In an age where kings would make marriage decisions based on the beauty of a portrait, artists had real political power
The most infamous royal art commission in British history is Hans Holbein's portrait of Anne of Cleves. In 1539 king Henry VIII, in his late 40s and already married three times, was considering a proposal to this lucky, lucky princess. The marriage had political attractions, but Henry had to know the princess was beautiful. Verbal reports were glowing – but Henry needed something more, so he sent Holbein, the King's Painter, on a mission to paint Anne from life.
The story goes like this: Holbein painted a beautiful picture of Anne of Cleves, and his art made her seem beautiful in herself. Evenly balanced, almost heraldically flat, laden with jewelled colour, the picture gave her features a harmony that Henry fell in love with. The marriage was made, the princess came to England – and the fat, sick, ageing king rejected his bride as not good-looking enough for him.
This is the anecdote that has come down through the ages, retold by biographers and art historians alike. But what about the notorious portrait itself? To see it you have to go to the Louvre, where it hangs not among British, but German paintings, near a Venus by Lucas Cranach, court painter of Saxony, who dodged the Anne of Cleves commission due to illness.
Holbein's German princess is portrayed in subtle, regal colours: rich red velvet, honey gold, a green background. Yet you cannot really say he flatters Anne of Cleves – rather, by stressing her clothes and jewels, he makes it explicit that he is showing someone at their best. Her face is nice but her eyes are dull – this is not Holbein responding to Renaissance ideas of beauty but Holbein doing his best to balance honesty and decorum. To see this, you just have to compare Anne of Cleves with his portrait – also commissioned by Henry for the same purpose – of another potential bride, Christina of Denmark. This painting of the one who got away and avoided marriage with Henry VIII is much more beguiling. It is in the National Gallery. Christina looks out of mourning robes with a Mona Lisa smile.
Obviously, to compare potential Tudor brides in this way is to speak an archaic and pernicious language of beauty. But this was the Renaissance: it invented the myth of beauty. The fascinating thing about Henry VIII and his bridal portraits is that classical ideals, revived in Renaissance Italy and taken to new heights in the art of Leonardo and Raphael, become a political issue. International diplomacy mingles with the visual language of the most modern art of the day. At moments like this we see how much higher the status of artists was in the Renaissance than it is today – no royal has ever asked Lucian Freud for this kind of help.
The historian David Starkey argues there is no real evidence that Holbein's portrait influenced Henry's decision to marry Anne of Cleves. There is no record of his reaction to it (unlike Holbein's Christina of Denmark, which delighted him so much he had musicians play all day, so he could feast on the food of love). Instead, claims Starkey, it was the verbal testimony of influential courtiers that won him over to marry Anne of Cleves rather than Christina.
This would at least help answer the obvious question the traditional tale leaves hanging in the air – how did Holbein get away with it? If his painting seduced the king only for the old monster to be disillusioned, why was Holbein not savagely punished?
When you contemplate the painting, it is hard to believe that Holbein's eye counted for nothing. Without portraying Anne of Cleves as a Renaissance beauty he does picture her as a true princess, modest, stylish, quietly capable. He does not make her look like a Raphael. But he does make her look like a Holbein. And at least this unfortunate royal has that historical victory.