He erased it entirely and began again from scratch
In Seville, a thirty-year-old painter has done what no official commission has yet accomplished: placed Spain's reigning monarchs side by side in a single oil portrait, robed in the visual grammar of seventeenth-century court tradition. Alberto Rubio spent more than a year in quiet, exacting labor — erasing and redrawing, sharpening and reconsidering — until the work became as much a record of his own artistic maturation as a tribute to the Crown. The painting now awaits not a buyer, but a wall worthy of it, and perhaps the gaze of the very subjects it honors.
- A young Sevillian artist set himself an audacious task: to paint Spain's king and queen together in formal majesty, a composition no official portrait has yet attempted.
- The work consumed over a year of obsessive revision — at one point Rubio erased Queen Letizia's left hand entirely and began it again, unwilling to let imperfection stand.
- The painting channels the rigid, frontal grandeur of seventeenth-century court portraiture, deliberately situating Felipe VI and Letizia within centuries of painted monarchy.
- Despite multiple purchase offers, Rubio has refused to sell, holding out instead for a public exhibition in a heritage space where the portrait can be seen by all.
- His deepest ambition remains unresolved: to stand before the royal couple and present the work to them in person — a meeting that has not yet come, but that shapes every decision he makes.
Alberto Rubio, a thirty-year-old painter from Seville, has completed what he calls the first dual official-style portrait of Spain's reigning monarchs — an oil on panel measuring 120 by 70 centimeters, titled simply "Their Majesties, the Kings of Spain." He began the work in mid-2024, driven by a vision of capturing both Felipe VI and Letizia together in a single, majestic composition.
The portrait places both monarchs in full gala attire. Letizia appears in a gown worn during a state visit to the Netherlands, crowned with a Russian tiara and adorned with Bulgari jewelry. The composition draws deliberately from the hierarchical, frontal poses of seventeenth-century court portraiture — formal, even rigid — meant to evoke the painted monarchies of earlier centuries. Rubio notes that the royal couple have long signaled their cultural affinities: in 2023, the painter Joaquín Sorolla became the centerpiece of their state visit to Denmark.
The work demanded extraordinary patience. Rubio spent more time on the Queen than the King, wrestling with her expression, the fine details of her face, and especially her left hand — which he ultimately erased entirely and repainted from scratch. Over the course of the year, he returned again and again to sections he believed finished, reworking them as his own standards rose.
Now complete, the portrait has attracted multiple purchase offers, all of which Rubio has declined. He wants the work displayed publicly, in a heritage venue befitting what it represents. And beyond exhibition, he holds a quieter ambition: to present the portrait to Felipe VI and Letizia in person — a moment still uncertain, but one that has guided the entire endeavor.
Alberto Rubio spent more than a year painting a portrait of Spain's King Felipe VI and Queen Letizia together in formal dress—the first such dual portrait of the reigning monarchs. The thirty-year-old Sevillian artist began the work in mid-2024, driven by a vision of capturing both rulers in a single, majestic composition. The result is an oil painting on panel, measuring 120 by 70 centimeters, titled simply "Their Majesties, the Kings of Spain."
In the portrait, both appear in full gala attire. Letizia wears a dress she wore during a state visit to the Netherlands, paired with what is known as a Russian tiara, a Bulgari bracelet, and earrings from the royal jeweler's collection. The clothing differs from her official photographs but maintains a similar visual language of authority and ceremony. Rubio made deliberate choices about how to dress his subjects—these are not casual garments but the formal regalia of state.
The composition itself draws from the hierarchical, frontal poses of seventeenth-century court portraiture. Rubio describes the positioning as deliberately formal, even rigid, a visual choice meant to evoke the grandeur and ceremony of those earlier royal portraits. He wanted the painting to breathe majesty, to place the couple within a tradition of painted monarchy that stretches back centuries. Both the King and Queen, Rubio notes, have shown genuine interest in art throughout their reigns—in 2023, the painter Joaquín Sorolla became the centerpiece of their state visit to Denmark, a choice that signaled their cultural priorities.
The work demanded extraordinary patience and self-criticism. Rubio spent more hours on the Queen than on the King, wrestling especially with her expression, the fine details of her face, and her left hand. As he neared completion, he became dissatisfied with that hand. Rather than accept it, he erased it entirely and began again from scratch. Over the course of a year, he repeatedly returned to sections he thought finished, reworking them as his own eye sharpened and his standards rose. The painting became a record not just of the monarchs but of the artist's own growth.
Rubio has received multiple offers to sell the work, but he has declined them. His priority is not profit but visibility. He wants the portrait displayed in a public space where anyone can see it, ideally in a heritage venue befitting what the work represents. He is exploring options, weighing where such a painting belongs in Spain's cultural landscape. Beyond that, he harbors a deeper wish: to present the portrait to Felipe VI and Letizia in person, to show them what he has made in their honor. Whether that moment comes remains uncertain, but it is clearly what he is working toward.
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The pose is not casual—it is hieratic, meant to evoke the pictorial styles of the seventeenth-century court and convey the majesty proper to kings.— Alberto Rubio, painter
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Why spend a year on a portrait that isn't official, that no one commissioned?
Because he saw something missing. No one had painted them together like this before—not in formal dress, not with this kind of visual weight. He wanted to create that image.
The hand he erased and repainted—that seems like perfectionism bordering on obsession.
It is. But that's the point. He kept learning as he worked. By the time he was nearly done, he understood the painting better than when he started. That hand had to match what he'd become.
He's not selling it. That's unusual for an artist who spent that much time on it.
He's not interested in the sale. He wants it seen. He wants it in a place where it matters, where it can speak to what it is—a portrait of power, rendered in the language of centuries.
Do you think the King and Queen will ever see it?
That's what he's hoping for. It's not a demand or an expectation. It's a wish. He made something beautiful and true, and he wants them to know it exists.
What makes this different from an official portrait?
Freedom. He painted what he imagined, not what was requested. That's why the dress is from the Netherlands visit, why the pose echoes the 1600s. He was answering his own vision, not a brief.