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From ancient China to modern America: an astonishing history of censorship
A mistrust of ‘experts’ and ‘intellectuals’ has recently crystallised into US government interventions targeting academic institutions. Emily Knox and Joan Scott share their thoughts with Danny Bird about the troubling history of anti-intellectualism
Danny Bird: Anti-intellectualism can feel like quite a contemporary concern – but when did this phenomenon emerge? Joan Scott: It goes back a long way. In the case of the United States, a key reference is Anti-intellectualism in American Life by Richard Hofstadter, published in 1963 in the wake of the McCarthy anti-communist hearings. I return to it often. Hofstadter traces anti-intellectualism almost to the nation’s beginnings, particularly in debates over education. Attempts to centralise schooling repeatedly provoked hostile reactions from local communities determined to control what their children were taught. Hofstadter locates this strain chiefly among non-elite, less formally educated groups who are suspicious of expertise and claims to superior competence, and wary of those in elite positions. The US therefore has a long history of anti-intellectualism, though it also appears in different forms elsewhere. France may be something of an exception – as a historian, I have seen philosophical disputes conducted at every level of French society in a way quite unlike anything in the US. In any case, though the tradition of anti-intellectualism is long-standing, we may now be experiencing it at its most acute. Emily Knox: When I think about anti-intellectualism, I see a rift. There is a fear that, if someone becomes more educated or begins to listen to experts, a break opens within their community. This is especially visible with first-generation university students, who can feel pulled away from their families and local ties. In many cases, anti-intellectualism grows from that sense of separation. It is rooted less in abstract questions of trust than in fear of loss, distance and change. Viewing it in those terms helps us to understand it more clearly. Has it commonly been during times of upheaval – such as religious conflicts, revolutions and the rise of authoritarian and populist regimes – when academic freedom has been attacked? EK: Yes. One of the earliest and most well-known recorded instances of book burning occurred in 213 BC under China’s first imperial dynasty, when the emperor, Qin Shi Huang, suppressed dissent by executing scholars and destroying their texts. Scholars are often targeted during periods of unrest or reactionary upheaval. In moments of crisis, people look for someone to blame: where did these ideas come from? Suspicion frequently falls on education and on those who produce and transmit knowledge. Across history, intellectual life repeatedly becomes suspect when societies fracture. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/PA49MG-c6ca6cc-e1777451862538.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A traditional Chinese painting depicting figures in red and white robes burning books in the foreground while others in blue‑green robes are pushed into a pit beside an ornate building." title="An 18th-century illustration shows books burned and scholars buried on the orders of the first Chinese emperor, Qin Shi Huang, in 213 BC – an early example of the suppression of intellectual activity (Image by Alamy)" /> JS: I think it stems from the association between scholarship and criticism. From the outset, the scholar’s role has been to reflect on and critique the conditions in which people live. To pursue truth, however defined, is to question authority, and that questioning has long been linked to education. It is this critical function that makes scholars targets. As Immanuel Kant argued in The Conflict of the Faculties at the end of the 18th century, philosophers are uniquely placed to tell rulers what is wrong and what ought to be done. That task does not belong to theology or to the more practical disciplines. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-600033141-5864189-e1777451781506.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An oval-framed painted portrait of an older individual with white curled hair, dressed in a brown coat with decorative buttons and a white cravat, set against a dark background." title="German philosopher Immanuel Kant, pictured in 1765, stated that philosophers are uniquely placed to tell rulers what is wrong, says Joan Scott (Image by Getty Images)" /> This year marks 250 years since the American Revolution, which was led by a group of individuals strongly influenced by Enlightenment ideals. But did any anti-intellectual responses emerge from that upheaval? EK: The American context is particularly difficult because the revolution was incomplete in many ways. The promises of the founding documents are continually invoked, yet often fall short. For black Americans, the original revolution did not apply; another, still ongoing struggle was necessary. The more approximate parallel is the Reconstruction era (1865–77) after the Civil War, when American society attempted to redefine the rights of black people – a process still unfinished today. Read more | Women in the American Revolution: what were their lives like? We are now a generation beyond the civil rights movement, which itself was incomplete. Today, we see reactionary efforts to undo its achievements: attacks on the Voting Rights Act, resistance to feminist advances, and hostility toward LGBTQIA+ rights. Understanding this requires grappling with history, which Americans often struggle to do. The controversy over the 1619 Project illustrates this: presenting American history from a non-triumphalist perspective, centring it beyond the founding fathers, provoked deep resistance. Nikole Hannah-Jones originally created it as a New York Times Magazine special, marking the arrival of the first enslaved Africans in Virginia as the starting point of American history. She produced a series of essays centring the experiences of enslaved people and their descendants across time. It represents Hannah-Jones’s effort to reframe American history through a new, often contested lens. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/2RXWT0B-faa6c5a-e1777451938667.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A historical photograph shows children and adults gathered in front of a log building with a sign reading “Freedmen’s School,” surrounded by trees." title="A freedmen’s school in the US, c1868. “After the Civil War, American society attempted to redefine the rights of black people – a process still unfinished today,” says Emily Knox (Image by Alamy)" /> The project later expanded into a full book and a children’s edition, and quickly became a lightning rod, particularly among critics of what is called ‘critical race theory’. Similarly, images from the civil rights movement can unsettle people because they expose their own families’ histories, which remain raw for those who lived through it. Coming to terms with these histories is a profoundly difficult, ongoing challenge in the US. JS: Many of the critics of the 1619 Project who saw themselves as progressive or left-leaning attacked it not for ideological reasons but by accusing it of factual errors. In doing so, I believe some of them may have been denying the underlying biases they bring to the study of history themselves: a commitment to a triumphalist, progressivist vision of America. It illustrates how historians can obscure the assumptions that shape their own work while critiquing others. Why have books so often been targeted during waves of anti-intellectualism? EK: I am fascinated by the book as a technology: it collapses time and space, allowing us to access what people thought centuries ago. Books are particularly powerful in the Global North, shaped by the influence of Christianity, especially Protestantism. In my work on the Reformation, I emphasise two doctrines: sola scriptura, the idea that one can save one’s soul through reading [scripture]; and the ‘priesthood of all believers’ – the principle that