Tie me canvasses down, Liz ... Rolf Harris unveils his portrait of Elizabeth II at the Queen's gallery. Photograph: Michael Stephens/PA
There was a time when for an artist to have a Royal commission really meant something in terms of being at the cutting edge of artistic progress. Think of Holbein and Henry VIII, Hilliard and Elizabeth I, Reynolds and George IV. Think of Landseer's unusual study of Victoria, and even of the ubiquitous and endlessly versatile Unknown's staunch yet nervous depiction of Richard III. Think, even, of Lucian Freud's audacious 2001 portrait of the English throne's current incumbent.
And now think of dear old Rolf, whose portrait of a turquoise-upholstered monarch was unveiled today, writes Guy Dammann.
You must be tired after all that thinking, so I'll do some for you. Yes it's true that any one of the above painters (except Unknown, of course) would look very different to our eyes if their principal careers had been as cuddly presenters of children's television programmes. (I particularly like the thought of an elderly Joshua R expressing sympathy over an arthritic tortoise). But then that's the point. All of the above (except, again, our friend Mr Unknown) had, as their principal careers, the job of painting. Why? Because they were good. Very good.
And what does it mean to be very good? Well that's not an easy question to answer, of course. But most of us would agree that the notion of the artistic good amounts to something more than a pictorial facility of sufficient competence to allow for a whistle-while-you-work ethos, and the confidence necessary to ask the question, 'Can you tell what it is yet?' without fear of being humiliated by no-one ever being able to tell.
So what does it mean that our Monarch's brand-new 80th birthday portrait has been painted by the doyen of TV-daubers? To my mind, the choice of Mr Harris is a good deal less odd than the previous commission from Lucian Freud. I'm not saying that the new portrait is a better work of art than Freud's 2001 study - I'm absolutely not saying that - but I am saying that the Rolf request was a good deal more appropriate.
After a deal of soul-searching, the royal family, and the Queen in particular, now seems to have recognised that its survival depends on assuming a more media- or mediocre-friendly image. For this reason, it seems entirely appropriate that she should have chosen for her official representation an artist whose image is so far from being exclusive that he probably thinks Anabel's is a tearoom in Harrogate and the Groucho club a hangout for dyslexic cowboys.
The portrait itself - from what I can tell from the photographs - is a model of measured competence. The soft focus, unchallenging, anonymous setting, the smudged-in highlights - which have concealed the dermatological blemishes of our royal family for at least a hundred years - and comfortable, friendly smile, these are all precisely what the spin-doctor would have ordered.
When we look at the royal portraits of the past, we don't just look for the artistic and aesthetic qualities, we also, and increasingly, look for the stories they tell. We examine them to see what unrevealed depths of character they disclose, what secrets of the realm, what fantasies of the royal bedchamber. Well how could you ask for a portrait richer in disclosure than this? Everything you need to know about our current Queen's approach to her throne, her subjects, her heirs, can be filtered through this most telling of royal commissions.
Surely, you vultures will agree with me. Won't you?
