Leonardo's Lost Princess: One Man's Quest to Authenticate an Unknown Portrait by Leonardo Da Vinci

by Peter Silverman; Catherine Whitney

  The great artists of the Renaissance were noted for their workshops of talented apprentices and pupils. Art history is full of speculation about the role of student hands in the signature works of the Masters. Leonardo himself began at the age of fourteen as an apprentice to Verrocchio.

  Master or pupil? That is often the question when studying Renaissance works. For example, a centuries-long controversy has raged among art scholars regarding a collection of drawings from a Rembrandt workshop. The question: Are the drawings Rembrandt’s own, or are they those of his pupils? To this day, there is no definitive answer, although an impressive show at the J. Paul Getty Museum in February 2010, titled “Drawings by Rembrandt and His Pupils: Telling the Difference,” drew convincing conclusions about a small collection by detailing the distinctive elements that might or might not be attributed to Rembrandt himself.

  Similarly, there is some debate about whether some of Leonardo’s Milanese students authored or contributed to Leonardo-attributed works. However, for the most part, it is clear: the Master has a hand, and very seldom can a student match it—unless, of course, the student has a rare hand of his own, as was the case with Leonardo.

  Kathy and I talked about it endlessly. As the months passed, I immersed myself in study. I was in no hurry. It was a reward in itself to study and speculate.

  In January 2008, while we were in New York for the auctions, we ran into Kate Ganz at an art opening. “Did you ever find out who did that drawing?” she asked.

  “Obviously, Leonardo,” I replied, flashing a big smile. We shared a laugh at the absurdity of the notion.

  “Dream on,” Kate said, waving a dismissive hand. As she walked away, I squeezed Kathy’s arm. “Dream on,” I repeated. “That’s what we’re doing.” But I suddenly had a more sobering thought: I should be careful about throwing around big names, because a great find could so easily be revealed as a dud.

  On a cold afternoon in February, shortly after returning from New York, I found myself standing in the Italian picture gallery of the Louvre, studying a portrait by Boltraffio, who was considered to be Leonardo’s most gifted disciple. I was pondering whether this artist, or any other artist in Leonardo’s circle, could have executed the mysterious lady on vellum. As I stood there, a voice behind me spoke my name.

  “Peter, is that you?”

  I turned to see Nicholas Turner lumbering toward me. Turner, portly, distinguished, and serious, was the former curator of drawings at the British Museum and a world-renowned expert on Italian Old Master drawings. Turner’s encyclopedic knowledge and expert eye gained him wide respect in the incestuous little world of Old Master drawings.

  After exchanging greetings and chatting for a bit, we stood companionably, looking at the painting. Boltraffio’s skill was undeniable. Finally, with a bit of hesitation in my voice, I said, “I have something that I believe is more important than Boltraffio.”

  Turner looked at me curiously. “Oh?”

  I pulled out my digital camera, scrolled to a photo of the portrait, and handed it to Turner. I was astonished when he immediately said, “I saw a transparency of this not long ago, but I didn’t realize that you were now the keeper of the remarkable work.” I hadn’t expected that reaction! He explained that he had missed the 1998 sale in New York but had been contacted in the autumn of 2007 by a London dealer. “He showed me a good color transparency and asked my opinion. He was working on behalf of a colleague who had an interested purchaser.”

  “I have been trying to determine if it is the work of one of Leonardo’s disciples,” I said, gesturing to the Boltraffio portrait.

  “No, it is not a student’s work,” Turner said with conviction.

  “Oh,” I said, deflated. “But how do you know?”

  “Well,” he said carefully, “apart from the work’s very high quality, what immediately struck me––even from the transparency––was the extensive left-handed parallel hatching. See here.” He pointed, and I strained to see what he meant on the small transparency. “It is most conspicuous in the background, behind the girl’s profile.” He looked up from the photo and smiled at me. “As you know, the most famous left-handed Renaissance artist was Leonardo da Vinci,” he said. “And none of his students were left-handed.”

