The first thing every portrait painter learns is: when the eyes change, so, too, does the mouth. It was this immutable fact that was making life hard for Leonardo da Vinci.
Every day, sometimes every hour, Mona Lisa’s eyes changed and with every change Leonardo was forced to make small adjustments. Most people wore an expression of guardedness while in front of a portrait painter. This suited Leonardo. It freed him to create whatever flattering expression he chose. A painter quickly went hungry if the portraits he painted were not flattering. This was the second thing every portrait painter learned: no one commissioned the truth.
Mona Lisa’s face constantly shimmered and transformed; the subtle play of her expressions was as wondrous, as variant, as light on water. Every shift was another veil dropping. Leonardo was fascinated. He had never been so thrilled, so challenged, so daunted by a painting before.
Of course, he could have just painted a likeness of Mona Lisa, collected his money and been done with it. But this woman was not just sitting for him, impatiently waiting for him to be finished: she was revealing herself to him. How then could he just paint her features, arranged prettily?
When he was alone, during the evenings, he sometimes gazed at the unfinished canvas and felt afraid. Afraid the challenge was too great, afraid he could not do it. Instead of the planes and angles, the highlights and shadows of Mona Lisa’s face coming into focus, they remained stubbornly elusive. Leonardo was spending more and more time on the background, creating a fantastical landscape into which he poured his frustration.
He took frequent breaks during the day: not from fatigue but from exasperation with all that failed to emerge from his brush. During these breaks he wanted to sit with Mona Lisa and talk quietly. He longed for her voice to pour over him, to soothe him. But always she left the studio, preferring to walk in the garden with her maid.
Other than the polite exchanges they shared when she arrived every morning and left every afternoon, she hardly spoke to him. Normally this would have delighted Leonardo. He hated the incessant chatter that usually arose from people who sat for him. But the quietness that surrounded Mona Lisa was deep and tantalizing, the very air surrounding her scented with secrets.
She evaded all but the most direct questions. He was able to extract only the barest facts of her life. Leonardo was not a loquacious man, quite the opposite actually, but in desperation he found himself chatting away like a servant on market day to her. And not just of ordinary things, but of his ideas about art and science; of the possibilities he knew existed, and the mysteries still to be solved. Mona Lisa listened attentively, or appeared to. But still she shared nothing of herself; her thoughts remained as guarded as treasure.
Eventually Leonardo forced himself to abandon the painting’s background. When he set to work on her face again he saw it had changed. He had expected this, but was not prepared for the look of amusement that glinted in her eyes. Was she laughing at him? After all he had confessed? Suddenly exhausted, Leonardo laid down his brush and told her to go home. She left reluctantly, looking wounded and disappointed. Leonardo was confused. Only later, after the sun had set and his studio was growing dark, did he guess the truth: she had fallen in love with him. It had not been amusement on her face, but adoration. This was his chance to paint a woman in love.
The next morning she arrived looking calm but Leonardo was not fooled. He set straight to work, painting so quickly he felt possessed. At the end of the day he was able to say, “It is finished.”
“I will tell my husband. He will come and pay you,” she said, turning away.
“Don’t you want to see it?”
She was already to the studio door. They might never see each other again. She shrugged. “It is to be hung in our house. I will have all my life to look at it,” she answered and left.
That night Leonardo slept badly; her name repeated itself in his dreams, each round vowel ringing like an erotic bell. In the morning Mona Lisa’s husband arrived. He was a fat, coarse man with a sprinkling of dandruff decorating both shoulders. Leonardo led him to the easel where the painting waited. He gazed at it in disbelief before shouting, “I will not pay for this!”
“Why not?”
“She looks bored! This is the way she looks when the servants complain or my mother comes for a visit. No man wants a portrait of his wife looking this way. He sees her like this far too much as it is! You are supposed to be the best painter in all of Italy and this is what you paint? I will find someone else to paint my wife’s portrait!” He stormed out of the studio, letting the door bang rudely shut behind him.
