The brushstrokes were swift, almost violent in their confidence, yet they captured a stillness that would outlast empires. When Philip de László painted a monarch, he did not merely record a face; he distilled the very aura of power, the weight of a crown invisible to the naked eye. His portraits were not art—they were declarations of legacy, political weapons dressed in silk and oil paint, destined for the walls of every great house in Europe.
The man who would become the most sought-after portraitist of his age began his journey in the most unassuming of circumstances. Born Fülöp Laub in 1869 in Pest, Hungary, he was the son of a modest tailor, a man whose world revolved around fabric and thread, not canvas and pigment. Nothing in his early environment suggested the glittering future that awaited him, yet the young Fülöp harbored an artistic hunger that could not be denied.
His path to the palaces of Europe was not paved with silver spoons but with relentless apprenticeship. He started as a photographer’s assistant, learning the delicate interplay of light and shadow. He worked as a decorator, a painter of ceramics and majolica, a sign painter—humble trades that taught him the mechanics of visual communication.
Simultaneously, he subjected himself to rigorous academic training at the National Academy of Arts in Budapest, later honing his skills in the artistic capitals of Munich and Paris.
In 1891, in a burst of nationalistic fervor, he and his brother changed their German surname, Laub, to the more Hungarian László. Initially, he focused on grand historical paintings, the kind revered by academies, but his true passion lay elsewhere—in capturing the human soul. His serious career in portraiture began in earnest in 1894 with his first royal commission: a portrait of Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria and his wife.
It was his first foray into the world that would soon become his exclusive domain.
The true breakthrough arrived in 1900. László traveled to Rome to paint Pope Leo XIII. The resulting work was a stunning psychological study: the aging Pope was not depicted merely as a symbol but as a man of profound intellect and quiet contemplation.
The portrait caused a sensation. Exhibited at the Paris International Exhibition, it was awarded the Grand Gold Medal, the highest honor in the art world. Suddenly, the tailor’s son from Budapest was the most celebrated artist in Europe.
That single award opened every door on the continent. Queen Victoria herself saw his work and expressed a desire for him to paint one of her favored generals, Sir George White. In 1900, he took another step that cemented his social standing: he married Lucy Guinness, a member of the prominent Anglo-Irish banking family.
The union brought him personal happiness and unfettered access to the upper echelons of British society. In 1907, the family settled in London, which would become his home and primary studio for the rest of his life.
From his London studio, de László embarked on an unprecedented career, painting the cream of European nobility. He announced his arrival with a solo exhibition at the prestigious Fine Art Society on Bond Street. King Edward VII and Queen Alexandra attended the exhibition in person.
The King, known for his discerning taste and love of luxury, was impressed. They became among his first significant patrons. Soon, László was summoned to Buckingham Palace to paint Princess Victoria, and then the King and Queen themselves.
A commission from the British monarch was the ultimate seal of approval, and the King personally invested him as a Member of the Royal Victorian Order in 1909 for his services.
Everyone was impressed, and everyone wanted their portrait painted. Philip de László received a commission to create a series of portraits of the Greek royal family. The portraits were painted at various times, starting in 1907 and spanning a period of nearly 20 years.
His work not only depicted them but also became a testament to their status, their connections to the great powers, and, of course, their personal characteristics during times of turmoil. It all began with the younger generation; the first were Prince Andrew of Greece and Denmark and his wife, Princess Alice of Battenberg. These works, completed in 1907 and 1913, hold special value because they show us not just members of the royal family, but also the parents of the future Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Philip—husband of Elizabeth II.
In 1907, László portrayed Prince Andrew’s future wife, Princess Alice of Battenberg, who would later become one of the most remarkable and inspiring figures in the royal family. The portrait, painted before her most difficult trials, likely showcases her natural beauty, refinement, and youth. László undoubtedly emphasized her grace and gentle charm, as well as her noble lineage.
The portrait perhaps conveys her calm and strong personality, which would become so important for her later. Princess Alice was known for her kindness, intelligence, and deep spirituality. László’s eye must have captured these qualities, creating an image that not only shows her appearance but also hints at a rich inner world.
László painted Prince Andrew in 1913. By this time, Prince Andrew was already an established officer and member of the royal family, actively involved in the life of Greece. The portrait likely depicts him in military uniform, emphasizing his connection to the army and his governmental service.
In László’s work, Prince Andrew appears not just as a young man but as a representative of a ruling dynasty, aware of his role and responsibility. His gaze reveals a mixture of aristocracy and, perhaps, a certain reflectiveness, characteristic of a man living in an era of change. But one of the most significant portraits was that of King Constantine I of Greece.
