According to the German philosopher Theodor Adorno, to write poetry after Auschwitz was “barbaric”. What, though, about painting a picture? To mark this year’s Holocaust Memorial Day, the Prince of Wales commissioned a group of artists, some associated with his Drawing School, to portray seven Holocaust survivors. The results go on show at the Queen’s Gallery at Buckingham Palace today, while a television documentary following their creation, and telling the survivors’ stories, will air tonight on BBC Two.

Part of me had feared that this special display would be aesthetically sub-par. In the event, though, it proves memorable for all the right reasons, thanks to the strength of both the artists selected for the project – among them the respected contemporary painters Ishbel Myerscough, Jenny Saville and Stuart Pearson Wright – and, of course, the sitters, whose uplifting resilience is immediately apparent. The power of this small exhibition is derived as much from their personal histories as it is from the artistic skill on show. 

There are no tears or torment; no howls of anguish or gnashing of teeth. Rather, we encounter seven dignified, (mostly) compelling, and (in several cases) extravagantly moving portraits; they feature four men and three women, the youngest born in 1930, hung together in the refined setting of the gallery’s Redgrave Room, which imitates the work of the architect John Soane. 

In the case of Myerscough’s stand-out, bust-length portrait, which depicts the oldest of the sitters, Lily Ebert (née Engelman), who was born in Hungary in 1923, we encounter something that confounds our expectations altogether: a stunning image of a radiant nonagenarian, set against a background of rich royal blue, in the manner of Holbein. For all the gravity of the occasion, Ebert stares back at us with a massive, megawatt grin. Apparently, in real life, despite being knee-high to a grasshopper, she’s a dynamo, and has become an unlikely TikTok star.

This is a fabulous picture, capturing Ebert’s charismatic spirit: Myerscough has clearly had fun with the flickering floral pattern of her sitter’s chic “French dress” (in a lovely, intimate touch, a hint of her undergarment is visible, poking out), as well as the striking tonal contrast of her mottled skin, which appears as visually splendid as, say, a leopard’s hide. If that simile sounds dehumanising, I assure you the picture has the opposite effect.