July 15, 1542—Nearly 40 years after posing for the portrait that made hers one of the most recognized faces in history, Lisa Gherardini Gioconda—a.k.a. “Mona Lisa”—passed away at age 63. Like so much about the life of Leonardo da Vinci, her identity had been an enigma for nearly five centuries—until recently, that is.
I heard it said that when James Joyce was writing Finnegans Wake, he rubbed his hands together and chuckled, “This’ll keep the professors busy for the next 100 years.” Well, Leonardo had different reasons for baffling posterity than the Irish novelist:
*If you start out life born out of wedlock, you already have one strike against you.
*If you’re a vegetarian in an age of so much binging among the upper classes that gout was practically an epidemic (think of former Yankee pitcher David Wells in every public square—if you dare), you’re a real conversation-stopper.
*If you’re a pacifist in an age convulsed by wars among small city-states, you’re suspect.
*If you dissect bodies because of your interest in medicine and the human form, you’re considered heretical and forced to give up the practice by the pope.
*If you’re brought up on sodomy charges—even if those accusations are suddenly, mysteriously dropped—you’re going to be careful in writing about your associations.
Not surprisingly, Leonardo made sure that it would be difficult in the extreme to read his work, resorting to left-handed mirror writing—and even to code. (Did you know that I write in code, too? It’s much simpler to remember that the Renaissance man’s. I simply use my regular handwriting.)
The “Mona Lisa” is doubly enigmatic because there appears to be no reason why the artist had to hide his involvement in the painting and his patron. Consider this: the portrait is unsigned, undated, and without any indication of the sitter’s name.
And that, incidentally, has fed all kinds of speculation through the years over who it might be.
Not that the best clue wasn’t provided early on. In Lives of the Painters, art historian Giorgio Vasari wrote flat-out that the subject of the painting was Lisa Gherardini.
But historians have this thing about evidence—they tend not to credit it until they can see it. In other words, it has to be written down to count. That is why, for instance, that the say-so of privileged groups who record their thoughts with pen and paper, and have the education and leisure to do so (the British in Ireland, white plantation owners in the American South) saw their testimony accorded greater weight than groups beneath their heels (Irish Catholic tenant farmers, African-American slaves).
Because Vasari was known to rely on anecdote, historians for a long time felt free to disregard his claims. That opened the field to all manner of historians and critics who deconstructed the painting to a fare-thee-well. Who did they think Mona Lisa was? Leonardo’s mother. A noblewoman. A courtesan. A prostitute. A pregnant woman. A gnasher of teeth. A facial paralytic. Let a thousand speculations bloom.
Now, it looks as if historians finally have what they want: written proof. Two years ago, it turned up in, of all places, the library at Germany’s Heidelberg University. Manuscript editor Armin Schlechter was leafing through an edition of letters by the Roman orator Cicero when he came across notes written by a Florentine city official, Agostino Vespucci—not only a cousin to the explorer and braggart for whom this country is named, but also the secretary to Niccolo Machiavelli, the writer who taught so many young citizens of our land all about the black arts of politics. Agostino noted that Leonardo was working simultaneously on three different paintings (that sounds just like him), including one of Lisa del Giacondo.
Amazingly, Vespucci’s note was even dated—October 1503—so we not only know who it was, but even when she was being painted. That note sounds pretty odd, especially when you consider it appeared in the margins of a book. (Odd, at any rate, to the likes of me. The annotations in my college textbooks includes such gems of wisdom as, “You’re kidding!”) But I guess in that hyperactive age of commerce and culture, Renaissance officials put down their thoughts when and where the urge struck down, because they might not have another minute to spare.
Another Leonardo scholar, Guiseppi Pallanti, after 25 years of research, had previously unearthed other biographical information about Lisa that bolstered Schlechter’s find. Here’s some of what we know about young Lisa:
* Her family and Leonardo’s lived only 10 feet away from each other in Via Ghibellina.
* Lisa was born into a minor noble family of rural origins.
* At age 16, she married Francesco del Giocondo, a silk merchant 14 years her senior –and a recent widower.
* Lisa’s house as a newlywed, in today’s San Lorenzo market quarter, was a good deal roomier and spiffier than the one where she grew up in Florence’s Via Sguazza. But it had one notable disadvantage: prostitutes roamed freely in the neighborhood.
* Lisa gave birth to five children, at least two of whom she had by the time she sat for Leonardo.
Leonardo worked on his masterpiece for four years, then—typically for him—he laid it aside for a long time. He managed to complete it for King Francis I of France shortly before his own death in 1519.
