Kindred spirits:Queen Victoria by photographer Alexander Bassano,1882,and Vincent Namatjira’s portrait of Gina Rinehart.Credit:Bassano,Namatjira
Women like us are more interested in hegemony than haircuts,defined more by power than posing. We work hard,we shoulder immense duties,we bellow in the ears of prime ministers. We’re not just useless clothes horses that hang off the arms of poseurs and aristocrats. What is it that Cher said when her mother told her to marry a rich man? “Mom,Iam a rich man.”
Ha,well might we know,Gina! Darling Albert had barely a pfennig to rub together when we got engaged,cartoonists lampooned him as an impoverished prince,but what did I care? He was the finest of men and,might I add,“excessively handsome”. I made the entire British army grow a “delicate” moustache,just like his,and they were better for it. I was,mostly,too busy gazing at him to worry about my own reflection.
Which is why I am writing to you. I have some advice. Look,I am the first to say I look just dreadful in portraits. All of them. God knows I tried. My half-sister Feodora used to try to reassure me that I looked all right,but I do have eyes in my head. I remember how comforting it was when my prime minister told me on the cusp of my wedding – after I expressed nerves about how I might look – that I had been described as having a “large searching eye” and “an open anxious nostril”. Lord Melbourne always knew just what to say. He cried as he spoke,saying there “can’t be a finer physiognomy”!
I confess,Melbourne did counsel me to walk more,and only eat when I was hungry,but I told him that would mean I’d spend the entire day eating. He also advised me to give up drinking beer,which was futile. I love beer.
The statue of Queen Victoria is unveiled outside the Queen Victoria Building in Sydney in 1987.Credit:Colin Townsend
Oh,I was slender at times,especially after I stopped being eternally,infernally pregnant,but plumpness runs back centuries in my family tree. I am under five feet tall. I long stopped worrying about what I privately called “my ugly old face”.
I mean,have a look at some of the hundreds of my statues,dotted about the place. They didn’t capture me looking happy and winsome,did they? Nor do they hearken back to the days I was fit and limber,horse-riding all day then dancing all night. No,I stand stern and stout,on plinths all around the world,on dusty mounds,street corners,overlooking palaces and parks,like I’m perennially displeased with what I see. Which,in truth,I often am.