no intermediary is required between God and people, reader and text. Books occupy a unique place in our lives. I often ask students if they break the bindings of their books; some are horrified by the idea while others are indifferent. Unlike other objects, the way we engage with texts shapes how we understand ourselves. That is why books are frequently banned: they are among the most powerful tools for shaping thought and identity. Control over knowledge has always been exercised through text, because this is how ideas are communicated, shared and contested. Censorship is another method often deployed to actively police the public understanding of reality. Where does this practice originate? EK: The origin of the term stretches back to the ancient Roman censor – the magistrate responsible for overseeing public morality. Authorised knowledge has always been central not only to authoritarian control but even to self-identifying democratic governments when they define what information is sanctioned and what is forbidden. Historically, this is seen in the ‘king’s imprimatur’ – the official seal approving a text. Today, the same principle appears in cases such the Epstein files: redactions signal what the government deems authorised for public access versus knowledge it withholds. Often, authorised knowledge focuses on victims, while information about perpetrators is restricted. This illustrates how governments generally manage and control knowledge. JS: Historically, almost every authoritarian regime has relied on censorship to impose its will. This illustrates how law can both censor knowledge and impose a singular view of human identity. Similar patterns appear throughout history: during the French Revolution, the Jacobins dictated what could be taught about society, politics and relationships; Maoist China imposed its ideological framework on education. Censorship has consistently been a key tool of authoritarian regimes for controlling thought, knowledge and social norms. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-2232572087-2c6c79f-e1777452592240.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A marcher holds a large orange sign that says “Why We March: Freedom Fairness Security,” while others behind them carry signs that read “Fighting for a Better Future.”" title="A participant in the 28 August 2025 March on Wall Street, a rally protesting against US government policies towards Diversity, Equity and Inclusion programmes (Image by Getty Images)" /> The study of history itself has often been at the forefront of anti-intellectual crusades. How can our comprehension of the past be sanitised or distorted by political pressures – and what are the consequences? JS: This raises a complex question, because I don’t believe in a single, objective truth of history. The history we write always reflects the ethical positions and values we bring to it. For example, the 1619 Project cannot be told without addressing both the history of slavery and its ongoing legacy of racism. My choices in research and teaching are guided by these values. There is no history without values – not in the sense of imposing an ‘official’ version but in recognising that the questions we ask about the past are shaped by the present. This is why it is crucial that the stories we teach, whether to children or the wider public, acknowledge the contemporary concerns that motivate them. Criticisms framed as objections to ‘presentism’ misunderstand this: the past exists only as we interpret it. So, in response to critics of undertakings such as the 1619 Project, the debate should centre not on alleged factual errors but on the values and principles that inform one’s approach to history. That is the lens through which I, as a professional historian, understand the importance of my work. Read more | "Violence and American politics have gone hand in hand right from the beginning": a history of political violence EK: My work focuses on very recent history. For example, I’m interested in how the Covid-19 pandemic will be presented to children today. The youngest kids who truly remember it are now around eight to 10 years old. For many in school, the pre-pandemic world is already history. Recent events, such as the 6 January 2021 attack on the US Capitol [by supporters of Donald Trump who believed the 2020 presidential election was ‘stolen’], illustrate how contested history can be. Even when reported widely, narratives vary: should words such as ‘insurrection’ be used to describe that episode? How do we interpret the actions of those involved, and the political consequences? These debates will eventually filter down into schoolbooks and children’s literature, and that is where history becomes contested at the community level, not just among scholars. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-1230460050-19b9753-e1777452378158.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A dense crowd at an outdoor political rally holds numerous flags and banners while a row of helmeted police officers in high‑visibility jackets forms a barrier in front of them." title="Supporters of Donald Trump storm the US Capitol on 6 January 2021, aiming to overturn Joe Biden’s election win. Such events demonstrate just how contested even recent history can be, says Emily Knox (Image by Getty Images)" /> Many students note that history covered in formal lessons in the US often stops at 9/11, leaving everything since then largely unexamined. My work explores how recent events are already history, how their presentation is debated, and how these debates shape what children and the public understand about our shared past. JS: Statues are often used to memorialise figures as heroes of the nation, state or community. For example, Donald Trump has proposed marking the country’s 250th anniversary with a National Garden of American Heroes featuring 250 statues of people he considers important in US history. Meanwhile, statues depicting historical figures such as Christopher Columbus are being restored, alongside some of Confederate generals that had been removed or relocated to museums. In my view, plaques in such institutions explaining those people’s actions are far more appropriate than central heroic displays. The controversy over Columbus illustrates how historical narratives shift: he was once taught as the discoverer of America, but recognition of Native American perspectives has reshaped that story. President Trump’s recognition of Columbus Day, while not acknowledging Indigenous Peoples’ Day, reflects the politics of history. Television documentaries such as Ken Burns’ The American Revolution (2025) show how historical scholarship can reshape public understanding. Burns highlights slavery, Native American displacement and figures including Crispus Attucks, the first casualty of the revolution, who happened to be of African and Native American heritage – a critical intervention that revises the traditional triumphalist narrative. Why and when do anti-intellectual movements demonise scholars and experts as ‘out-of-touch’ elites? Is it specifically during times of economic or other social crises? EK: You can’t discuss anti-intellectualism without considering class. The intellectual class is rarely working class; it is defined less by economics and more by markers of middle or upper-middle-class life. Intellectuals work with their minds rather than their hands, spend years in study – a luxury that many cannot afford – and are often associated with habits such as publishing, reading and other cultural signifiers. These markers set them apart. My father, for example, was the first in our family to earn a PhD in mathematics, and for years he was told he was ‘wasting his time’ instead of getting a job. Anti-intellectualism is often rooted in the perception of these class-based privileges, yet that dimension is not always acknowledged in discussions of the phenomenon. JS: Anti-intellectualism can emerge during times of crisis, but not always. Sometimes it is used opportunistically to advance a political agenda. Take the McCarthy era: the Cold War generated anxieties about communism, but it was Joseph McCarthy who manufactured a crisis, investigating and summoning individuals, ruining careers and dominating public attention for a decade. