A Cold and Lonely, Lovely Work of Art

This week, the art world is abuzz about a second Mona Lisa painting.  It is a welcome respite from the tiresome political and world news.  Knowledge of this painting is not new; the art community has known about it for years, but it has been kept in hiding for half a century.  Only recently was the painting revisited, allowing Italian experts to test its authenticity with modern technology.  Among the opinions that have surfaced, many are quick to point out how exactly this second painting—called the Isleworth Mona Lisa due to the English residence of the last owner—resembles the Louvre masterpiece in structure and composition.  The two are of different scales (the Louvre masterpiece is much smaller), adding weight to the conclusion that none but the master himself could have rendered such an uncanny likeness.

One fact that works steadfastly against the authenticity of the Isleworth painting is that it is painted on canvas.  Wood was the preferred “canvas” for daVinci, and the famous Mona Lisa is indeed painted on wood.  An artist’s habits are an important piece of evidence to consider.  As my husband is fond of remarking, "Common things happen commonly.”  Artists are creatures of habit.  It is harder to explain the use of an unexpected material than it is to explain a similar looking painting.

What is known is that such a painting was commissioned by a 16^th century Italian nobleman, but was never delivered.  The painting in the Louvre—believed to be of Lisa Gherardini, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo—was found among daVinci’s effects upon his death.  He lived the last years of his life in France’s Loire Valley.  But the most interesting part of this story is that the iconic smiling subject in the Isleworth painting  appears to be about 10 years younger.  Experts argue, therefore, that it is “the original” version, predating “La Jaconde” of the Louvre. 

I think the experts got this completely wrong.  Sure, they may have matched paints and confirmed the dates through scientific means, but they have neglected the most obvious evidence of all:  no woman would authorize a painting that makes her appear older.  It is far more compelling to argue that the Louvre painting is the original or even a prototype and that the larger Isleworth Mona Lisa was meant to be the final deliverable.  Thus, the fact that it was found in an unfinished state makes sense. 

Not convinced?  Consider the following dialogue:

Leo:  Hey, Lisa, so check out my painting!

Lisa: Oy vey, Leo, you made me hideous.  This painting makes me look fat.  And jeez—how old I look!  I can’t possibly look like that!  There’s no way I’m letting you show that to my husband!

Leo:  But this is exactly the way I see you!

Lisa:  Seriously, you must be blind!  My skin is flawless like alabaster!  I do not have spots and hideous bags under my eyes.  Make my bosom perky!  And get rid of that dowager’s veil.  It makes me look like I’m in mourning.  And what’s with that background?  I’m not put out to pasture yet!  Paint me as I am—mistress of the palazzo!

Leo:  I guarantee, in ten years you will love the way you look in this picture!

Lisa:  If you ever want to see a dime from this commission you will do as I say!  Make it larger than life so that whatever my husband is doing he will feel my eyes watching him.  And I want you to capture me for all eternity as a twenty-something babe.   No matter what woman catches my husband’s roving eye, I want him to see me looking prettier and younger.  It will be our little joke.

Regardless of what the so-called experts conclude, I will always believe that Leonardo daVinci was heeding the wishes of a desperate woman who was fighting to retain her youth and the attentions of her husband.  What we see was the result of a conspiracy between artist and subject.  We see it in her smile, but her lips remain sealed.