Leonardo’s eyes met Mona Lisa’s painted ones. Had he been wrong? No answer lurked there. Perhaps he should take a break from painting. Maybe accept the French king’s invitation and go to France. But was he an artist? Or was he nothing more than a jumble of ideas he could make no one understand? His head hurt and he felt exhausted. Somewhere beyond his window a crow cawed. He had felt so sure he was right. Maybe he was wrong about everything: Mona Lisa; art; science; life; love. All of it.
Mona Lisa stared out from the canvas, aloof as a goddess, offering no help.
Lori Ann Bloomfield lives in Toronto, Canada. When not reading or writing she can be found cooking great vegan food, riding her bike or daydreaming.
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20 Responses to “WHAT THE PAINTER SAW • by Lori Ann Bloomfield”
Comments
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January 8th, 2009 at 12:22 am
There are one or two things factually wrong with that:-
- “This was the second thing every portrait painter learned: no one commissioned the truth”; however, Oliver Cromwell probably did.
- “…he sometimes gazed at the unfinished canvas…”; this is definitely wrong, as the Mona Lisa was painted on a poplar panel and not on a canvas at all (wooden panels were usual for 16th century paintings).
January 8th, 2009 at 4:26 am
I found this thouroughly enjoyable, regardless of whether some facts may be wrong or not. After all, it’s fiction, and – who knows – maybe this is the way it was!
January 8th, 2009 at 5:12 am
I loved it – it was so believable. The factual stuff didn’t trip me up one bit.
January 8th, 2009 at 5:15 am
p.s. I’d love to see what you would do with Whistler (’s Mother)!
January 8th, 2009 at 5:31 am
Why are there so many Mona Lisa stories? Here’s another and I can’t vouch for its truth. Leonardo was getting on in years. His paid model (her features disguised in his formal and final works) was worried about future employment. Good Leonardo said: “I will paint a fine portrait of you; your features exactly. If anything ever happens to me, you may sell it at full price, your features on it proving you did not steal it from my estate.” Mona Lisa said, “I will always treasure it. I will hang it as a trophy on my hallway door.”
January 8th, 2009 at 5:52 am
For centuries people have gazed at Mona Lisa with raised eyebrows because it evokes a question in each of us. Seeing this painting is like walking into a room and interrupting something warm and secret and tantalizing. I think Lori Ann captured this feeling. Great story and a very good read.
January 8th, 2009 at 6:27 am
Interesting take, that she’d fallen in love with him. I like the idea of a relationship having formed between them, especially one so restrained and unexplored. Thanks for sharing, Lori Ann.
January 8th, 2009 at 7:22 am
Nice, I liked this despite factual accurarcy or “truth.”
January 8th, 2009 at 7:27 am
I loved this. You really captured the mystique surrounding the painting and created a great set of characters to populate it.
January 8th, 2009 at 8:27 am
There’s a reason that story was submitted to a fiction publication. Why let so-called historical details ruin a great little story?
January 8th, 2009 at 8:51 am
Still, all you gainsayers of the truth, this is an estimable subject and Lori Ann has every right to take a fling at history to bring forth a larger thought. Four stars and my thanks for a bright moment this morning.
January 8th, 2009 at 11:16 am
Nice story, Lori Ann. Loved the last line especially.
By my count, one comment – the first – mentions factual inaccuracies, and five subsequent comments point out that it’s still a nice story (which it is). I’m not sure where the phrase “all you gainsayers of the truth” came from – one poor fellow who mentioned two minor points? Can we give it a rest?
January 8th, 2009 at 12:01 pm
Bob -
If Lori Ann Bloomfield named her protaganists ordinary names, such as William and Mary, there would be no accusation of distortions of truth, but then there would be no disguise of the STORY which is one of an inexperienced, untalented painter who dislikes painting’s kind of difficult, groping, uncertain solutions and daydreams of rescue by a rich, admiring, amorous lady who will put him through his Certified Public Accountancy.