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-515468158-20125d2-e1777452445708.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Two individuals sit at a table with microphones in a formal indoor setting; the person in the foreground holds up several sheets of paper while speaking." title="Joseph McCarthy’s anti-communist crusade was, says Emily Knox, driven as much by personal opportunism as genuine political crisis (Image by Getty Images)" /> A similar pattern exists in higher education today. The sector has long faced structural challenges, including reduced state and federal funding, a shift to student debt, and widespread financial insecurity. However the Trump administration’s higher education interventions have transformed these ongoing difficulties into what I believe is a full-blown crisis. Political opportunism, layered onto long-term structural pressures, plays a crucial role in the rise of anti-intellectualism. The internet was once hailed as a means of democratising access to information. However, in recent years it has gained a reputation for transmitting disinformation and conspiracy theories. How has this enabled anti-intellectualism to amplify distrust of expertise? EK: A good example comes from Reddit, where the AskHistorians subreddit is highly regulated: answers require citations and are usually provided by professional historians. It allows people to ask complex questions and ensures careful, informed responses. Yet Reddit also hosts substantial misinformation, especially on health topics, making it a fascinating place to observe how knowledge and misunderstanding can coexist. Read more | "Forget AI – never has the role of the historian been more urgent" Subreddits that encourage questions – for example, NoStupidQuestions and explainlikeimfive [years old] – provide spaces for people to seek understanding in a non-judgmental way. These forums highlight the importance of proactive, clear communication, rather than leaving people to rely solely on news or social media snippets. Is there a consistent thread that unites all of the anti-intellectual movements throughout history? EK: It’s largely about control. Take the Index Librorum Prohibitorum (Index of Forbidden Books) compiled by the Catholic church, for example. It was created in response to Protestantism, to assert authority over ideas that the Catholic church could no longer directly control. The logic was simple: if people couldn’t read certain texts, they wouldn’t question doctrine, and the church’s authority would remain intact. In practice, this often backfired. Listing a book could make it more appealing. Even in the medieval period, putting a book on the Index often simply drew attention to it, making people want to read it. Attempts to control thought through banning texts rarely work as intended. Emily JM Knox is a professor in the School of Information Sciences at the University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign. The second edition of Book Banning in 21st-century America was published by Bloomsbury in January 2026 Joan Wallach Scott is professor emerita in the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton University. Her books include Knowledge, Power, and Academic Freedom (Columbia University Press, 2019) This article was first published in the April 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
A history of the world in 7 faces: from Tutankhamun to the Virgin Mary
From a Stone Age Venus and an Egyptian death mask to an unflinchingly challenging 21st-century sculpture, Fay Bound-Alberti introduces seven depictions of the face that track humanity’s ever-evolving relationship with creativity, hierarchy and self-image
1. The art of darkness This enigmatic head is a 25,000-year-old testament to the innate urge to capture the essence of a person in art In 1894, an archaeologist called Édouard Piette walked into a cave in the village of Brassempouy in south-west France and came face-to-face with humanity’s distant past. Lying in the darkness was a fragment of mammoth-ivory carved to depict a head. That head was tiny – so small that it could nestle in the palm of Piette’s hand – and yet it had survived for 25,000 years, carved by an artist deep in the Palaeolithic period. Piette couldn’t have been aware of it at the time, but he had just discovered one of the earliest known representations of a human face in art. That representation is both awe-inspiring – and deeply enigmatic. It would soon be known as ‘The Venus of Brassempouy’ – there were other Venuses in the same cave, with those rounded hips and breasts associated with fertility symbols – and yet we can’t even be sure if it depicts a woman. Despite these uncertainties, the fact that this rare and portable object exists at all tells us that it was important for the artist to capture something of the essence of a person – and with a level of detail that is unusual for a Venus figurine. That depth of detail is most evident in the intricate, chequerboard-patterned hair – possibly a wig or hood – from which the object derives its nickname, ‘La Dame à La Capuche’ (Lady with the Hood). The face, by comparison, is a blank canvas. It has a prominent forehead, nose and brow, but it lacks a mouth. Was this artistic decision influenced by convention? Religion? Personal style? Time? We do not know. What we do know is that the Venus of Brassempouy stands as a symbol of how representations of the face have evolved over 25,000 years. Today, we take it for granted that our face represents us – a phenomenon I have termed ‘facehood’. It is marked on our passports and unlocks our mobiles; it is captured in photographs countless times over our lifetimes. It has become a shorthand for a unique, individual person in a way that simply wasn’t the case with the Venus of Brassempouy. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/dreamstimel48080984-74bcdd9-e1777286681457.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="The gold funerary mask of Tutankhamun with blue‑striped headdress, inlaid eyes, and royal cobra and vulture emblems." title="Tutankhamun’s golden burial mask presents an idealised, godlike face symbolising divine transformation in the afterlife (Image by Dreamstime)" /> 2. From death to deity Tutankhamun’s dazzling mask was designed to transform a mortal man into a god In ancient Egypt, memorialising people did not mean remembering what they looked like. It was wealth, power and similarity to the gods that mattered. For proof, look no further than one of the world’s most recognisable objects: Tutankhamun’s golden burial mask. Revealed in 1925 by British archaeologist Howard Carter, three years after he discovered Tutankhamun’s tomb, this dazzling artefact measures 54cm high – a fit for an average adult’s head. Weighing over 10kg, the mask is made of solid gold, with intricate inlays of lapis lazuli and carnelian. Yet the most intriguing feature is its 2.5kg golden beard. That beard, which is long and plaited, extends down from the chin with a formal, geometric appearance and rectangular shape. Look at the mask in profile and you’ll see that it is not intended to look naturalistic; the beard is held in place with a band beneath the chin – as it would have been in a ceremony. Tutankhamun died c1323 BC, aged just 18 or 19 – too young to grow such a beard. This – coupled with the fact that the mask has pierced earlobes, the preserve of women and children – has led some Egyptologists to argue that it was never intended to be used by Tutankhamun at all. It was, they argue, designed for his stepmother, Nefertiti. Yet for ancient Egyptians, faces had symbolic rather than literal, gendered meanings. Eyes, for instance, had mystical connotations – as illustrated by the ‘Eye of Horus’ and the ‘Eye of Ra’ (representing wellbeing, healing and protection). Both male and female rulers wore fake beards in ancient Egyptian ceremonies and art – to display divine power and royal authority. The principle was practical, but the practice was genderless. Hence Tutankhamun’s mask resembles the gods Osiris and Ra, whose bodies were made of gold and lapis lazuli. An inscription on the mask reads: “Your forehead is Anubis, your right eye is the night boat [of Ra], your left eye is the day boat, your eyebrows are in the company of nine gods.” The mask was intended to be seen by the gods, not by humans. Such images were theological objects that transformed a corpse into a deity. Read more | Howard Carter's discovery of Tutankhamun: was the tomb really cursed? 