Constantine was a complex and controversial figure: he was the commander-in-chief of the Greek army during the Balkan Wars, and later involved in the turbulent events of World War I, which led to his abdication. In his portrait, László managed to convey not only royal dignity but also, perhaps, a glimpse of inner conflict or determination that defines a ruler in an age of upheaval. His gaze in the portrait is penetrating and deep, reflecting the weight of responsibility upon him.
László depicted him in full uniform, highlighting his military achievements and his status as head of state.
László was then invited to Spain to paint the Spanish royal family, including King Alfonso XIII and Queen Victoria Eugenie. These paintings became a stunning record of a dynasty, each canvas imbued with Spanish grandeur. The main figures in this Spanish record were, of course, King Alfonso XIII and his wife, Queen Victoria Eugenie of Battenberg.
Their reign coincided with a difficult period for Spain—a time of internal unrest and the loss of its last colonies. László, as was his custom, did not just paint faces; he captured the spirit of the age and the character of his sitters. King Alfonso XIII was a charismatic but also tragic ruler, the last king to reign over Spain before the establishment of the Second Republic.
László painted several portraits of him, and in each, the King’s authority and dynamism are palpable. He often depicted Alfonso XIII in military uniform, emphasizing his role as commander-in-chief. The King’s eyes in László’s portraits are sharply perceptive, sometimes with a hint of sadness, which perhaps foreshadowed his difficult fate.
László also painted numerous portraits of Queen Victoria Eugenie of Battenberg, or Ena, as she was known to her inner circle. Each one seems to radiate her elegance and refinement. The artist often emphasized her blonde hair and blue eyes, which distinguished her from traditional Spanish beauty.
She appears in the portraits in luxurious gowns adorned with jewels—symbols of royal power and femininity. Yet, László managed to capture the shadows of the Queen’s personal tragedies, including the hemophilia she passed on to her children. In her gaze, one can discern restraint and even sorrow, adding depth and humanity to the images.
In addition to the reigning couple, László also painted other members of the Spanish royal family, including their children, such as Infante Jaime, Duke of Segovia, and Infanta Beatriz.
However, he never forgot his roots. De László also painted the ruler of the empire in which he was born—Emperor Franz Joseph I of Austria-Hungary, in his old age. László painted several portraits, but the first was not commissioned by the royal court.
In 1896, the National Institute of Land Credit decided to commission a portrait of the King of Hungary, possibly as part of the millennium celebrations. Initially, de László planned to depict the Emperor seated, with light falling on his head and hands, but he changed his mind and portrayed him standing full-length in formal attire with orders on his chest. Later, in 1907, Philip de László painted his triumphant portrait of Emperor Franz Joseph I.
This was not just a recognition of his talent but a mark of deep trust from one of Europe’s oldest monarchs. László opened the doors of the Viennese court and became a welcome guest in the highest circles.
Despite the success of the Emperor’s portrait, a name shrouded in myth and profound sorrow still hung over the Austrian court—the name of Elizabeth of Bavaria, the famous Empress Sisi. Her tragic death in 1898 left a deep wound in the heart of Franz Joseph and the entire empire. At that time, feeling a tremendous personal loss and respecting the memory of his late wife, Emperor Franz Joseph approached László with an unusual and deeply personal request.
The actual study portrait, painted about six months after the Empress’s assassination, served as preparation for a full-length portrait, which László painted from photographs taken when she was still in the prime of her beauty. The state portrait in Hungarian dress, which was never traced, was not completed until 1904, but the artist made other drawings for the full-length portrait which were destroyed after his death in 1937. In gratitude for his work on the portrait, Emperor Franz Joseph honored László in 1912.
Now, Fülöp Laub, the tailor’s son, was Philip de László de Lombos, a Hungarian nobleman.
The list of his sitters reads like a who’s who of the pre-war world: Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany, US President Theodore Roosevelt, and countless others. It was said that to be painted by de László was to be truly seen, to have one’s status and character immortalized forever. Work on the grand portrait of German Kaiser Wilhelm II did not begin until August 1909.
De László began the official state portrait of the German Emperor Wilhelm II, King of Prussia, at his summer residence, in the full uniform of the Commander-in-Chief of the Guards, with a black horse and a greyhound. Although László already knew other members of the Kaiser’s family. Between 1899 and 1913, de László painted about twenty portraits of members of the German imperial family.
