The release of previously unseen photographs from Chris Levine’s sittings with Queen Elizabeth II has reopened interest in one of the most distinctive portrait projects of the early 21st century. Commissioned as part of a commemorative program and produced at Buckingham Palace in 2003, the work grew beyond a single official picture into a body of images and experiments that challenged how a sovereign is visually represented. These newly published frames emphasize a quiet, human side of the monarch, offering nuance to a face that has been reproduced innumerable times across banknotes, galleries, and popular media.
What began as a formal commission evolved into something more experimental: a pursuit of light, stillness, and depth that culminated in both a holographic output and images now regarded as iconic. The project produced the holographic portrait known as Equanimity and the photographic study called Lightness of Being, the latter showing the queen with her eyes closed in a pose that resonated with the public imagination. These works have circulated in museums and exhibitions and were later found to carry layers of meaning that extend beyond ceremonial portraiture.
How the sessions originated and their technical ambition
The portrait commission had a clear purpose: to mark a long-standing constitutional relationship and to capture a sovereign for an institutional commemoration. Working inside the palace, Levine used a combination of conventional photography and advanced capture techniques to create what has been described as the first official holographic portrait of the monarch. The process involved numerous exposures and careful lighting arrangements so that a three-dimensional quality could be assembled from many frames. That fusion of art and technology—anchored by the 3D laser scan and layered shots—allowed the artist to move beyond traditional, static representations toward images that feel luminous and meditative.
Moments behind the lens: personality, protocol, and a famous quip
The sessions were not only technical experiments; they were interactions shaped by trust and intimacy. Levine worked closely with the queen’s personal dresser and confidante to select items such as the coronation diadem, insisting it was essential for the portrait’s visual language. A light-hearted moment, captured on a small handheld camera, became emblematic: when an assistant likened one pose to a passport photograph, the queen responded with dry wit—”One doesn’t need a passport photo“—a line that references the constitutional passport exemption enjoyed by the sovereign. That brief exchange, both conversational and revealing, is part of the newly released material that humanizes the official setting.
The closed-eyes image and its resonance
One of the most discussed results from those days is the portrait that presents the queen with her eyes gently closed. Levine has described instructing moments of rest between takes—asking her to breathe and find stillness—which transformed the image into something that reads as contemplative rather than merely posed. The artist has likened the effect to a doorway into the spiritual: the closed eyelids became a vehicle to suggest inner life and serenity. This approach intersected with a personal exchange in which the queen described her own form of reflection: “My meditation is my gardening at Balmoral,” a remark that underscores the ordinary, nonperformative routines that sustained her.
Pop culture, charity, and reinterpretation
As these images moved into the public sphere, they inspired editions and reinterpretations that landed in both galleries and popular culture. Screen prints enriched with crystals and diamond dust have raised significant funds for charity and amplified the portrait into an object of contemporary art. While some critics and viewers read the photographs as almost transcendent, Levine and others caution against elevating the subject to the level of myth. The portraits invite admiration, but they also return us to a central fact: the queen was a human being with a long life of duty, private rituals, and a wry sense of humor.
Artist reflections and the work’s continuing legacy
Levine has spoken about the sessions as moments that changed how he perceived the institution and the woman who embodied it. He recalls moving from initial intimidation to an affectionate, collaborative rapport, and he described surreal instants when the palace, machinery, and the act of making a portrait felt otherworldly. He also noted a continuity: the discipline and public service he witnessed in Elizabeth II left him predisposed to view royal figures as hardworking and committed, remarks he later extended to members of the next generation. The unpublished images now released in the context of the monarch’s centenary provide fresh material for historians, curators, and the public to reconsider the visual story of a reign that shaped modern perceptions of monarchy.
Together, the technical boldness of the sessions and the candid human moments they captured combine into a body of work that continues to provoke thought about representation, memory, and the intersection of art and public life. As these photographs are shown again, they invite viewers not only to admire composition and light but to reflect on the lived reality behind a globally familiar visage.
