Who Leonardo da Vinci really was
“The dragonfly flies with four wings and when those in front are raised, those behind are lowered”, wrote Leonardo da Vinci with remarkable precision and literary flair in one of the 7,200 pages of his notebooks, echoing the keen observations of a Renaissance-era Darwin or Nabokov. His biographer, Walter Isaacson, envisions him, elegantly garbed in knee-length pink robes and sporting a well-groomed long beard, standing at the edge of a moat surrounding the tower of Emperor Leonardo Sforza, observing dragonflies with intense focus. It was at Sforza’s court where da Vinci was employed.
During this period, in the early 16th century, Leonardo meticulously recorded his observations about the marvels of life and the raw beauty of existence. His notes covered topics from the eddies of blood around the heart in his early sketches of the circulatory system, to the turbulent motion of water resembling a woman’s curls, the nerves controlling eye movement, the force of gravity, the possibilities of a flying machine, and even the hand-application of oil paint – a new technique that distinguished his few paintings.
Madness, intelligence, alienation, insatiable curiosity, pleasure, and pain were always intertwined in the most agonizing way, as he noted under a 1517 drawing.
He alone dared to depict the commotion of the Apostles at the Last Supper, leaving Jesus in profound stillness – a reflection, perhaps, of the creator’s peace that he himself knew as an artist?
In nature, nothing is superfluous and nothing is gratuitous, even at the pinnacle of success. His own chiaroscuro technique revealed the inner truth of faces, while his sponge softened the outlines of figures, mirroring his monumental struggles. The quintessential Homo universalis could subvert facts and adopt the most revolutionary methods, yet he often left his works unfinished, remaining despondent and unfulfilled till the end.
All this is vividly and meticulously detailed in Walter Isaacson’s biography, Leonardo da Vinci – A Biography of a Genius (published by George Barouxis). This thoughtful hardback edition, designed like a scrapbook, showcases all surviving paintings, contrasts different versions of many of his works, and illuminates every stage of the genius scientist and artist’s life, from Florence and Milan to Rome.
Isaacson’s detailed exploration into the authenticity of each work is a captivating journey, as he dissects all points of contention without definitively taking sides, particularly in the controversial cases of the “Bella Principessa” and “Salvator Mundi”.
His book also features a unique chapter dedicated to Da Vinci’s lost and subsequently rediscovered works, such as “Leda and the Swan” and his drawings of “St Sebastian”, discovered only in 2016. Above all, Isaacson delves into the paradoxes of a personality that combined the audacity of a seasoned artist – as evidenced by the letter he wrote to the Duke of Milan, boasting his ability to do “everything possible, as well as anyone, whoever they may be” – with a distinct inability to see any project through to completion.
A joyful child, vegetarian, and an ardent lover of animals, Da Vinci was largely self-taught and found solace in the freedom of nature, which he believed taught him more than the rigid schools of his time. His art, untouched by guilt or prejudice, reveals the multi-layered secrets of his craft. His noble lineage on his father’s side, despite his father never marrying his mother, afforded him innate elegance and access to the courts and artistic circles.
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Though he trained at Verrocchio’s studio in Florence and quickly surpassed his master, Da Vinci never felt a part of the community of artists he saw as somewhat stale, including Botticelli himself. In one of his first commissions, a retable for the chapel of the Palazzo della Signoria, the renowned “Adoration of the Magi” – similar to one created by Botticelli – Leonardo included his self-portrait in a corner of the piece. However, instead of engaging with the scene, he appears almost absent: turned away, detached from the action, and obscure, he appears both a part of the world and yet beyond it, much like his true nature. His biographer often emphasizes that within his beautiful physique, Da Vinci understood that both beauty and artistic power were subject to the inevitable cycle of life.
No one had ever perceived this cycle quite like Da Vinci, beginning with passion and culminating in logic, viewed from the farthest reach of the binoculars, ending in the city itself. Isaacson writes, ‘Leonardo uses the classic analogy of the microcosm of the human body and the macrocosm of the earth: cities are breathing organisms with fluids that circulate within them and waste that must be removed. He had recently begun to study the circulation of blood and other fluids within the body. Using analogies, he thought about what would be the optimal “circulatory” systems for urban needs, from commerce to sewage removal.”
Yet, he completed few projects, leaving the majority, if not almost all, incomplete. Despite this, he ensured that each piece was imbued with the full power of his artistry. His specialization, coupled with the specter of failure, hindered him from putting the final touches on his work. However, it empowered him to capture the ethereal light on Jesus’ face, instill an enchanting ambiguity in Mona Lisa’s smile, and encapsulate inner sorrow and doubt in his portraits during an era when certainties were still prevalent.
He alone had the audacity to depict the commotion among the Apostles at the Last Supper, portraying Jesus in stark stillness during his introspection. Was it, one wonders, the tranquility of a creator he recognized as an artist? He dared to paint himself alternately as a hermaphroditic angel and a grotesque old man.
For him, being in and out of the world equated to being in and out of love, as he had a contentious relationship with desire. “He is a monster who does not tame his appetites,” he inscribed in his journals, despite facing numerous accusations of sodomy. A homosexual in an era when ‘androphilia’ was disparagingly linked to Florence’s libertine spirit, he appeared to have a predilection for the troubled underage boys he employed as studio assistants. His fraught relationship with his mother further complicated his personal relations, prompting Freud to identify him as an ideal subject in his text “A Childhood Memory of Leonardo da Vinci”.
That’s not to say he didn’t foster amicable relationships with his contemporaries – his biographer specifically mentions Donato Bramante, Francesco di Giorgio, and Andrea Giacomo. However, none could fathom what lay behind the otherworldly hand that sculpted forms and buildings with such precision, while prophesying a dystopian future through tales and notes. This foresight positions him as arguably the first science fiction narrator in human history.
It’s tempting to suggest that he has been an inexhaustible wellspring of inspiration for future creators. Be it John Tenniel’s sketches for Alice in Wonderland, Michel Foucault’s commentary on Leonardo’s work, or Valery’s theoretical analyses, who saw in the bird’s wings – adorned with spirals and swirls as drawn by Leonardo – potent symbols of poetry. Valery insisted that “sometimes heaven sends us someone who is not only human but also divine, so that through his mind and the excellence of his intellect we can reach heaven itself”. He couldn’t have been more correct.
