Painting Mona Lisa aka I, Mona Lisa

On the table were levels and wooden slices with long, sharp edges; heaps of gray-white minever pelts, with holes where the hairs had been painstakingly plucked, one by one, were arranged in heaps next to a pair of scissors. There were piles, too, of feathers-the largest, darkest ones from vultures, the paler ones from geese, the smallest, most delicate from doves-and of translucent, wiry pig bristles. On the far end was a wooden bucket, streaked with lime and covered with a cloth; the floor beneath was speckled with plaster. Near it, in neat, careful rows, small, rolled pellets of color-white, black, yellow-tan, warm pink-lay drying on a cloth beside a large pestle and mortar, which held a few tiny nuggets of brilliant malachite. There was also a large slab of red stone which held a pile of dark yellow-brown powder, a palm-sized grinding stone, and a thin wooden spatula with a sharp edge. A number of paintbrushes were in various stages of construction: a vulture feather had been plucked, the tip cut away. A thick bunch of pig bristles had then been carefully inserted into the opening and tied firmly in place with waxed thread. There were a number of very slender spindle-shaped wooden sticks; one had been inserted into the barrel of the quill so that it could withstand the pressure of an artist’s hand.

“This is a painter’s studio,” I said to myself, delighted.

Leonardo had set the tray down and studied me, amused, as he poured wine into a goblet. “After a fashion; it’s only temporary. The one in Milan is much nicer. Go ahead, touch whatever you like. Please.”

I drew in a breath. I reached for a half-finished brush that wanted a handle. It was made from a dove’s stripped feather; the creator had carefully inserted white minever fur, strand by strand, into the cutaway quill, and trimmed the brush to an impossibly sharp point. I touched the silky tip with my finger and smiled. It was an instrument for painting the finest detail: a single hair, an eyelash.

I set it down and pointed to the dried pellets. The colors were amazingly uniform. “And how are these made? And used?”

He set one goblet down and filled another; my questions pleased him. “You see the ocher there, on the porphyry?” He indicated the powder on the red stone slab. “The best ocher is found in the mountains. I found this in the forests outside of Milan. There, if you dig, you can find veins of white and ocher and sinoper of all shades, from black to a light reddish brown. The mineral is many times washed, then many times ground, until it’s brilliant and pure. Then it is worked up with linseed oil-or water, if one prefers-and dried. This particular black here isn’t sinoper, but from burned almond shells, which makes a very nice, workable color.”

“And this? Is this sinoper?” I pointed at a pink pellet.

“The cinabrese? It’s made from a mixture of lime white and the very lightest shade of sinoper. For painting flesh. When I’m ready to paint, I crush a bean with linseed oil, as much as I need.” He paused and gave me a strangely curious, shy glance. “I know we have many things to discuss, Madonna. But I had hoped…” He handed me a goblet of wine. I was too nervous to want it, but I accepted it out of courtesy, and took a sip so that he felt free to drink from his own glass. He took a token swallow and set it down. “I had hoped we might relax a bit before launching into difficult subjects. And I had hoped you might consent to sit for me, if only for a little while today.”

“Sit for you?”

“For your portrait.”

I let go a short laugh of disbelief. “What would be the point?” I challenged. “Lorenzo is dead. And Giuliano…” I didn’t finish.

“I would still like to complete the work.”

“Surely you are doing this for some reason other than a sense of obligation to dead men.”

He did not answer at once. He turned his face toward the viewless window, bathing his features, his hair, in the buttery glow. His eyes were clear as glass, almost colorless, filled with light. “I saw your mother,” he said.

He spoke so softly I was not sure I had heard aright. I jerked up my head. “What do you mean? You knew my mother?”

“I was acquainted with her. She and your… her husband, Ser Antonio, were often guests at the Medici palazzo in those days. Before she became infirm. I was never introduced to Ser Antonio-he was quite shy and often remained out in the garden, or speaking to the stablehands. But I sat twice beside your mother at banquets. And I spoke to her often at Carnival celebrations. Like you, she had a good eye for art. She appreciated it, understood it.”

