She was probably the most recorded human being in the history of our species. Think about that for a second. From the moment she was born in 1926 until her passing in 2022, Queen Elizabeth II sat for over a thousand official sittings. Some were masterpieces. Others? Honestly, they were kind of a mess. But portraits of Queen Elizabeth II aren't just about paint on a canvas or silver halide on paper; they’re a masterclass in how a single woman used art to survive a century of radical change.
She understood the power of the gaze better than any influencer today. When you look at her early photos, she looks like a fairytale. By the end, she looked like everyone's grandmother, yet somehow remained untouchable. It’s a weird paradox.
The Early Years and the Cecil Beaton Magic
If we’re being real, Cecil Beaton basically invented the modern "royal" aesthetic. Before him, royal photography was stiff. Boring. Beaton brought the drama. In 1939, he photographed the young Princess Elizabeth in the gardens of Buckingham Palace, draped in sequins and tulle. It was pure escapism. Britain was on the brink of World War II, and people needed to believe in a romantic, indestructible monarchy.
Beaton once remarked in his diaries—which are a goldmine of sass, by the way—that the Queen was "easy to photograph" but "a person who is fundamentally not interested in clothes." That’s a huge insight. She saw these sittings as a job. A duty.
His Coronation portrait from 1953 is the one everyone knows. It looks effortless, right? It wasn't. They had to use massive studio lights in Westminster Abbey because the natural light was terrible that day. The Queen is weighed down by the Imperial State Crown and the Sceptre, looking both fragile and incredibly powerful. It’s that tension that makes it work.
When Art Got Weird: Lucian Freud and the Controversy
Not every portrait was a PR win. In 2001, the "bad boy" of British art, Lucian Freud, finally got his shot. He’d been asking for years. Most artists were intimidated by the Queen, but Freud didn't care about royal protocol. He painted what he saw.
What he saw was a woman in her 70s with a heavy jaw and a somewhat weary expression.
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The public reaction was visceral. Some critics called it a "travesty." One tabloid editor even suggested Freud should be thrown in the Tower of London for making the Queen look like one of her corgis. But here’s the thing: Elizabeth actually liked it. Or at least, she respected it. She reportedly told Freud, "It’s been very fascinating watching you mix your colors." She sat for him over 19 months. Think about the patience that requires. It’s arguably the most honest of all portraits of Queen Elizabeth II because it strips away the "fairytale" and shows the weight of the crown.
Pietro Annigoni and the Romantic Revival
If Freud was the "ugly" truth, Pietro Annigoni was the beautiful lie—or at least the beautiful reality. In 1954, he painted her for the Worshipful Company of Fishmongers. It sounds like a boring commission, but it resulted in one of the most beloved images of her reign.
She’s standing alone.
The background is a simple, moody landscape.
She looks like a leader out of a Renaissance painting.
Annigoni captured her vulnerability. He said he wanted to show her as a "lonely figure" because, in his eyes, being a monarch is fundamentally an isolating experience. People loved it because it didn't feel like a government document. It felt like a human being.
The Digital Age and Chris Levine’s "Equanimity"
Fast forward to 2004. The world is digital. Holographic, even. Chris Levine was commissioned to create a 3D portrait, but the most famous shot from that session happened when the Queen was actually resting.
It’s called "Lightness of Being." Her eyes are closed.
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It’s a hauntingly beautiful image. For a woman who was constantly "on" for 70 years, seeing her with her eyes shut feels like an intrusion of privacy in the best way possible. It’s meditative. Levine used a lenticular camera that moved around her on a rail, taking 200 shots in a few seconds. The Queen just sat there, remarkably still, letting the technology do its thing. It shows how she wasn't afraid to embrace the new, even when she was nearly 80.
Why Some Portraits Failed
Let’s be honest: some artists tried too hard. In 1997, Justin Mortimer painted a portrait where the Queen’s head appears to be floating away from her body. It was meant to symbolize the "disconnection" of the monarchy in a modern world. The public hated it.
Then there was the 1992 portrait by Richard Stone. It’s very traditional, very "royal," but critics felt it was too safe. It lacked soul. When you compare it to the raw grit of a Freud or the ethereal glow of a Beaton, you realize that the best portraits of Queen Elizabeth II are the ones that take a risk. They have to capture more than just her face; they have to capture the institution she represented.
Annie Leibovitz and the American Perspective
In 2007, Annie Leibovitz became the first American to take an official portrait of the Queen. It started with a bit of a "scandal." A BBC trailer made it look like the Queen stormed out of the session because Leibovitz asked her to remove her crown.
"I'm not changing anything," the Queen famously snapped. "I've had enough of dressing like this, thank you very much."
She didn't actually storm out, but the tension was real. The resulting photos, though, are stunning. They have a dark, cinematic quality, reminiscent of 18th-century oil paintings but shot with a high-end digital sensor. Leibovitz captured the Queen in the White Drawing Room, looking out at the gardens of Buckingham Palace, draped in a heavy cloak. It felt heavy. It felt historic.
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The Final Portrait
The final official portrait released before her funeral was taken by Ranald Mackechnie. It’s a great photo. She’s smiling. She’s wearing her favorite three-strand pearl necklace. Her hair is perfect. But what’s interesting is how it differs from the early years. There’s no armor. No massive scepter. Just a woman who had lived through it all and seemed quite content with how it turned out.
How to Appreciate These Works Today
If you really want to understand the iconography of the 20th century, you have to look at these images chronologically. You see the transition from:
- Imperial Symbol: The early Beaton and Annigoni era.
- Working Matriarch: The mid-reign photos where she’s often at a desk or with horses.
- National Treasure: The later years where artists like David Hockney (who did a stained glass window, not a painting) and Levine played with her image.
The National Portrait Gallery in London holds the best collection. It’s worth a visit just to see the scale of some of these canvases. The Freud, for instance, is tiny—barely larger than a postcard. The Annigoni is massive. The contrast tells you everything about how different artists perceived her power.
Practical Steps for Art Lovers and Collectors
If you're looking to dive deeper into this world, don't just look at the paintings. The stamps and coins are where the "real" portraits live for most people.
- Study the Machin Head: This is the silhouette on British stamps designed by Arnold Machin in 1967. It’s been reproduced over 200 billion times. It is the most reproduced portrait in history.
- Check out the Royal Collection Trust: They have an online database where you can zoom in on the brushwork of portraits you’ll never see in person.
- Look for Limited Edition Prints: Photography by David Montgomery or Terry O'Neill often comes up at auction. While an original oil painting is out of reach for most of us, a signed silver gelatin print is a tangible piece of this history.
- Visit Windsor Castle: Many of the "private" portraits—the ones she actually liked and kept in her personal spaces—are housed there or at Sandringham.
The legacy of portraits of Queen Elizabeth II isn't just about her. It's about us. It’s about how we watched her grow old while the world changed around her. Every brushstroke and shutter click recorded a piece of a vanishing world. We won't see a subject like her again.