3. Age before beauty The Romans believed that wisdom – and, therefore, fitness to rule – was etched in the lines of the face We do not know the identity of the artist, or indeed the subject, of this ‘Head of a Roman Patrician’. So what do we see when we look at it? We might conclude, from the richness of the drapery, that this was someone important. After all, plebs and slaves were not sculpted in marble. He is a serious man, with a poker-straight posture and a solemn expression, whose face and neck are wizened by age. The skin on his forehead and balding brow is deeply lined by years of thinking – and, perhaps, by responsibility. Earlier scholars suggested that the sitter was Cato the Censor, the famously austere Republican statesman. Yet we should beware making the mistake of thinking the sculptor aimed at realism, or likeness, as we understand it. This bust is an example of ‘verism’, a style of Roman portraiture that sought symbolic rather than literal truth. Roman sculptors and philosophers followed the rules of physiognomy that meant character was revealed in the lines and structure of the face. Why? Because Romans needed a visual language that demonstrated political legitimacy in a system where power was contested. In later centuries it would be important for monarchs to have individually recognisable portraits for propaganda and coinage. But their rule was assured by blood or war. In the Republic of Rome, rulers showed their fitness in the experience, wisdom and expertise etched on their faces. Women – wives and daughters of those rulers – were not depicted as aged and wise, because female value, then as now, was too often based on beauty, not intellect. Men could also be subject to gendered idealism. Since a Republican politician often needed to embody not only the wisdom and experience of age, but also the physical prowess of a warrior, some sculptural portraits had wizened faces but youthful, vigorous bodies. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-463895209-ee1b31f-e1777286825978.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A seated Virgin Mary holding the Christ Child, surrounded by haloed saints and angels against a gold architectural backdrop." title="The medieval church developed a visual code that the entire population could recognise, as exemplified by Giotto’s Madonna Enthroned (Image by Getty Images)" /> 4. Why the long face? In the Middle Ages, religious portraiture relied on symbolism rather than realism to spread the word of God Patricians symbolising leadership in ancient Rome were concerned principally with their peers – the literate elite who read character in wrinkles. The medieval church faced a different problem: it needed to communicate to vast populations, most of them illiterate, many of them poor, none of them experts at what faces meant. So the church developed a visual language of symbols in portraiture. These symbols told viewers instantly who Jesus and the saints were, as well as religious martyrs, local landowners and wealthy donors who invested in the church fabric. Giotto’s Madonna Enthroned is one of the most famous examples of a symbolically laden portrait. Here, the Virgin Mary’s image lacks the emotionality and fleshiness of later artworks such as Raphael’s Madonna del Granduca (c1506–07). Painted around 1310, Giotto’s work was influenced by Byzantine tradition, which dominated Italian art, though he began introducing more naturalism. Gold leaf, bright colours, formal poses and slender, otherworldly faces were what people expected from divine images. What made Mary instantly recognisable were her symbols: the dark blue mantel, the white headscarf, the Christ child on her lap, the throne, the surrounding saints with their haloes and attributes, the gold trim and background. She might also be shown with a crown of 12 stars, roses, rosary beads and a heart pierced by a sword. In a world before consumer capitalism, bureaucracy and mass urbanisation, personal portraiture that showed an ordinary person simply wasn’t necessary. Read more | Medieval family planning: meet the strong-willed women who redefined motherhood in the Middle Ages 5. The man in the mirror By the 17th century, symbolism was being swept aside by portraits that sought to reveal the unvarnished truth In 1659, the Dutch artist Rembrandt van Rijn sat before a mirror to capture his reflection. Unlike the Roman patrician, Giotto’s Madonna – or indeed Hans Holbein the Younger’s portraits of Henry VIII a century earlier – there is nothing idealised about Rembrandt’s self-portrait. What he produced was unflinchingly realistic. Rembrandt wears a dark coat and a black beret, and stares out from a dark, featureless canvas. Nothing distracts from the face, the centre of emotion, humanity and the self, with a posture and expression that reveals emotion in the creases round the mouth and eyes. His skin is weathered, his features irregular, his nose is prominent, his jowls sagging. This is a man who has suffered – Rembrandt was care-worn from a recent bankruptcy. His eyes meet ours, offering an invitation to connect. Unlike earlier self-portraits – Rembrandt created almost 100 during his lifetime – there are no elaborate symbols on display here: no artist’s palette, no jewels signalling status, no books to indicate learning or hourglass to warn of time’s passing. Self-portraits of his era reflect the fact that the status of the artist was becoming more important, as well as the idea of interiority and psychological individualism. Rembrandt’s portrait is an archetype of modern portraiture – it betrays a feeling face. We can see what he looked like as a specific, unique person, and the same face ageing across different self-portraits. In medieval portraits, faces had been more stylised and generic, and painters often re-used faces, because they were not the focal point of the painting. With its radical approach to symbols, identity and the face, the Renaissance changed all that. From now on, artists would seek to portray their subjects as distinctly individual and recognisable. Portraiture, then, did not only reflect a growing interest in the face, but also encouraged and perpetuated it – much as photographic portraits did in the 19th century. 6. What lies beneath Photography forced artists to look beyond the skin to the sitter’s core, with often unsettling results This Head of a Woman was crafted in 1909 by the great Spanish artist Pablo Picasso. It is modelled on Fernande Olivier, an artist in her own right. Olivier is usually credited as Picasso’s muse, yet flattery was clearly not a consideration in this particular portrayal of her. Picasso’s ‘Head’ is roughly constructed, with no attempt at realism. But why? To answer that question, we need to consider the dramatic technological changes that had convulsed the art world between the ages of Rembrandt and Picasso. When Rembrandt plied his trade, artists could make a good living. Their success came from their ability to capture some essential truth about appearance – to reproduce the world as it really was. But between the 1840s and the 1870s, with the invention and popularisation of photography, everything changed. Once a camera could capture likeness with mechanical precision, the project of realistic portraiture became obsolete. If a camera could do in a few minutes what took a painter months, what was the job of the artist? For artists such as Picasso, the answer lay in achieving in their paintings what a photograph could not: penetrating the core of a person to capture what the mind feels. Picasso’s Cubist work embodies this approach. For all the head’s lack of realism, skill is not an issue here. Picasso was accomplished at realism in painting and sculpture. Rather, the focus was different. The face was now a problem to be solved and understood – a structural puzzle, rather than an object to be copied. For artists that followed, such as Francis Bacon and the surrealists, the artist’s job was to ferret out what could only be discovered through their special insight. In such hands, and increasingly after the crisis of confidence caused by the First World War, the portrait was a tool for psychological investigation rather than social documentation. Read more | Did he photograph the ghost of a president? Meet the scheming Victorian who exploited a grieving America <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-489164501-21e92a2-e1777287214373.