“Yes.” I could not speak beyond a whisper. “So she was often at the Medici palazzo?”

He gave a slow nod. “Lorenzo was quite taken with her-as a friend. He showed her his collection, of course. He respected her opinion greatly. Her family had always been friends with the Tornabuoni-the family of Lorenzo’s mother-and that was how they met. Through Lorenzo, of course, she met Giuliano.”

“Was she-did everyone know she was having an affair with him?”

His eyelids lowered. “No, Madonna. Your mother was a woman of great virtue. I honestly don’t believe that she and Giuliano-” He broke off; to my surprise, he flushed.

“You don’t believe they were… together… until?” I prompted. I did not want to embarrass him, but I had waited for years to learn the truth about my mother’s life.

He lifted his gaze, but would not look directly at me. “The night before Giuliano was murdered-I saw her on the Via de’ Gori just outside the Medici palazzo. She was going to see him; she was radiant with joy, so happy. And… the light was very tender, very gentle. It was dusk, and she stepped from the shadows. I…” His voice trailed; he was overwhelmed by the task of trying to convey what he had seen, something numinous and fleeting. “There was no harshness of line, no clear delineation between her skin and the air that surrounded it. She emerged from the darkness, yet she was not separate from it, not separate from the sky or the street or the buildings. And it seemed as though… she were outside time. It was an amazing moment. She looked to be more than a woman. She was a Madonna, an angel. The light was… remarkable.” He stopped himself; his tone became practical. “You must forgive me for such foolish ravings.”

“They’re not ravings. They sound like poetry.”

“You know how beautiful she was.”

“Yes.”

“Imagine her a hundred times more beautiful. Imagine her lit from within. I wanted very badly to paint her, but… Giuliano was murdered, of course. And then Anna Lucrezia fell ill.”

“She wasn’t ill,” I said. “Her husband couldn’t father children. He struck her when he learned she was pregnant.” It felt odd to speak of my father so distantly, so coldly, when I loved him despite all his sins.

Leonardo’s eyes flickered with anger and pain, as if he had been struck himself. “So. He always knew.”

“He always knew.”

It took him a long moment to gather himself. “I am sorry for it. That night, I had resolved to paint your mother. I had wanted to capture that beautiful essence and show her as joyful. As content. The way she was then, going to Giuliano, not the way she became. She had a natural radiance-and you have it, too, Madonna Lisa. I see her in you. And if I could be permitted to record it…” He broke off. “I know it is terribly awkward to have you sit now, but I have learned the capriciousness of fate. She was with Giuliano that night; she was happy. And the next day, he was gone. Who knows where you or I will be tomorrow?”

He might have said more in an effort to make his argument, but I silenced him by laying a hand upon his forearm. “Where,” I asked, “would you like me to sit?”

He let me look at the charcoal sketch upon the easel first, the cartone, or cartoon, as he called it. It was made from the drawing done in the garden at Santo Spirito, the day after Lorenzo’s funeral. No longer was I glancing over my unfinished shoulder at the artist, as I had been in the silverpoint drawing; now I sat with my full face shown directly to the viewer, with my shoulders and body turning only slightly away. No longer was I only a head with the merest intimation of shoulders and headdress; I had hair, long and free as a young girl’s. I had a decollete that would bring down the wrath of Savonarola’s militant cherubs. I had hands, and enough of a body to convey the fact that I was sitting.

As I stood beside Leonardo, gazing at the drawing on the easel, he glanced at me, made a small sound of disgust, and at once retrieved a chicken feather from the little table and very lightly swept it over the paper. The feather’s edge darkened; the charcoal beneath it disappeared.

“Sit,” he said, utterly distracted. “The chin. I must get it right.”

I went and sat. Feather still in his hand, he followed me and, with meticulous fussiness, arranged me just so: chin perfectly straight, with no tilt up or down, head turned at a precise angle away from my body. He did not care,