Preface: Iberian Queens and Court Portraiture in the Seventeenth Century

Abstract

I n 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-s, 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 sixtythree-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.