  I suddenly remembered Mina and Catherine’s remarks, which hadn’t fully struck me at the time. However, the left-handed shading was a critical point. Experts agree that whereas it is possible to copy some aspects of a Master’s style, it is not possible to duplicate left-handedness. Although the three greatest artists of the Italian Renaissance—Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael—were all left-handed (a remarkable fact!), extensive research has failed to locate a single left-handed Leonardo follower.

  “What are you saying?” I was stunned.

  “I am not a Leonardo specialist,” Turner said, “but I think you can’t rule out the possibility of Leonardo’s authorship.” He smiled wryly. “That’s what I told my London colleague when I first saw it, but he did not believe me, and he never pursued it. More the pity.” He suggested that I show it to as many Leonardo specialists as possible and also undertake a thorough technical examination.

  That night, I went home to our apartment, which overlooks that most Parisian of monuments, the Eiffel Tower. I poured two glasses of wine, and handing Kathy one, I said, “I ran into Nicholas Turner at the Louvre today. It turns out that someone sent him a transparency of the portrait without our knowing it.”

  “What did he think?” Kathy asked.

  I paused, relishing the moment. Then, taking the glass from Kathy’s hand—for fear she’d drop it—I said, “He thinks it may be by Leonardo himself.”

  Some months after our meeting in the Louvre, I invited Turner to see the portrait for himself. He was enthralled. “It fully lives up to my expectations,” he said enthusiastically, adding that he was struck by its great beauty and refinement. He promised to give me an official report soon.

  Mina was visiting Paris at that time. I asked her to look at the portrait again, telling her, “Mina, people are saying it could be a Leonardo. Please sit and study it carefully and give me your honest opinion.”

  She sat down at a table and took the portrait in her hands. Her examination followed the traditional approach of the connoisseur. She believed that the best way to approach the study of a new work was to set aside technology in favor of the trained eye. Technology could come later. This was her favorite part of the process, when she could empty her mind and immerse herself fully in a work, which might turn out to be by the hand of a major artist.

  Mina would subsequently describe her method in a published article.2 She wrote, “My examination was exclusively visual, and was carried out by carefully scrutinizing the work’s surface, following the traditional approach of the connoisseur—an approach that is today too readily disregarded, especially by universities, or at best not adequately appreciated by them. For centuries connoisseurship has enabled an expert to formulate opinions, sometimes very rapidly. These opinions, which are the consequence of visual and mental associations, are sometimes confused [with] intuition, which they are not, since opinions are based solely on previous experience[,] and this important point should be remembered.”

  As Mina studied the portrait, the first question that came to mind concerned its date of execution and the age of the vellum. “The subtle darkening of the support and its natural wear over time led me to believe that it was indeed late fifteenth century,” she explained in her article. “I could therefore go a step further, but in the full knowledge that the authenticity alone of the vellum support was not in itself a guarantee that the portrait drawn on its surface would be genuine, since we all know that the wiliest of fakers have successfully used old supports, or ones that have been cleverly aged by artificial means.”

  As Mina gazed at the face of the sitter, she felt a strong sensation of being in the presence of a living person. She took note of many instances of a high level of execution. These were
convincing details, but it was the advanced level of artistry that really compelled her:

  As always happens, I first devoted my attention to the face: from this I gained the feeling of being in front of a living being whose beauty suggested an Antique profile. This ancient classical portrait type was the source of inspiration for this head, which was a form that was so successfully revived by the painters and sculptors of the Florentine Quattrocento.

  A dating of the portrait to the last decade of the fifteenth century is confirmed by the young woman’s ornate costume and her coiffure, with her hair gathered together behind her head in a thick plait, called a “coazzone,” an unusual and locally specific fashion which places the portrait’s production in Lombardy at a time when Leonardo was in the service of Ludovico il Moro. In both date and cultural context, it therefore differs markedly from portraits by Leonardo’s Lombard followers. Indeed, in my view, exact parallels in the brightness and transparency of the girl’s eye are only to be found in other examples in the drawings of Leonardo.