The year 1908 was a turning point for Wilhelm, as a series of personal and political crises shook his previously unshakeable self-confidence. At the end of November, he suffered a nervous breakdown. Starting in December 1908, when de László finished painting other portraits of the imperial family, Wilhelm agreed to sit for de László for a head study only.
Work on the portrait progressed slowly and with difficulty, all due to Wilhelm’s unstable political situation. By the summer of 1909, when Wilhelm had appointed a new chancellor and clarified his position in the government, he summoned László to his summer residence to continue work on the official portrait. During that period, László was only able to make some sketches and a series of photographs to record the composition in the courtyard, in order to get the best pose for his restless sitter.
For several hours, His Imperial Highness stood under the hot August sun in the semi-dark courtyard of the large palace, holding the horse’s head, while de László worked on his canvas, and a groom kept the flies away from them. De László was allowed to take the imperial uniform to England to refine the details. The portrait of Kaiser Wilhelm II was completed in March 1911.
The Emperor only saw the final work in May 1911, when he opened the artist’s exhibition at the Agnew Gallery on Bond Street during a short visit to London to unveil the Queen Victoria Memorial in front of Buckingham Palace.
What made de László’s portraits so desirable? Why did the most powerful people in the world seek him out? The answer lies in his unique style and mastery.
De László inherited the Grand Manner style from masters like Van Dyck, but he gave it a modern, almost spontaneous sense of life. He could brilliantly render the weight of royal robes while simultaneously revealing the fleeting, intimate truth of a personality. When he painted a king, one felt the weight of the crown.
When he painted a scholar, one felt the depth of thought. This was evident in the entire composition: the poses were light and elegant. But de László’s secret to success lay in his early period of work—in a technique he perfected.
Unlike many of his contemporaries who painted slowly, layer by layer, he favored the “alla prima” method—wet on wet. He painted with poppy oil instead of the more common linseed oil. Poppy oil dries more slowly, allowing him to work with colors directly on the canvas for longer without them turning to mud, which required tremendous speed, confidence, and precision.
He kept his palette as simple as possible—rarely mixing more than two colors to maintain the brightness and purity of the hues. He said he “painted with the brush,” capturing the image and spirit of the sitter with quick, lively strokes.
Philip de László’s artistic career was staggering; his brush wrote history, and his talent opened every door. But even the most gifted are not immune to the whirlwinds of global events. The outbreak of World War I in 1914 was a turning point for all of Europe, and for László personally.
During this period, his studio was never empty. Officers came to him—many just before leaving for the front—as did families wanting a final portrait of a loved one. De László reduced his prices, considering it his national duty.
After the war, these paintings became invaluable relics for many families. But his success and his origins made him a target. Despite his British nationality, his English wife, and his five children, his Hungarian background aroused suspicion during the wartime hysteria.
In 1917, he was arrested under the Defence of the Realm Act, charged with corresponding with the enemy. The basis was his sending letters and remittances to his elderly mother and family in Austria-Hungary—an act of filial piety that was branded as treason.
László was detained without formal charges, first at a police station, then at Brixton, and then at London’s Holloway Prison. He spent several months in custody, which was a devastating blow to his psyche and health. His family fought for him, and influential friends from high society and politicians tried to secure his release.
In December 1917, László was released for health reasons, but his case remained under review. He was not fully exonerated from all charges until February 1919. A special committee concluded that there was “not the slightest reason to believe that László ever acted as a spy or betrayed his country.”
Restoring the artist’s reputation was a long and painful process. For a time after the war, it was difficult for him to return to full-time work. The ordeal severely damaged his health, and he felt the injustice of the accusations keenly.
Yet, his talent and undeniable skill ultimately prevailed. Gradually, with the support of his old patrons and new clients who valued his art above political prejudice, László returned to work. He continued to paint portraits of Europe’s royalty, aristocrats, and prominent figures, including members of the British royal family.
The demand for his brush returned, and his name was cleared of the stigma of suspicion.
One of the most striking proofs of his return to the circle of trusted artists of the British royal family is a portrait painted in 1925. At that time, a young woman, destined to become one of the most beloved and iconic figures in the British royal family, entrusted herself to László—Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, then Duchess of York. The portrait was painted only two years after her marriage to Prince Albert, Duke of York (later George VI).
During this period, Lady Elizabeth was already beginning to participate actively in public life, but her role as a future queen had not yet been determined. In László’s portrait, we see Elizabeth at the age of twenty-five. This is not just a portrait; it is a precise psychological study.
