At the conclusion of the Commonwealth Summit, held in Harare in 1991 and bringing together the great overseas family of former British colonies and dominions, I was invited to a reception in honour of the sovereign at the British High Commission in the Zimbabwean capital. A marquee had been erected on the lawn of the presidential residence where the royal couple were staying. The thirty or so guests stood in impressive stillness, hands clasped behind their backs. I had been warned: there was no point approaching Her Majesty with an outstretched hand or brandishing a business card. If it so pleased Charles Anson, Director of Communications at Buckingham Palace, the Queen would come to you. Calm, patience and feigned indifference were the best weapons if one hoped to catch her attention.

‘She’ arrived. Peach‑toned complexion, blue eyes with a direct gaze, a clear, straight profile, magnificent teeth, and the softly permed hair of the woman who embodied our entire contemporary history – the effect was striking. She was smaller than I had imagined. The wandering ethnologist in me was struck by the inimitable patina, the unequalled polish, of the fortieth sovereign since William the Conqueror. Her hat was blue, and her dress, in the same shade, was patterned with matching floral motifs. She wore white gloves and carried a beige handbag.

Anson came up beside me and introduced me to the Queen: ‘Ma’am, this is Marc Roche, the London correspondent for Le Monde.’

Elizabeth II was standing before me, in the flesh. She regarded me with a mysterious air and offered a soft, unassertive hand. In a faintly nasal voice, the ends of her sentences almost inaudible, she asked the three ritual questions put to any foreigner in such an encounter: country of origin, profession, and how long I had been living in the United Kingdom. Having listened to my brief answers with intense concentration but not the slightest interest, the sovereign took a deep breath, closed her eyes and, after politely bringing the exchange to an end, stepped back and withdrew. She slipped away before I even realised she had gone. A professional, indeed.

One always had the impression that the world’s most photographed and painted monarch looked as if she belonged in a wax museum. No one had ever been able to read anything in that face – heavy with secrets that remained unspoken even after her death on 8 September 2022. The same self-control was always on display, even in the most dramatic and testing circumstances.

Her genius? Never straying from the beaten path, in order to preserve the mystique of the institution so carefully sculpted by official royal communicators, painters and photographers. Thanks to this finely honed art of self-presentation, one was led to portray her as she wished to be seen, rather than as one actually saw her. Or even as she saw herself. Masterful.

Throughout her life, Her Majesty was fully aware that ‘comms’ formed part of the repertoire of any public figure in a modern society. The point was not to do more, but to do it well. The sovereign mastered the spoken word by neither speaking too often nor merely for the sake of it. She never gave interviews. In her speeches, everything was said briefly, without excessive lyricism or theatrical effect. The tone was restrained and calm. In front of photographers or cameras, she never suffered from stage fright.

For a woman of her generation, she was remarkably attentive to the visual dimension, to the symbolism of her role. That is why, during their reconnaissance missions ahead of an official visit, whether in the United Kingdom or abroad, her advisers would draw up the programme according to the positioning of the cameras.  Priority was always given to shots in iconic locations – cathedrals and castles, the D‑Day beaches, the US Congress, the European Parliament, or Nelson Mandela’s prison… She embraced the dictum of the advertising executive Jacques Séguéla, image adviser to François Mitterrand: ‘The message is television, since it is the foremost of the media. And television is emotion, therefore the message is emotion. We are leaving the age of public opinion and entering that of public emotion.’ But make no mistake: the Queen hated having a camera thrust in her face, hated putting herself on display.

Despite her contempt for journalists, born of the tabloids’ vicious attacks on her family, Elizabeth II regarded the media as a necessary evil. She was acutely aware that the monarchy’s very existence depended heavily on its public image, as evidenced by her famous remark: ‘I have to be seen to be believed.’ This helps to explain her collaboration on three ambitious BBC documentaries that marked milestones in the nation’s television history. Richard Cawston’s celebrated documentary Royal Family, broadcast in 1969, extolled the simplicity of family life by showing the Queen and her relatives among their horses and dogs, or cooking sausages at a picnic in Scotland. For the programme Elizabeth R, aired in February 1992, the Queen allowed cameras to follow her for a year during her official activities. Not once is she seen eating or drinking. The third instalment, in 2006, rolled out the red carpet for an endless stream of fawning platitudes.

But beware of missteps. The controversial photograph that appeared on the front pages of the entire British press in July 1999 bore witness to the risks inherent in popularising the monarchy. The original idea was to promote a new image of the sovereign after her misjudgements at the time of Princess Diana’s death in 1997, highlighting her empathy for those suffering social exclusion. The photograph shows the Queen having tea in the flat of a Glasgow council‑estate resident, Susan McCarron. The tenant, who had suffered several strokes, was bringing up her ten‑year‑old son alone; he is seen sitting on the sofa next to the lady‑in‑waiting. Elizabeth II drinks a cup of tea but does not touch the chocolate biscuits offered to her. Meanwhile, the boy is busy picking his nose. The distinguished visitor and her hostess talk about interior decoration and the care she receives from the National Health Service. ‘The Queen was relaxed and friendly’, Mrs McCarron later said.