  After having directed my attention to the linear development of the portrait, I took note of the execution of the fine hair at the top of the girl’s head, which is the best preserved area of her elaborate tresses. Of the same high level of execution is the subtle colouring in the un-retouched areas of the cheek, where the tonal gradations are almost imperceptible. This inimitable delicacy made me think of this same famous characteristic found in the face of the Mona Lisa.

  Mina remained bent over the portrait for a very long time. Finally, she called me to her side. “Yes,” she said. “It is Leonardo. Allow me to be the first to say so formally.” I handed her a black-and-white photo, and she wrote the attribution on the back. I still have it.

  She concluded in her article that “what most readily evokes this portrait is the utter simplicity of its structure, and yet at the same time the young woman’s imperious air. But the whole work is also enriched by the artist’s unshakeable intention to be governed solely by natural appearances, an ambitious motivation that can only be realized by a great master. And that master is Leonardo.”

  3

  Leonardo’s World

  We, by our arts, may be called the grandsons of God.

  —Leonardo da Vinci

  Five hundred years after his death, Leonardo da Vinci continues to intrigue us. He is the most famous and revered artist of all time. Leonardo was a prolific artist, yet he left fewer than twenty paintings—the most famous being The Last Supper and Mona Lisa. He was the ultimate Renaissance man: an artist, a scientist, a designer, and an inventor whose imagination and scientific prowess were centuries ahead of his time. Artists, designers, and engineers still study the meticulous drawings in Leonardo’s notebooks for their innovative technique and anatomical precision.

  As I contemplated the possibility that I was holding in my hands the product of Leonardo’s work, my thoughts were consumed with images of the artist’s remarkable journey. Thanks to the Renaissance biographer Giorgio Vasari, we have some insight into Leonardo’s life. From a very young age, he was something special.

  Physically, Leonardo was a beautiful child, tall and sturdy, with curling hair that made him seem angelic. He had been born out of wedlock to his father Ser Piero’s mistress, Caterina, who soon left the picture. However, being a motherless child did not seem to hold Leonardo back. This was largely because of the great love and admiration of Ser Piero, and also because of Leonardo’s unearthly genius. He was gifted in a way that produced both pride and worry in his father, who wondered what would become of him.

  This dreamy, brilliant, sunny boy could not seem to settle down to any single pursuit. He picked up an interest—mathematics, the flute, clay modeling—only to put it down and start on another. The detritus of partly completed projects was scattered around the property. Beneath the whimsy of Leonardo’s varied exploits, Ser Piero could see that his son’s talent for drawing and modeling was quite exceptional, especially given his age of fourteen. But he needed a guiding hand, and although his father, a notary, could provide him with a stable home, he could not help him on that journey.

  One day, while gazing at the lovely artistry of a series of Leonardo’s drawings, Ser Piero decided to seek the opinion of his close friend Andrea del Verrocchio, an artist and a sculptor who oversaw the best workshop in Florence. Membership in it was greatly coveted. Handing Andrea Leonardo’s drawings, Ser Piero asked him, “Do you think if he gave himself entirely to drawing he would succeed?”

  Andrea studied the drawings with a growing sense of astonishment. A mere child of fourteen had mastered form and face with a maturity and skill that Andrea had never seen. Who was this boy? On the question of his future, Andrea had no doubt. He agreed to make a place for Leonardo in his workshop.

  Leonardo’s father was ebullient and relieved. He felt sure his boy’s talent would be safely nurtured under Andrea’s tutelage. Leonardo was also quite eager to go. He was glad to be immersed in art and design at every level.

  Leonardo thrived in Andrea’s workshop, and he would ultimately spend ten years in its comfortable creative embrace. He was not in a hurry to strike out on his own, and his father did not pressure him. In spite of his son’s clear genius, Ser Piero believed that his distracted manner and instability made him a poor candidate for independent work.