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A large white sphinx-like sculpture with human features inside a vast industrial hall, with people standing nearby for scale." title="Kara Walker’s A Subtlety, or the Marvelous Sugar Baby features a towering sugar sphinx that confronts racism, exploitation and the politics of visibility (Image by Getty Images)" /> 7. Sweet scents and rotting flesh This installation serves as a reminder that, over the history of portraiture, not all faces have been equal Today, the question is less how faces are portrayed, but rather, whose faces. For centuries, the canon of western portraiture has, for the most part, not included black people. And where they were included, it was as servants, slaves, exoticised presences in paintings made by, and for, white subjects. There are exceptions: Juan de Pareja, enslaved and painted by Velázquez; Frederick Douglass, photographed repeatedly after achieving freedom. But these instances are rare. For most of history, black people have appeared as exhibits, in the margins, in the background, or not at all. However, in the 21st century artists such as Kara Walker have begun to subvert Victorian artistic styles, such as the silhouette – a medium historically associated with genteel portraiture – to critique the racist depictions of black faces found in art and culture, from slavery advertisements to blackface. In 2014, Walker created A Subtlety, or the Marvelous Sugar Baby, a monumental installation in the Domino Sugar Factory in Brooklyn. At the centre of that artwork stands a sphinx coated with 8 tonnes of sugar – the commodity that built American wealth on the backs of slaves. The face of the statue invokes that mammy archetype, Aunt Jemima, while the gaze stares straight ahead, as impassively as the Great Sphinx of Giza, on which it is modelled. But the body is exposed and sexualised, as black women’s bodies have been in history. Around the sphinx are smaller figures: molasses-covered children, whose bodies are deteriorating, some with missing limbs and empty eye sockets. The sweet smell of sugar gives way to the acrid stench of rotting flesh. What is beneath the surface here is not some secret interiority – as was the case for Bacon or Picasso – but the question of who is being looked at, and who is doing the looking. It is the nature of artistic production and consumption itself that takes centre stage. Fay Bound-Alberti is professor of modern history, and director of Interface at King’s College London. Her new book, The Face: A Cultural History, was published by Allen Lane in February This article was first published in the April 2026 issue of HistoryExtra Magazine
How many US presidents have been assassinated?
The assassinations of US presidents had lasting impacts on American history, shaping political policies, security measures and public trust in government
It’s not every day that a sitting president gets assassinated, but when it happens, the implications are felt across the entire country, often for decades. In the United States, four sitting presidents have been killed in office, while others have survived attempts on their lives. Who were the US presidents assassinated while serving, how did those attacks unfold, and which presidents lived through assassination attempts? How many US presidents have been assassinated? Four sitting US presidents have been assassinated: Abraham Lincoln in 1865 James A Garfield in 1881 William McKinley in 1901 John F Kennedy in 1963 Each of these assassinations sent shockwaves through the nation, leading to significant political and security changes. But how did they happen? The assassination of Abraham Lincoln On 14 April 1865, President Abraham Lincoln, fresh from steering the country through the Civil War, was enjoying a play at Ford’s Theatre in Washington DC. During the performance, John Wilkes Booth, a Confederate sympathiser and well-known actor, snuck into Lincoln’s private box and shot the president in the back of the head at point-blank range. Booth had initially planned only to kidnap Lincoln, but after the president had floated an idea to offer African-Americans the vote, he had decided upon a different, more deadly direction. What followed was a wild 12-day manhunt, ending when Booth was cornered and killed by Union soldiers in a barn in Virginia. But why did the noted actor want to kill Lincoln? In November 1860, Lincoln had won the presidential election with the anti-slavery Republican Party and became the 16th president of the United States. By the following year, 11 southern states had seceded to form the Confederate States of America, who wanted to preserve their slave-based economy. This kickstarted the American Civil War. Four years of bitter fighting effectively came to an end on 9 April 1865 when Confederate General Robert E Lee surrendered his troops to Union General Ulysses S Grant at Appomattox Court House in Virginia. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-615296362-dadb537-e1777298908928.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An illustration depicts John Wilkes Booth firing a pistol at President Abraham Lincoln from behind as he sits in a theatre box. Lincoln slumps forward in his chair while other figures nearby turn in shock, framed by heavy curtains and ornate interior décor." title="An illustration depicts John Wilkes Booth’s assassination of President Abraham Lincoln in April 1865. Booth fled the scene and evaded capture for 12 days before being killed by Union soldiers in Virginia (Image by Getty Images)" /> Booth – who was on the side of the Confederate States of America in the South – was not impressed. He believed that Lincoln had ignited the conflict by issuing the Emancipation Proclamation, which freed enslaved people in the South. He also disagreed with Lincoln’s re-election in 1864, which saw the president introduce the 13th Amendment, abolishing slavery entirely. In assassinating Lincoln, Booth sought revenge for the South’s defeat in the Civil War and believed that he could inspire a resurgence of the Confederate cause. He was part of a wider group of conspirators who had also planned to assassinate Vice President Andrew Johnson and Secretary of State William Seward, but these attempts failed. While Lincoln’s assassination was successful, his death did not achieve Booth’s goal of reviving the Confederate cause. It did, however, derail post-war Reconstruction efforts and delay progress on civil rights for the formerly enslaved. Read more | How Abraham Lincoln’s 1860 election victory set America on the path to Civil War The assassination of James A Garfield Less than 20 years after the death of Lincoln, another president was assassinated. President James A Garfield was almost four months into his term when he was shot at a train station in Washington DC, on 2 July 1881. The culprit? Charles J Guiteau, a failed lawyer harbouring a hefty grudge. Historical accounts suggest that Guiteau lived with severe mental illness, and he believed he deserved a political appointment in Garfield’s administration. When his requests were ignored, he saw assassination as a means to elevate Vice President Chester A Arthur – a staunch supporter of the ‘spoils system’, where government jobs were awarded based on political connections rather than merit – to the presidency, thinking it would benefit his own ambitions. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-2663013-e286df4-e1777299174574.