Meet Robert: a life gilded in punk couture, queer expression and royal opulence

Since his teens, fashion has served as a kind of armour for Robert Wellington – a way of wearing self-confidence on his sleeve.  

He still remembers one of the first times his dad gave him money to go shopping.

Most boys his age would have returned home with a soccer tee, a cap or maybe a pair of Nike trainers.

Wellington came back with a big faux fur, leopard print coat from a local thrift shop.

“A lot of fathers would be horrified by this, but mine thought it was hilarious. He was proud of his nonconformity and always supported my fashion style. I have really fond memories of him helping me customise my clothes,” he says.  

Today, his wardrobe is filled with garments by Vivienne Westwood, a designer he reveres for her iconic punk style and her fearless defiance of convention –  a philosophy that has come to define his own career.   

“I dropped out of school when I was 15 without any qualifications. I was a bit naughty and went out and did all the things I shouldn’t be doing as a young kid. It was a tough time,” Wellington says.

“But I didn’t stay out of education for long. I enrolled at a sixth form college to study art and went from being this weird alternative kid who was picked on at school to really thriving. It was there that I first encountered art history as a subject.”

After completing his art diploma and immersing himself in London’s art scene, Wellington received two offers to continue his academic journey: Chelsea Art School and Kent at Canterbury University.

“It is inherently human to use art and culture to construct our identity and the vision we want other people to see of ourselves.”

True to form, he chose neither. Instead, he followed another “secret” path: falling in love and moving to Australia.

That decision has shaped a remarkable career as an internationally renowned art historian specialising in ancien-regime France.

This October sees the release of his third book, Versailles mirrored– a journey through the power of luxury, from Louis XIV to Donald Trump.

Bienvenue à Versailles

If Wellington could step back in time for just an hour, he knows exactly where he’d go.

“It would have to be Versailles in the late 1770s, when Marie-Antoinette, the young queen, was coming into her own,” he says.

“I’d attend a royal ball as daylight fades, the candles are lit, and guests take the floor. Just imagine the magnificence. People spent untold fortunes on their court dresses, sewing jewels directly into their fabrics. I’d love to witness the candlelight reflecting on those stones.”

Wellington is among the world’s leading experts on the Palace of Versailles and its enduring grip on society.

In his latest book, he explores how Louis XIV’s palace has become a recurring point of reference across history for influential figures, from Alva Vanderbilt to Emad Khashoggi and Donald Trump.

Why does the residence of the Sun King still cast such a long shadow?

“It is inherently human to use art and culture to construct our identity and the vision we want other people to see of ourselves,” he says.

“There’s a long history of using the past to legitimise power. Louis XIV did it at Versailles by drawing upon Ancient Greece and Rome to situate himself as an inheritor of that tradition.”

Since the 17th century, leaders have looked to Versailles as a symbol of power –using its gilded aesthetic to signpost their own success.

But the deeper meaning behind Versailles’ marble halls and painted ceilings does not speak for itself. It’s been decoded over generations by art historians like Wellington.

This ability to interpret visual cues and read between the lines, also known as visual literacy, is as important as ever today.

“Visual literacy is vital to becoming aware of the world around us and the complex systems that we exist within. For example, it has helped me critique Trump’s idea of magnificence, which is a surface level understanding of it,” Wellington says.

In an interview with Vanity Fair, he explains Trump’s aesthetics represent an old American tradition in which the newly rich signal their social ascension by collecting art from old-regime France. But the result, he argues, looks more like MTV Cribs than Versailles.

“Trump’s idea of magnificence does not come from old regime France, it comes from Gilded Age America and the aesthetics of luxury hotels from that era, which is very much a capitalist story not an absolutists monarchy one,” Wellington says.

“He is drawing upon populist, media celebrity codes that have nothing to do with real Versailles.”

Art is the answer to repression

The arts have always offered queer people a platform for self-expression.

However, that hard-won progress is being undone by rising right-wing extremism, the attacks on trans rights, and the banning of queer art in some parts of the world.

Wellington believes art history has a role to play in resisting all this.

“Art history is actively exposing the fact that queer people, transgender people and people of gender diverse experience have always been here,” he says.

A good example is the Chevalier d’Éon, a gender-nonconforming figure who, born with male physiology, lived part of her life as a woman at the French court in the 18th century – and whose portrait now hangs in the National Portrait Gallery in London.

“She lived fiercely in a genderqueer way, and I think that’s a very powerful symbol of how the strength of one’s identity and personality can just push through all of the political nonsense.”

But the very institutions that support art history are also under threat, putting vulnerable communities at risk.  

“Without government support and institutional protection of arts programs and diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) initiatives, we risk marginalising a wide range of social groups – including queer people, individuals from diverse backgrounds, cultures, and racial identities,” says Wellington.

Still, all hope is not lost.

“History shows marginalising people always has an adverse effect. You end up giving them more power. This is why authoritarians hate works of art. They are so powerful they can’t really be pinned down or controlled.

“I feel like there is no end to the passion for art and visual culture. I’ve been a teacher for 15 years, and there’s never been a moment in which I thought students didn’t care about art. They do, every single semester, every single class. There are always rooms full of people who are hungry and eager to discuss the world of art.”