One person can be many things to different people. To some, she was a symbol of an ancient form of government that has no place in modern society. To others, she was imperialism (and all its evils) personified.
But for my mom, she was simply another woman whose fame made her private pains public, who tried to bear it with dignity.
One of my clearest memories of my mother was her reaction upon seeing the newly widowed Queen Elizabeth II at her late husband's funeral. "Look at her, alone yet so brave," Mama said, herself still fresh from mourning Papa. I remember thinking how powerful that photo was: a woman alone in her pain, yet soldiering on.
Pictures and portraits are remarkable not only for the emotions they bring out from the viewer, but also for what they show about the subject.
Today I found out that the late queen had sat for a portrait by the (in)famous artist, Lucian Freud.
Author Stephen Millar, in his book LUST, LIES AND MONARCHY, wrote:
"Lucian Freud’s portrait of Queen Elizabeth II was the most controversial royal painting of recent times... His portraits were unflinchingly brutal in their depiction of their subjects–often ordinary people he met in bars who were persuaded to sit for him over endless sessions. By the time the Queen posed for him, Freud’s paintings were selling for tens of millions of dollars, and he had no need to risk his reputation on such a commission.
However, Freud waived his fee, and agreed to the restrictions that came with painting a monarch ... One reason Freud agreed to paint the Queen was because he was repaying a favour his family owed the royal family. Years before, his famous relative Sigmund Freud had used his influence with the King’s younger brother to help Lucian’s family escape Nazi Germany and live in England. The resulting portrait was poorly received by most of the media and the public, but it remains a testament to Elizabeth’s willingness to take a risk and Freud’s uncompromising approach to art."
I was reminded of some lines from director Floy Quintos' immortal play, FLUID, which also had a Freud-like artist:
"They are the walking and talking vessels of that one singular emotion that's defeated them all their lives... The anxiety. The insecurity. The desire to be accepted. To be loved or adored."
Elizabeth knew what Lucian Freud's paintings were like: more bent on truth than flattery. And yet she sat for a portrait by him. This single instance shows much of her character, especially when one remembers Winston Churchill, who destroyed his portrait by Graham Sutherland because he thought it was too "unflattering."
To me, this one anecdote shows her brand of quiet courage.
She didn't choose to be a symbol of imperialism and all its evils. In a sense, she was born to a trade. To duty. And she tried to do it all her days.
Elizabeth was flawed, like the rest of us. But she offers hope for us, too. That despite all our sins and failings, we can someday be inspirations to others, for being brave enough, strong enough for the drudgery of daily life.
In an era when "silent quitting" is celebrated and people resign after only one day/week/month, this one day offers a moment for us to reflect on what this lady's life can teach us about commitment to a cause greater than one's self. And how a leader's clean conscience fears nothing, not even a critical eye.
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