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Painting Mona Lisa
Jeanne Kalogridis
Painting Mona Lisa offers an explanation behind the mysteries surrounding da Vinci's famous portrait – why did Leonardo keep the Mona Lisa with him until his death?An intricately woven tale of betrayal, love and loss, which unravels the mysteries surrounding da Vinci's most famous portrait.April 26, 1478. Giuliano de Medici, brother of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the head of the powerful Florentine Medici family, is assassinated.Ten years later, a young Lisa Gherardini listens to the story of Giuliano's death, unaware of the significance it holds for her future. Drawn into the Medici circle by her passion for the Arts, Lisa meets the Medici's most luminescent friend: da Vinci. Against the turbulent backdrop of Savonarola's Florence, the two become conspirators and eventually each other's saviours in this parallel love story of infinite twists.
JEANNE KALOGRIDIS
Painting Mona Lisa
For George, forever
Contents
Cover (#u7e4643b5-6017-5e81-a066-90e6e87d3a49)
Title Page (#u99b53461-46e3-5531-a75f-75d026569b27)
Prologue: Lisa June 1490
I
II
PART I April 26, 1478
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
December 28, 1478
IX
X
PART II LISA
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
XX
XXI
XXII
XXIII
XXIV
XXV
XXVI
XXVII
XXVIII
XXIX
XXX
XXXI
XXXII
XXXIII
XXXIV
XXXV
XXXVI
XXXVII
XXXVIII
XXXIX
XL
XLI
XLII
XLIII
XLIV
XLV
XLVI
XLVII
XLVIII
XLIX
L
LI
LII
LIII
LIV
LV
LVI
LVII
LVIII
LIX
LX
LXI
LXII
LXIII
LXIV
LXV
LXVI
LXVII
LXVIII
LXIX
LXX
Epilogue: Lisa July 1498
LXXI
Acknowledgements
By the same author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue: Lisa June 1490 (#u0eb3daf6-12f5-5027-8037-80ba45b51d56)
I (#u0eb3daf6-12f5-5027-8037-80ba45b51d56)
My name is Lisa di Antonio Gherardini Giocondo, though to acquaintances I am known simply as Madonna Lisa, and to those of the common class, Monna Lisa.
My likeness has been recorded on wood, with boiled linseed oil and pigments dug from the earth or crushed from semi-precious stones, and applied with brushes made from the feathers of birds and the silken fur of animals.
I have seen the painting. It does not look like me. I stare at it and see instead the faces of my mother and father. I listen and hear their voices. I feel their love and their sorrow, and I witness again and again, the crime that bound them together; the crime that bound them to me.
For my story began not with my birth but a murder, committed the year before I was born.
It was first revealed to me during an encounter with the astrologer, two weeks before my eleventh birthday, which was celebrated on the fifteenth of June. My mother announced that I would have my choice of a present. She assumed that I would request a new gown, for nowhere has sartorial ostentation been practised more avidly than my native Florence. My father was one of the city’s wealthiest wool merchants, and his business connections afforded me my pick of sumptuous silks, brocades, velvets and furs. I spent those days studying the dress of each noblewoman I passed, and at night, I lay awake contemplating the design.
All this changed the day of Uncle Lauro’s wedding.
I stood on the balcony of our house on the Via Maggiore between my mother and grandmother, staring in the direction of the Ponte Santa Trinita, the bridge which the young bride would cross on her ride to her groom.
My grandmother had come to live with us several months earlier. She was still a handsome woman, but the loss of her second husband had soured her and she was faded and frail; her hair had grown white at the temples, and her body bony. She would not live out the year. My mother was dark-haired, dark-eyed, with skin so flawless it provoked my jealousy; she, however, seemed unaware of her amazing appearance. She complained of the adamant straightness of her locks, and of the olive cast to her complexion. Never mind that she was fine-boned, with lovely hands, feet and teeth. I was mature for my years, already larger and taller than she, with coarse dull brown waves and troubled skin.
Downstairs, my father and Uncle Lauro, attended by his two sons, waited in the loggia that opened onto the street.
My mother suddenly pointed. ‘There she is!’
