King Charles III’s new portrait reveals a vulnerability the late Queen was rarely allowed

In 1955, a portrait commissioned by the Fishmongers’ Company of Queen Elizabeth II dressed in a sumptuous navy mantle, towering above a wintry landscape, was unveiled. There had been earlier formal portraits of the new queen – such as a saccharine likeness executed in 1952 by the American-born Douglas Granville Chandor, now in the Government Art Collection, likely the first following the accession. In a forgettable effort by Margaret Lindsay Williams from 1953, the queen, grinning and approachable, displays as much majesty as a jaunty, gossipy Land Girl.

But the Fishmongers’ full-length, painted by the Italian Pietro Annigoni, is, for all its potentially off-putting remoteness, routinely – and rightly – cited as one of the great royal portraits of the 20th century.

Almost 70 years later, another City of London livery company, the Drapers’, presents its own portrait of a recently crowned British monarch, King Charles III, and the contrast couldn’t be greater. The icy tones and glittering sangfroid of Annigoni’s picture have disappeared; instead, Jonathan Yeo summons a pulsating carnival of pink and red, in which the King’s hands appear peculiarly swarthy. Indeed, Yeo’s portrait feels, in comparison, almost tropical – an effect enhanced by the presence of a monarch butterfly about to alight on an epaulette. Is this painting somehow intended to appeal to the King’s Commonwealth subjects? It reminds me of recent artworks “decolonising” images of royalty by, say, Yinka Shonibare and Hew Locke.

Yeo often sets his sitter’s head within a swirl of painterly marks, and does so again here; the one part of the King that doesn’t appear oddly camouflaged is his oversized face – although his ears, and wispy hair, both dissolve within the hot-pink candyfloss melee.

Is the likeness convincing? To me, the King resembles his father, Prince Philip (whose more elongated face Yeo replicates), and (thanks to those deep-set eyes) George W Bush – both of whom the artist has depicted (collaging together images, for an unauthorised portrait of the latter, cut from pornographic magazines). (Yeo has also painted Queen Camilla.)

Moreover, Yeo’s faceted approach to rendering skin emphasises the King’s furrows and wrinkles; he looks his age, and even slightly worried, as if he’s just got dressed in his colonel’s uniform following a long, dark night of the soul. This apprehensive mien jars with the jaunty palette, and reminds us of the advantage that, all those decades ago, Annigoni could exploit: Elizabeth’s youthful beauty.

Painting a monarch ranks among the toughest of artistic gigs; Yeo’s portrait will be remembered for its fluorescence, even if, beneath that bright, striking surface, the image it projects is more psychologically nuanced: of a King who, while kindly, and despite his military garb, isn’t entirely sure of himself. A high collar clamps his throat like a shackle.

And is that a ceremonial sword he’s holding – or a stick? A millennium ago, Edward the Confessor ruled over us. Now, seemingly, it’s the turn of Charles the Unsteady.

Following the unveiling of the portrait at Buckingham Palace, the portrait will travel to the Philip Mould Gallery, London, where it will be on display for one month, from May 16 until June 14, Mondays to Fridays, from 9.30am-5.30pm

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