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="An illustrated railway station scene captures the moment President James Garfield is shot, his body recoiling as bystanders react in alarm. Men in period dress attempt to restrain the attacker while a crowd gathers behind them, some raising their arms in panic." title="President James Garfield was just four months into his first term when he was shot at a railway station in July 1881. The assassin, Charles Guiteau, was hanged the following year (Photo by Getty Images)" /> This thinking was in vain. After shooting Garfield, Guiteau was quickly apprehended, convicted of murder and hanged on 30 June 1882, after a highly publicised trial. Garfield’s death led to the passage of the Pendleton Civil Service Reform Act in 1883, which reduced corruption by implementing a merit-based system for government positions, rather than patronage. Read more | 6 shocking presidential scandals that rocked the White House The assassination of William McKinley On 6 September 1901, President William McKinley was greeting the public at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York, when self-proclaimed anarchist Leon Czolgosz shot him twice at close range. McKinley survived the initial shooting, but developed gangrene from his wounds and died on 14 September. Czolgosz was arrested at the scene. He was convicted of murder and executed in the electric chair on 29 October 1901. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-640491173-f00bdc6-e1777299574512.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A crowded indoor scene shows President William McKinley being shot at close range as he greets members of the public at an exhibition. Several men lunge towards the attacker while others recoil in shock beneath draped American flags and decorative columns." title="In September 1901, President William McKinley was shot by anarchist Leon Czolgosz in Buffalo, New York. McKinley survived the initial attack but died of gangrene eight days later (Photo by Getty Images)" /> Czolgosz’s attack had been inspired by anarchist rhetoric; he viewed McKinley as the poster boy of corporate greed and oppression. By assassinating the president, he believed he could strike a blow against both the government and capitalism as a whole. McKinley’s assassination had an immediate political impact, in that it propelled the more moderate and reformist Theodore Roosevelt to the presidency. But it did not lead to the political upheaval or societal change that the self-confessed anarchist likely desired. After McKinley’s death, Congress was inspired to take a closer look at how presidents were protected – and assigned the Secret Service to do the job. Read more | Life after the White House: what the US presidents did next The assassination of John F Kennedy Where were the Secret Service on 22 November 1963? It’s a question at the heart of one of modern history’s greatest conspiracies. It was on this day that President John F Kennedy was shot twice, as his motorcade passed through Dealey Plaza in Dallas, Texas. He was rushed to Parkland Memorial Hospital, but was pronounced dead shortly afterward. Within hours of the shooting, 24-year-old former US marine Lee Harvey Oswald, an employee at the Texas School Book Depository – which overlooked Dealey Plaza – was apprehended at a nearby cinema. Witnesses had reportedly seen him fatally shoot a police officer. Some have argued that Oswald was merely a scapegoat – a claim he himself made while in custody – or that he was not the sole assassin behind the attack on Kennedy. The murder of Oswald two days after Kennedy’s assassination and before a trial, by local nightclub owner Jack Ruby, only intensified the rumours. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/GettyImages-515554000-88b3d38-e1777299739390.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="President John F Kennedy sits in an open-top car during a motorcade in Dallas, with Jacqueline Kennedy in a pink suit and hat seated beside him and Texas governor John Connally in front. Secret Service agents and spectators line the street in the background as the car moves slowly through a crowd-filled city centre." title="John F Kennedy rides in a motorcade with his wife, Jacqueline, and Texas governor John Connally after arriving in Dallas on 22 November 1963. The president was assassinated less than an hour later (Photo by Getty Images)" /> A number of conspiracy theories emerged: some suggested that the plot was orchestrated either by the mafia, angered by the Kennedy administration’s efforts to combat organised crime and its inability to topple Fidel Castro. Others pinned the crime on US intelligence and security agencies, notably the CIA and FBI, aiming to derail the president’s purported plan to withdraw America from the Vietnam War. As investigative journalist Gerald Posner explains, Ruby’s murder of Oswald “is what really robs us of knowing what happened in detail” and is “why the case will never be closed”. “Within 48 hours, people are wondering, ‘what happened?’,” says Posner, who was speaking to us for an episode of our History’s Greatest Conspiracies Theories podcast series. "Then the Warren Commission [established by JFK’s successor, Lyndon B Johnson, to investigate the events of 22 November 1963] comes out a year later with its massive report, and most people don’t like the idea of a government commission to decide what happened on a big controversial historical area.” The official conclusion of the Warren Commission was that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone in assassinating Kennedy. However, Oswald’s motives remain the subject of intense debate. Read more | The JFK assassination attempt you’ve never heard of Which US presidents have survived assassination attempts? While four presidents were killed in office, several others came perilously close to sharing their fate. Each attempt speaks to the vulnerabilities of being elected to the world’s most visible political office. The seven sitting US presidents who survived assassination attempts: Andrew Jackson: An assassin attempted to shoot Jackson at point-blank range in 1835, but both of his pistols misfired. Jackson then attacked the would-be assassin with his cane. Theodore Roosevelt: While campaigning for a third term in 1912, Roosevelt was shot in the chest. Franklin D Roosevelt: An attempted assassination by Giuseppe Zangara in 1933 failed when his shots missed Roosevelt but killed Chicago Mayor Anton Cermak. Harry S Truman: In 1950, two Puerto Rican nationalists attempted to storm Blair House, where Truman was staying; one was killed, and the other was arrested. Gerald Ford: Two separate assassination attempts were made on Ford within 17 days in 1975, one by Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme and another by Sara Jane Moore. Ronald Reagan: John Hinckley Jr shot Reagan in 1981, wounding him and three others. The president recovered. More recently, Donald Trump survived assassination attempts near Butler, Pennsylvania (July 2024) and in West Palm Beach, Florida (September 2024), although these occurred in between Trump’s two presidential terms.
History's Greatest Dishes: Victoria Sponge
History's Greatest Dishes (podcast series)
Annie Gray delves into the darker side to a delicacy that's become a national icon
Light as air, this neat sandwich of cake, jam and cream is often seen as emblematic of British baking – but its story is richer and more complex than its simple ingredients might suggest. In this episode of History's Greatest Dishes, Emily Briffett and food historian Annie Gray explore how an unassuming cake became indelibly associated with Britain. They chart its rise amid the 19th-century boom in baking technology and its later association with afternoon tea and the Women's Institute – and discuss how its ingredients reveal a darker side to the food industry. History’s Greatest Dishes is produced by HistoryExtra, the home of ‘History’s Greatest’ podcasts. Listen to our other podcasts: History’s Greatest Cities, History’s Greatest Conspiracy Theories, History’s Greatest Scandals, History’s Greatest Battles, HistoryExtra Long Reads.