  There were plenty of opportunities to be had in the workshop, however. The first significant one was a painting of the baptism of Christ by St. John. Andrea gave Leonardo the task of painting one of two angels holding Christ’s robe. Although Leonardo was quite young, he managed it so well that his angel was better than Andrea’s figures. When Andrea saw Leonardo’s angel, he could not contain his feelings of anger. How could this mere apprentice outshine him? It was reported that he petulantly vowed to never touch a brush again after being outshone by his pupil. (The Baptism of Christ is currently in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Leonardo’s angel is the one on the left.)

  Leonardo was something of a loner among his peers. He would later write:

  The painter or draughtsman must remain solitary, and particularly when intent on those studies and reflections which will constantly rise up before his eye, giving materials to be well stored in the memory. While you are alone you are entirely your own [master] and if you have one companion you are but half your own, and the less so in proportion to the indiscretion of his behavior. And if you have many companions you will fall deeper into the same trouble. If you should say: “I will go my own way and withdraw apart, the better to study the forms of natural objects,” I tell you, you will not be able to help often listening to their chatter. And so, since one cannot serve two masters, you will badly fill the part of a companion, and carry out your studies of art even worse. And if you say: “I will withdraw so far that their words cannot reach me and they cannot disturb me,” I can tell you that you will be thought mad. But, you see, you will at any rate be alone. And if you must have companionship, find it in your studio. This may assist you to have the advantages, which arise from various speculations. All other company may be highly mischievous.1

  According to Vasari, while Leonardo was at work one day, his father brought him a round piece of wood. He had been asked by a friend in the country to have something painted on it, perhaps to be used as a shield, and Ser Piero thought Leonardo might take on the task. Leonardo, finding the wood crooked and rough, straightened it by means of fire and then smoothed its rough surface. Having prepared it for painting this way, he began to think what he could paint on it.

  He wanted to create the most dramatic and frightening image, so he considered the effect of a Medusa-like head. For models for the image, he brought into his private room lizards, grasshoppers, serpents, butterflies, locusts, bats, and other strange animals, and from them he produced a great animal image so horrible and fearful that it seemed to poison the air with its fiery breath. He portrayed it coming out of some dark broken rocks, with venom issuing from its open jaws, fire from its eyes, and smok
e from its nostrils—a monstrous and horrible thing, indeed. He was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t even notice the terrible smell emanating from the rotting carcasses of his animal models.

  Finally he was finished, and he sent word to his father that he could come and get it. Ser Piero arrived early one morning at Leonardo’s room; when he knocked, Leonardo told him to wait a moment, and he staged the scene—placing the picture in the light and darkening the window around it to create an ominous effect. Ser Piero stepped into the room, saw the image, and turned to run, not realizing that the terrible creature was painted and not real. Leonardo called after his father and brought him back, saying, “That was exactly the effect I was trying to create.”2 He was quite pleased with himself that the painting was realistic enough to scare his father.

  The thing seemed marvelous to Ser Piero, and he praised Leonardo’s whimsical idea, but he didn’t want to give it to his friend, so he secretly bought another circular piece of wood, already painted with a heart pierced with a dart, and gave it to the friend in the country, who remained grateful to him as long as he lived. Ser Piero sold Leonardo’s work to some merchants in Florence for a hundred ducats, and it soon came into the hands of the Duke of Milan, who bought it from the merchants for three hundred ducats—both considerable sums at that time.

  Even when Leonardo was a young man, his genius was well understood—and it didn’t hurt that he was also quite charming and agreeable. Many fell under his spell, only to learn that his work ethic was as ethereal as the wind. It was said that he was a procrastinator, but it was probably more true that he was a perfectionist and a generalist, easily distracted by his many different interests. For the young Leonardo, daydreams were not wasteful drifts, they were exercises for the imagination and interior building blocks for his work. One of his patrons once grumbled that he spent more time thinking than doing, and when he finally got going, the road to completion was a virtual obstacle course.