January 8th, 2009 at 2:34 pm
Counting up and categorising comments is itself a factual exercise of just that sort, so it is hypocritical to criticise a comment for checking the facts on that basis.
But what “gainsaying”, anyway? All I was doing was the humble subeditor’s job of fact checking, which is just precisely one of the things that this forum is for, and which in any publication is meant to free up the creative artist to attend to that side of things. On the one hand it is constructive criticism for the artist who can develop better habits in the future (another function of this forum), and on the other it heads off egregious cases which interfere with people’s engagement with the piece, e.g. if the author had casually called the sitter a blonde the shock would have jolted readers out of the mood (which is why the good writing habits are good and the bad habits bad). But these pedestrian and humble requirements of the writer’s craft do not go to the artistry, so I should not be read as making any criticism at that level; yet they are part of the craft, and should not be waved away out of some refined and airy aesthetic distaste for petty details. Details can trip you up, and good habits should be encouraged even when bad habits are still only small.
January 8th, 2009 at 3:40 pm
P.M. Lawrence is so right! We should stick to the story as it was in fact written and not get lost in meanderings of sociability of the roundtable. Thanks for the good habits reminder.
January 9th, 2009 at 6:59 am
PM’s not wrong, however:
On the first point, one exception does not a generalization unmake, IMO. And since it wasn’t even da Vinci who painted the Cromwell portrait, and an even that occured well over a century after his death, hardly relevant.
The second is certainly valid, but I’d let it slide on the idea that it’s probably not common knowledge. When the layman reads “canvas” they keep reading. If they see “poplar panel” they probably stop and say, “What the hell is that?” Not usually what you want to happen.
Either way, there’s no reason to bash him.
January 9th, 2009 at 8:09 am
Loved it. And I usually don’t go for fanciful stories about painting. The pace was just bang-on! Ummm.. and isn’t a panel of wood still a ‘canvas’ to an artist? For Example, a Post-It Note is a canvas, no? Cheers!
January 9th, 2009 at 3:37 pm
I really enjoyed this story. It had great flow and I took to the characters immediately. I never saw Mona as having much of a personality, but you’ve brought out something very genuine and unique. Bravo!
January 22nd, 2010 at 9:37 am
I’m not much of a critic….and worse I am a horrible writer, but i do like fiction. I had to comment on this once I read some of the other comments, in regards to the “facts” some of you have made to a fiction short story….I can understand micro managing the facts if for a example: a Biography, or journal…Or even a autobiography, but when it is short fiction get a life and be concerned about yourself, after all what have you published? A “poplar panel” what the f@#k is that and who cares…? I’m sure if I am in art school that would matter but in everyday fiction who cares. I think the author did a great job getting your attention..therefore the story was successful
January 22nd, 2010 at 5:43 pm
Sir James, you writing that is like someone telling a vegetarian, say, that he knew for a fact that the vegetarian didn’t care whether he ate meat or not; it’s offensive for insisting to my face that I am something I’m not. Who cares? Why, I care, just as much as someone would care if he knew London and read a story which had Big Ben right next to the Tower of London. The story pulls you up short, from having something you know is not true – if you just happen to know it. If you don’t know, you don’t notice, but it still traps the unwary.
Here, the story talks about the Mona Lisa on canvas. Now, I happened – by sheer chance – to know that in the 16th century portraits were painted on thin panels of wood, because I had heard that there had been trouble restoring some of Holbein’s work because of that. So this grated, just as much as hearing of Lincoln being driven to the White House in a car would. Even so, I went and checked about the Mona Lisa, and I found out that it really had been painted on a panel, which happened to made of poplar.
So, yes, the author did do a great job of getting my attention – on that point where it got stopped dead, and so the story destroyed its own flow. So it was not successful, it caused a blockage on the anachronism. Even fiction needs good background.