Pageantry and politics: a history of British royal visits to the US
As transatlantic tensions swirled about King Charles III’s visit to Washington DC in 2026, Sam Edwards reveals how past royal tours have steadied the ‘special relationship’ in times of crisis
The April 2026 royal visit to the United States came at a particularly challenging moment for the US-UK ‘special relationship’. In the preceding months, President Donald Trump had repeatedly singled out prime minister Keir Starmer for blunt criticism, even going so far as to declare that Starmer as “no Churchill”. Meanwhile, the royal family similarly found itself caught up in transatlantic controversy: the Epstein scandal. If all that wasn’t challenging enough, King Charles’s visit to America also came at a time when the US-UK relationship was drawing even more scrutiny than usual. 2026 is year is the 80th anniversary of Winston Churchill’s famous ‘Iron Curtain’ speech, which popularised the phrase ‘special relationship’, and it’s also the 250th anniversary of the American Revolution. The latter was of course the event that severed the connection between the American colonies and the British Crown and thereby put the transatlantic relationship onto a very different trajectory. In short, the visit came at a time of significant turbulence in the US-UK relationship. King Charles, however, might have been able to take some reassurance from the fact that several of his predecessors had similarly travelled to the United States during moments of challenge, change and upheaval... <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/2GettyImages-1320405043big-566d798-e1777245347971.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A large group of men and women in formal 19th-century dress gather outside a red-brick tomb set within a leafy landscape, their attention focused on a central meeting of figures. Women wear layered gowns with bonnets, while men in dark suits and top hats stand in lines, with trees and a distant sky framing the scene." title="A painting by Thomas Pritchard Rossiter captures the Prince of Wales’s historic visit to George Washington’s tomb in 1860. The young prince, who later ruled as Edward VII, can be seen standing with President James Buchanan to the right of the tomb’s entrance (Image by Getty Images)" /> 1860: The first royal visit The very first visit to the United States by a British royal came in 1860 and involved Albert Edward, the Prince of Wales. Its origins lay in an invitation received by Queen Victoria from Canadian leaders keen that she see for herself “the progress and prosperity of this distant part of your dominions”. Citing duty, the queen declined. But she despatched her eldest son in her place. When President James Buchanan got wind of the situation, he then saw an opportunity and so extended an invitation for the prince to journey south of the border. The royal household happily accepted, and the man destined to become Edward VII thereby became the first British royal to visit the United States. Conscious of diplomatic protocol, his visit to the US was billed as ‘private’, and so he travelled under one of his many other titles, Lord Baron Renfrew. The prince landed in Canada in July 1860 and spent two months touring, during which he was frequently greeted by cheering crowds. No one was quite sure, though, how he would be received when he crossed the border into the United States. After all, it was only just over 40 years prior that British soldiers had marched on Washington and burned down the White House. Still more recently, in the 1840s, the relationship between Britain and its former colonies had again been fraught, this time due to American designs on the Pacific Northwest. Read more | When was the White House built – and why is it white? There was no need to worry, however, as just like in Canada the prince received a rapturous welcome. Travelling unofficially as ‘Renfrew’, he was met in Washington by President Buchanan and spent some time touring the capital. But the most celebrated moment came a few miles away, at Mount Vernon in Virginia. Here, Lord Renfrew laid a wreath at the tomb of George Washington, the man who had of course defeated his great grandfather, George III, all those years ago. It was a powerful gesture, and it has been something of a royal rite of passage ever since. In 1970, for instance, the Prince of Wales – now King Charles III – laid his own wreath at Mount Vernon. Perhaps this month we will see his son, Prince William, do likewise. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/3EU058443-a21ccb9-e1777245457912.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="George VI leans forward to place a wreath against a white stone tomb, his figure slightly bowed in a solemn gesture. Rows of uniformed servicemen stand rigidly at attention on either side, while a small group of onlookers watches from the foreground." title="King George VI lays a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at Arlington National Cemetery, 1939. The king’s five-day visit to the US, in which he met with President Franklin D Roosevelt, was the first such trip by a reigning British monarch (Photo by Topfoto)" /> 1939: The storm clouds of war The 1860 visit of ‘Lord Baron Renfrew’ occurred just as internal tensions in the United States were threatening to tear the country asunder. Within a couple of weeks of the prince’s departure, a new president – Abraham Lincoln – had been elected, while just a few months later war had broken out between North and South. The fighting would rage for the next four years, only ending in 1865. Almost 80 years later, in the summer of 1939, another American tour by British royalty likewise unfolded amidst the gathering storm clouds of war, albeit this time in Europe rather than in the United States. The 1939 visit by King George VI and Queen Elizabeth was a real landmark occasion: the first ever by a reigning British monarch. It came, moreover, at a particularly challenging moment for the royal family. Just three years earlier, in December 1936, Edward VIII abdicated the British throne. His decision provoked a constitutional crisis, but it also had ramifications for the US-UK relationship because it was at root a consequence of the king’s desire to marry an American divorcée, Wallis Simpson. The 1939 visit was thus a chance for the British royal family to shift the narrative. Equally important, it also provided an invaluable opportunity to strengthen transatlantic ties just as the Nazi threat in Europe intensified. The visit unfolded in June and was keenly supported by the US president, Franklin D Roosevelt (FDR). Like Lord Baron Renfrew’s visit in 1860, the royal tour took in a number of famous American landmarks, including Mount Vernon, where the British monarch followed the example set by his grandfather and laid a wreath at the tomb of George Washington. Read more | Why was George Washington the pride of Victorian England? Other significant episodes included a visit to the New York World’s Fair, a tour of the Capitol, and another wreath-laying, this time at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery. Perhaps most famous of all, however, was the king and queen’s meeting with FDR at his Hyde Park home. To the delight of the American press, the king was seen enjoying typical American picnic fare: hot dogs! By all accounts, the 1939 royal visit was a success. One American observer later wrote that “Their Majesties’ hundred hours in the United States had given rise to an enthusiasm without parallel in American history”. Later, one US newspaper even declared that because of the King’s visit “the old bond between the democracies has taken on higher, warmer, yes friendlier qualities than it ever had before”. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/4GettyImages-79655098-fcd4ee0-e1777245704830.