The Red Boy, titled Master Lambton (1825), by Sir Thomas Lawrence – what a triumph of crimson excess and cherubic overachievement! This painting is less a portrait and more a visual ode to a boy who looks like he’s just been told he’s inherited the family estate but must also spend the next decade wearing velvet onesies. Let us dive into this masterpiece with the kind of irreverence it demands.
Oh, hang on, haven’t we looked at something else ‘red’ recently? Well, The Red Boy, is how it should be done.
The first thing that strikes me about The Red Boy is, of course, the red. It’s as if someone took the phrase ‘paint the town red’ far too literally and decided to start with Master Lambton. The velvet suit he’s wearing is so vivid it could probably stop traffic, or at least distract a bull mid-charge. Honestly, it’s less an outfit and more a warning beacon for passing ships.
And then there’s the boy himself. His expression is a masterclass in ambiguity – he looks equal parts wistful and as if he’s just realised he’s left his homework on the carriage. He stares off into the middle distance with the kind of thoughtful melancholy usually reserved for poets and people who’ve been told they can’t have pudding until they finish their greens.
Lawrence has placed our young hero against a backdrop of vaguely stormy skies and a hint of pastoral greenery. The sky is doing its best impression of a watercolour wash left out in the rain, while the foliage lurks in the background like a shy guest at a party. It’s all very Romantic, which is to say it’s dramatic without being entirely sure why.
The lighting, however, is the real star of the show. The boy glows as if he’s been dipped in honey and then polished to a high shine. His cheeks are pink enough to suggest he’s just run a marathon, or perhaps been told he must wear this outfit in public. The velvet, meanwhile, shimmers so convincingly you can almost hear it swishing.
The outfit. Where does one even begin? It’s the sartorial equivalent of a dessert trolley – rich, indulgent, and entirely unnecessary. The fabric is so plush it probably has its own bank account, and the ruffled collar is large enough to double as a life preserver. One imagines that if Master Lambton were to fall into a pond, the sheer buoyancy of his ensemble would save him.
Now, let’s talk about that face. Master Lambton’s expression is a thing of wonder. He looks like a child who has just been told he can have a pony but only if he promises to stop tormenting the staff. There’s a seriousness to his gaze, as though he’s contemplating the geopolitical implications of the family’s latest tea shipment.
And yet, there’s also a hint of vulnerability—a subtle “help me” glimmer in his eyes that suggests he’s fully aware of the ridiculousness of his outfit but is too polite to say anything. It’s the look of a boy who knows he’ll be immortalised in velvet forever and isn’t entirely thrilled about it.
The Red Boy is a masterpiece of its time, a triumph of colour, texture, and slightly ridiculous aristocratic posturing. It’s a painting that demands to be admired, chuckled at, and perhaps quietly pitied. Master Lambton may have had to endure the indignity of sitting for hours in that crimson contraption, but at least he’s given us a portrait that will forever be the gold standard for over-the-top childhood glamour.
If nothing else, The Red Boy proves one thing: if you’re going to wear velvet, you might as well commit to it with the enthusiasm of a child who’s just discovered the biscuit tin. Bravo, Sir Thomas Lawrence. Bravo.
Wording 