal portraits by Alonso Sánchez Coello, Juan Pantoja de la Cruz, Frans Pourbus the Younger, Peter Paul Rubens, Justus Sustermans and Diego Velázquez simply breathe in this atmosphere and replicate the austere furnishings in which the meetings took place. This begs the question: were the conventions of royal portraits solely dictated by court etiquette or was there something like a set of dynastic conventions? Did, to put it simply, a grave, almost aloof Habsburg pictorial idiom contrast with Bourbon exuberance? Could Antoon Van Dyck have furnished the mould of depicting Stuart kingship? And what about the many other dynasties?
There is a growing awareness that reducing the role of women in a dynasty to bearing an heir and a spare is a gross caricature. We now know that royal consorts — not to mention queens in their own right — were able to exert considerable influence. Access was of critical importance in any court. Provided the monarch and his consort had a working relationship, she could advise him and bypass all ministers in the process. Particularly in the Catholic courts of the seventeenth century, a consort earning a reputation of piety through public acts of devotion could considerably expand the charisma that was already attached to her station. If the monarch died leaving a minor as heir, his widow would normally assume the regency. Even in the role of queen-mother — or in the case of Philip III of Spain empress-grandmother — could the opinion of such royal women count in matters pertaining to the dynasty or the monarchy. These women were well aware of their influence and curated their portraits accordingly. Dissecting how they did so at the Spanish Court is what brings the contributions in this volume together.
Additional information
Notes on contributors
Luc Duerloo
Luc Duerloo is professor in ordinary at the Department of History of the University of Antwerp, where he teaches early modern political history. His research focuses on the court of the Archdukes Albert and Isabella, their international policies and artistic patronage. He has also published on the royal hunt, the Belgian nobility and the history of heraldry.