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="A long line of cars moves down a wide, tree-lined avenue beneath a large triangular banner reading “Welcome Queen Elizabeth II”. Dense crowds line both sides of the road, with flags, uniforms and police escorts creating a sense of ceremony and scale." title="A motorcade marks Elizabeth II’s state visit to the United States in 1957. The young monarch faced the task of mending the so-called ‘special relationship’, which had been strained by the Suez Crisis (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 1957: The new Elizabethan era Despite the success of the 1939 visit, the Americans did not immediately commit themselves to the British cause when war broke out in Europe later that year. But once the United States had entered the war (in December 1941) an alliance of unprecedented closeness was indeed forged. For the British prime minister, Winston Churchill, this was the beginning of what he would call the “special relationship”, a transatlantic partnership built on shared history, culture, values, and sacrifice. Nonetheless, for all its undoubted closeness the special relationship was frequently tested during the Cold War, most famously during the Suez Crisis of late 1956. The crisis was precipitated by the decision of Egyptian leader Gamal Abdel Nasser to seize the Suez Canal zone, a vital trade route. In response, the British and French (with Israeli support) launched a military operation to regain control, but they did so without first securing American approval. Their actions quickly met with vigorous criticism from Washington, with President Eisenhower demanding an immediate Anglo-French withdrawal on pain of severe economic sanctions. Chastened, the British withdrew their forces, and with his credibility damaged beyond repair, prime minister Anthony Eden duly resigned, albeit citing ill health. Read more | How significant was the Suez Crisis? Among the first key tasks of the new government of prime minister Harold Macmillan was therefore to restore trust with Washington. Fortunately ‘Super Mac’, as he was known, was very well-placed to do so – he knew President Eisenhower from their service together during the Second World War, while his ties to ‘Ike’s’ successor, President John F Kennedy, were even closer: he was uncle-in-law to JFK’s younger sister Kathleen ‘Kick’ Kennedy (tragically killed in a plane crash in 1948). These close ties would certainly pay dividends, but when it came to rebuilding the special relationship Macmillan also had a trump card to play – royalty. The chance to play it finally came a year after the Suez crisis, in October 1957. Crowned in 1953 in a televised ceremony watched on both sides of the Atlantic, Queen Elizabeth II was eminently suited for the job of mending the special relationship, so recently strained by Suez. After all, she and the president were well-acquainted from the war years, and she was also already familiar with America. She had first visited – while still a princess – in 1951, during which visit she met with Eisenhower’s predecessor, President Harry Truman. The Queen was also very aware of the diplomatic impact of her parents’ visit in 1939. In short, this was one monarch ready and able to meet the challenge of the moment. The extent to which the 1957 state visit represented a clear attempt to restore the special relationship is quickly apparent in the itinerary. This was full of evocative symbolism and included a visit to Jamestown – to mark the 350th anniversary of English settlement – as well as a state dinner at the White House and a ticker-tape parade in New York City. It was a resounding success and was followed during her reign by no less than three more state visits to the United States. The second, in 1976, occurred during another testing moment in the transatlantic relationship. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/5GettyImages-57078933mod-0179412-e1777245939916.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Elizabeth II, wearing a sparkling tiara and sash, raises a glass as she smiles towards a suited President Gerald Ford returning the toast. A long table covered in bright flowers fills the foreground, with other formally dressed guests standing nearby." title="President Gerald Ford toasts Elizabeth II during the monarch’s 1976 state visit to the United States. The trip coincided with celebrations marking 200 years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 1976: The bicentennial The Queen’s 1976 state visit to the United States was purposefully timed so as to coincide with a major anniversary celebration – the bicentennial of the American Revolution. But like the visit of 1957 it also unfolded in the aftermath of significant transatlantic tensions, this time connected to the Vietnam War. The conflict in southeast Asia had dominated US foreign policy in the 1960s and early 1970s, and it also caused disagreements with European allies, including Britain. At the crux of the matter was the persistent refusal of the British government to send troops to fight alongside their American ally, a decision which drew pointed criticism from Washington. For both governments, the Queen’s 1976 state visit – which came at the invitation of President Gerald Ford – was thus an opportunity to reset the relationship after the recent disagreements. Read more | Queen Elizabeth II’s relationships with US presidents Like her 1957 visit, the details were worked out with an eye on the symbolism. The itinerary saw the Queen attend various bicentennial-focused ceremonies, and she also hosted her own reception at the British embassy in Washington. One of those in attendance declared that this was “the best diplomatic reception since King George VI and Queen Elizabeth visited in 1939”. But the highlight was a speech the Queen gave on her arrival at Philadelphia during which she expressed her “sincere gratitude” to “the Founding Fathers of this great republic for having taught Britain a very valuable lesson”. The Americans were delighted, with all differences – historic and recent – now happily forgotten. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2026/04/6GettyImages-117937786-1d6273a-e1777246001564.jpg" width="1500" height="1000" alt="Elizabeth II wears a pale green coat and wide-brimmed hat with a pink accent, leaning on a railing and looking ahead. Beside her, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh and other spectators in formal attire watch the event, some holding binoculars." title="Elizabeth II and Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh watch the Kentucky Derby during the monarch’s fourth and final state visit to the United States, May 2007. Although the monarch was able to indulge her passion for horse racing, the trip came amid heightened tensions stemming from the War on Terror (Photo by Getty Images)" /> 2007: A fond farewell The Queen’s fourth and final state visit to the US was in 2007, and like all its predecessors it occurred amidst geopolitical turmoil (it was the same with the third, in 1991, which came amidst the collapse of the Soviet Union and shortly after the Gulf War). This time the turmoil was tied to the ongoing War on Terror, which had seen British forces again fight side by side with the American ally. But although this suggested that the special relationship was back on a sure footing elsewhere the picture was rather more complicated. American unilateralism had in fact strained the transatlantic relationship, producing significant anti-war sentiment in Britain as well as vocal criticism of Washington from other European allies (especially the French). Frustrated by what they felt to be his slavish devotion to the Americans, some in the British press had even characterised the prime minister, Tony Blair, as President Bush’s ‘lapdog’. Just as after both Suez and Vietnam, therefore, the 2007 state visit offered a chance to use pageantry and ceremony to repair some of the damage. This objective was again very apparent in the itinerary, which, in homage to the 1957 visit, included a trip to Jamestown, then marking the 400th anniversary of English settlement. Other stopovers, all of which were well-reported in the US press, included attendance at the Kentucky Derby (the Queen was well-known for her love of horse racing) as well as a formal state banquet at the White House. It was the latter which also produced one of the trip’s most memorable moments: while giving a toast, President George W Bush had thanked the Queen for her role in the bicentennial celebrations, erroneously suggesting while doing so that this had occurred in 1776 (rather than 1976). The Queen raised her eyebrows in response, which in turn led the president to quip that she had given him “a look that only a mother could give a child”.
Royal women, with Professor Kate Williams
In this six-part video series for the HistoryExtra Academy, Kate Williams uncovers the little-known stories behind some of history’s most famous queens
Join Professor Kate Williams for a six-part HistoryExtra series uncovering the little-known stories behind some of history’s most famous queens. You’ll meet Cleopatra, the brilliant strategist who fought Rome for Egypt’s survival – Marie Antoinette, the queen blamed for a revolution she couldn’t control – and Elizabeth II, whose image shaped modern royalty. Across millennia, we’ll explore how royal women navigated power, politics, and expectation and how their legacies were shaped long after their deaths.