King Henry and The Donald share a passion for portraiture

When the wives of Henry the Eighth hit the fatal note in the first round of “divorced, beheaded, dead”, the king of England found himself in want of a romantic partner. His closest adviser, Thomas Cromwell, was punting for a certain Anne of Cleves. Her charms and beauty were, according to Cromwell, a sure thing. I can’t remember why he thought she was a promising wife, but given the track record of the potential groom, it may have been a case of pure attrition. I don't know how many parents of eligible princesses were prepared to knowingly sacrifice their daughters on the altar of matrimony to a chap with such a careless approach to the institution. 

Henry was hedging his bets. He wasn't a heartless beast. He wanted another shot at love. His side of the story was, no doubt, just as nuanced as those of the wives who'd fallen foul of his matrimonial bliss. Anyway, like any other poor punter on Tinder, Henry wasn't entirely sure that the pictures of this Anne, or of anyone else he was potentially swiping right on, were actually representative of the person he'd be meeting in the flesh.

He wanted proof. The official portraiture situation in 1539 was on a filter spectrum, a state of affairs we're familiar with today. What does the person whose picture you're looking at online actually look like in the harsh light of “real life”? The portraits of prospective brides were coming in to Hampton Court thick and fast, but the question was how much Photoshopping the portraitists had perpetrated on these young noblewomen? Henry had a plan; he'd send his own trusted portraitist, Hans Holbein Jr, to Cleves — wherever that was (presumably somewhere north of the Rhine) — to give an accurate account of the lady in pictorial format.

After all, Holbein had been unfailingly accurate when he took the king’s likeness. Henry loved his own portrait, which hung in pride of place in his privy chamber. A fellow could take his ablutions and his rest with his inner circle whilst gazing upon a marvellous rendition of himself. Holbein’s portrait, which was copied far and wide so that everyone could have one in their homes and castles, rendered Henry strong as a bull, long in the leg and with the clear complexion and heroically healthy visage of a robust monarch. Henry thought it looked just like him on his very tall days. What could go wrong?

Holbein delivered the portrait and Henry married Anne, his fourth wife. But he was so dismayed by the real life version of the painting that he promptly ghosted her. The divorce was effected within six months and she lived out a quiet retirement as the “Mare of Flanders” behind her back, or as Henry’s “sister” in polite company. Cromwell, however, met his fate. It was terminal. Many say it was because of this unfortunate portrait debacle. 

You can see how the all important question of truth and beauty could trip up the president of the United States. Nobody wants a bad portrait floating around for all time. The poor artist who rendered the president in oils was no Holbein, but The Donald has already explained her problem; she's getting old, so her eyes can’t be working that well any more. She was younger when she made Obama look swell. I mean, what's a president to do as he considers his long term iconography? Let things slide and he'll forever be remembered as a floating blimp with a yellow toupee. Surely he needs to hold out for something more regal? I personally worry for the poor Republican who commissioned the portrait presently hanging in the State House of Michigan that's caused such a stir in the White House. Thomas Cromwell was beheaded on the day Henry married wife number 5 — who, incidentally, went the same way. I can’t even begin to think of the fate of the Democratic governor who persists in keeping the offending portrait up as a visual testament to the president’s greatness.

Frank Rauch writes in The Atlantic that we should not confuse Trump’s preferred style of government with autocracy or oligarchy but rather see it for what it is: the embodiment of Max Weber’s definition of patrimonialism, where the guy in charge is basically lusting after premodern forms of governance, something like the kings of yore. Patrimonialism is when the state is basically an extension of your household — as in Russia, Turkey and North Korea — and you can’t really differentiate between your own interests and those of your nation because you are the nation. Or, as The Donald would have it in another X stream of conscious, this time quoting Napoleon: “He who saves his country does not violate the law.”

Speaking of the diminutive French guy who tried another patrimony on for size, he too was a chap who had a thing or two to say about how he was rendered for posterity in his official portraits. He quite liked to be high on his horse, obviously. Also, always with his slightly problematic hand tucked into his gilet, out of sight and out of mind forever. 

How, you may well ask, are we even involved in this level of artistic critique? I mean, as the world goes to hell in a hand basket and all of that. But then I think, who are we to judge the president’s tweets or X’s, or whatever you call those proclamations these days, when wars are being planned and executed by way of a public messaging system and emojis? Just put a brave face on it, I say. Failing that, there's a filter for everything. Play your Holbein cards right and you might survive in the patrimony, in the spirit of “truthiness”, as he did. Holbein was very good at giving the king what he wanted. Except for that one time.