Twenty-three years later, Lisa followed him to the grave, no doubt unaware that she’d been granted a kind of visual immortality. Maybe if she knew, she might have flashed again that enigmatic smile that made her talked about the world over for more than 500 years.
I heard it said that when James Joyce was writing Finnegans Wake, he rubbed his hands together and chuckled, “This’ll keep the professors busy for the next 100 years.” Well, Leonardo had different reasons for baffling posterity than the Irish novelist:
*If you start out life born out of wedlock, you already have one strike against you.
*If you’re a vegetarian in an age of so much binging among the upper classes that gout was practically an epidemic (think of former Yankee pitcher David Wells in every public square—if you dare), you’re a real conversation-stopper.
*If you’re a pacifist in an age convulsed by wars among small city-states, you’re suspect.
*If you dissect bodies because of your interest in medicine and the human form, you’re considered heretical and forced to give up the practice by the pope.
*If you’re brought up on sodomy charges—even if those accusations are suddenly, mysteriously dropped—you’re going to be careful in writing about your associations.
Not surprisingly, Leonardo made sure that it would be difficult in the extreme to read his work, resorting to left-handed mirror writing—and even to code. (Did you know that I write in code, too? It’s much simpler to remember that the Renaissance man’s. I simply use my regular handwriting.)
The “Mona Lisa” is doubly enigmatic because there appears to be no reason why the artist had to hide his involvement in the painting and his patron. Consider this: the portrait is unsigned, undated, and without any indication of the sitter’s name.
And that, incidentally, has fed all kinds of speculation through the years over who it might be.
Not that the best clue wasn’t provided early on. In Lives of the Painters, art historian Giorgio Vasari wrote flat-out that the subject of the painting was Lisa Gherardini.
But historians have this thing about evidence—they tend not to credit it until they can see it. In other words, it has to be written down to count. That is why, for instance, that the say-so of privileged groups who record their thoughts with pen and paper, and have the education and leisure to do so (the British in Ireland, white plantation owners in the American South) saw their testimony accorded greater weight than groups beneath their heels (Irish Catholic tenant farmers, African-American slaves).
Because Vasari was known to rely on anecdote, historians for a long time felt free to disregard his claims. That opened the field to all manner of historians and critics who deconstructed the painting to a fare-thee-well. Who did they think Mona Lisa was? Leonardo’s mother. A noblewoman. A courtesan. A prostitute. A pregnant woman. A gnasher of teeth. A facial paralytic. Let a thousand speculations bloom.
Now, it looks as if historians finally have what they want: written proof. Two years ago, it turned up in, of all places, the library at Germany’s Heidelberg University. Manuscript editor Armin Schlechter was leafing through an edition of letters by the Roman orator Cicero when he came across notes written by a Florentine city official, Agostino Vespucci—not only a cousin to the explorer and braggart for whom this country is named, but also the secretary to Niccolo Machiavelli, the writer who taught so many young citizens of our land all about the black arts of politics. Agostino noted that Leonardo was working simultaneously on three different paintings (that sounds just like him), including one of Lisa del Giacondo.
Amazingly, Vespucci’s note was even dated—October 1503—so we not only know who it was, but even when she was being painted. That note sounds pretty odd, especially when you consider it appeared in the margins of a book. (Odd, at any rate, to the likes of me. The annotations in my college textbooks includes such gems of wisdom as, “You’re kidding!”) But I guess in that hyperactive age of commerce and culture, Renaissance officials put down their thoughts when and where the urge struck down, because they might not have another minute to spare.
Another Leonardo scholar, Guiseppi Pallanti, after 25 years of research, had previously unearthed other biographical information about Lisa that bolstered Schlechter’s find. Here’s some of what we know about young Lisa:
* Her family and Leonardo’s lived only 10 feet away from each other in Via Ghibellina.
* Lisa was born into a minor noble family of rural origins.
* At age 16, she married Francesco del Giocondo, a silk merchant 14 years her senior –and a recent widower.
* Lisa’s house as a newlywed, in today’s San Lorenzo market quarter, was a good deal roomier and spiffier than the one where she grew up in Florence’s Via Sguazza. But it had one notable disadvantage: prostitutes roamed freely in the neighborhood.
* Lisa gave birth to five children, at least two of whom she had by the time she sat for Leonardo.
Leonardo worked on his masterpiece for four years, then—typically for him—he laid it aside for a long time. He managed to complete it for King Francis I of France shortly before his own death in 1519.
Twenty-three years later, Lisa followed him to the grave, no doubt unaware that she’d been granted a kind of visual immortality. Maybe if she knew, she might have flashed again that enigmatic smile that made her talked about the world over for more than 500 years.
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