László managed to capture her charm, her famous radiant smile that the British people loved, and the strength of character that became her hallmark during the darkest hours of World War II. This 1925 portrait is particularly valuable because it depicts Elizabeth before the burden of the royal crown and the responsibility of a nation fell upon her. We see her in the prime of her youth, full of hope and elegance.
It is one of the most striking testimonies to how László, even after all his personal tribulations, remained the leading portraitist of his era, able to capture not just a likeness but also the anticipation of the destiny of his great sitters. He showed us the future Queen Mother in all her charming youth.
Yet, among de László’s thousands of portraits, few resonate as powerfully today as his 1933 portrait of a seven-year-old girl. We know her as Queen Elizabeth II, but she was then simply Princess Elizabeth of York. De László had first met the young princess a few years earlier when he was painting her parents, and he noted that she showed no shyness and was very interested in his work.
When her turn came, he captured something truly special: the portrait shows a girl with a contemplative, almost serious gaze and a calm confidence. The painting is notable for its lack of overt royal pomp: apart from a symbolic statue in the background, there are no crowns or thrones. Just the girl.
But de László managed to imbue the image with a sense of dignity that now seems prophetic. He conveyed the gentle yet firm spirit that the world would admire for her seven decades on the throne. The portrait was commissioned by her parents and immediately became a public favorite, remaining one of the most famous images of the future queen.
De László’s final commission took him to the Balkans, to one of the youngest and most vibrant and ambitious monarchies—the Romanian royal family. The Romanian royal dynasty of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen, although not as ancient as some of its European counterparts, quickly carved out its place on the political map. It is noteworthy that despite numerous requests, de László flatly refused to visit Romania, which he considered an enemy of Hungary.
In 1919, Hungary invaded Hungary, and under the Treaty of Trianon in 1920, Romania received significant Hungarian territories. But in 1924, Queen Marie of Romania arrived in London on an official visit and paid a visit to his studio herself. László himself noted that he was filled with mixed feelings, as he described: “At first I felt uncomfortable in her presence, because I despise the cowardly Romanian people, who owe their present position to the Treaty of Trianon, which treated Hungary in the most unjust way.
But I will not go into politics. The Queen knows her duty, and I am an international artist who paints history, not just individuals…”
De László painted a portrait that stood out among the large and varied collection of portraits he had painted. Marie herself noted that this portrait was unusually beautiful and vibrant; she wrote in her memoirs: “Of course he wants to paint something that will stand out from everything he has done… He wants to have it for his exhibition in June.
So he asked me to wear my Russian crown made of rubies and diamonds, and he dressed me in gold, with something like a golden veil on my head, a wonderful harmony of gold on gold, and nothing but the eyes and the rubies in the whole thing in blue. He works at an amazing speed, and it is a pleasure to watch him work, he is full of joy when he starts a portrait that fascinates him so much that he seems to want to shout with joy and excitement.” The Queen was of legendary beauty, and in February 1925, Pond’s Extract Company reproduced this portrait in a magazine likely published for its shareholders.
De László could not bring himself to “ignore his political prejudices” until January 1936, when King Carol II commissioned two portraits of himself and his mother for the National Bank of Romania. Queen Marie sat for him first, resulting in an official full-length seated portrait in a dark gown, which is in the collection of the National Museum of Art in Bucharest, alongside a portrait of her husband, King Ferdinand I, who died in 1927. In Bucharest, de László completed eleven portraits and six preparatory oil sketches for the Romanian royal family.
In recognition of this work, de László was awarded the Romanian Cultural Merit Order. Notably, painting the portraits of the Romanian royal family was one of the last major royal projects of Philip de László. This commission, which included portraits of Queen Marie and other members of the dynasty, concluded his long and fruitful career as a painter of kings.
Even in his later years, despite his declining health, László remained true to his artistic mission and was in demand in the highest circles, leaving his last great royal legacy in Romania. In October 1937, the artist suffered a heart attack and died a month later at his home in London. He was 68 years old.
In his lifetime, he painted approximately 2,700 portraits, each a window into the soul of the person sitting before him. Philip de László lived a life worthy of his sitters—kings, queens, and emperors. He witnessed the fall of dynasties, the changing of empires, and the disappearance of the very idea of grandeur.
But while crowns toppled, his brush preserved the faces of those who wore them with pride. His portraits are not just paintings. They are a memory of a time when the world still believed in the splendor of power, elegance, and the force of human will.
De László left behind a gallery of an era, captured with the respect and insight that only a man standing slightly apart from power, yet seeing it with rare honesty, could possess. He was the last great portraitist of the royal world, an artist who turned the ephemeral into the eternal.
