Along with trashing Christianity, Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code is a veritable museum of errors where Renaissance art is concerned. Art historians have been slow in responding, mostly because it is difficult to know where to start. The novelist's imaginative notions of iconography may make for best-selling fiction, but they are wildly at variance with what is known about the life and work of Leonardo.
The Da Vinci Code denies Leonardo da Vinci's identity as a Christian artist, working for Christian patrons and painting Christian subjects. Ignoring the sacred nature of Leonardo's work, Brown twists the images, inserting them into a tawdry tale of his own making.
The author's thumbnail sketch of Leonardo cavalierly disregards his birth and training, and dives directly into unsupported claims that Leonardo had "always been an awkward subject among historians, especially in the Christian tradition." Yet Giorgio Vasari, the father of art history, writing a few years after the death of Leonardo, gives the painter pride of place in his biography, The Lives of the Artists.
Brown's throwaway assertion that Leonardo was "a flamboyant homosexual" remains unsubstantiated, but serves to link his version of the artist's story to contemporary controversies of a sort that simply did not exist in sixteenth-century Italy. As for Brown's representation of the artist as a "worshipper of Nature's divine order," that leaves art historians scratching their heads. The fanciful image of Leonardo as something between a scientist and an animist cannot be inferred either from the artist's life or his writings.
The simple fact is that Leonardo lived a Christian life, framed by his baptism in infancy and the last rites at his death in France. He lived at courts where Christian rite and worship was deeply rooted in daily life. At the end of his life Leonardo put aside his experiments and dedicated himself to a better understanding of the doctrines of the Catholic faith.
He worked for several religious orders, including the Dominicans for whom he produced the magnificent Last Supper. Dan Brown makes the astonishing claim that Leonardo had "hundreds of lucrative Vatican commissions." In fact he had only one, which he never completed.
Brown's spurious suppositions become a springboard from which he leaps to the conclusion that the painter nourished "contempt for the church." This premise then becomes the basis of Brown's further fanciful artistic interpretations.
Brown begins with the Mona Lisa, admittedly one of Leonardo's more enigmatic works. Brown's Egyptian fertility reference and male/female principle however, were unknown in any of the most experimental intellectual circles of the Renaissance. Nor is she Leonardo dressed as a woman, as Brown asserts. The slightly androgynous look comes from the fifteenth-century style among women to shave their hairlines back and pluck out their eyebrows so as to achieve a highbrowed intellectual look.
Simply put, Mona Lisa is a painter's painting. The artistic mastery which Brown is at a loss to describe is exactly what renders the painting so extraordinary. Leonardo's decision to keep the panel for himself probably stemmed from the realization that the Florentine merchant who commissioned the portrait, Francesco del Giocondo, would never have been able to appreciate the complexity of the work.
The art of portraiture had flourished with the rise of Florence and her remarkable citizens. While princes commissioned their images in sharp profile, similar to the imperial coins of ancient Rome, the wealthy Florentine bourgeois wanted more realistic-looking portrayals. Renaissance artists responded by turning the figure three-quarters towards the viewer and including the hands and landscape to provide further insight into the sitter's personality.
Leonardo's Mona Lisa expresses the painter's attempt to reveal the character as well as the likeness of the model. The questions inherent in the work, best exemplified by the famous query, "Is she smiling?" reflect Leonardo's desire to capture not just the likeness but the spirit. The use of sfumato, the technique of blurring the corners of the eyes and mouth, render her expression mobile and mysterious. Adding to the enigma, Leonardo painted the panel dark, drawing out the light where he chose, to create this masterpiece of Renaissance portraiture.
Brown begins his discussion of the Virgin of the Rocks with the erroneous claim that it was commissioned by nuns. It was, in fact, the Franciscan brotherhood of the Immaculate Conception that requested the work for the church of San Francesco Grande in 1480.
Brown then proceeds to confuse John the Baptist with Jesus in the painting, claiming that John is "blessing Jesus…and Jesus is submitting to his authority." As any beginning student of Christian art knows, John the Baptist's little robe prefigures his camel skin tunic and he kneels in adoration of his Savior. The description of Mary's hand as "threatening" and her fingers like "eagle's talons" demonstrates the lack of appreciation of the complicated foreshortening so admired by contemporaries. The only way a viewer could reach this conclusion is by applying the preconceived notion that Leonardo tends to subvert authority.
Brown's appetite for desecration reaches its pinnacle when he comes to Leonardo's finest masterpiece, The Last Supper. His ignorance of the most basic terms manifests itself here with the definition of the work as a "fresco." Three times in a single paragraph Brown misnames the technique used by Leonardo. A bit of research would have told him that it was Leonardo's use of oil paint on primed wall that caused the rapid deterioration of the painting.
His preposterous theory that the figure of the Apostle John is really Mary Magdalene also founders in the face of the facts. It overlooks the placement of the painting, blithely stating that it is on the "wall of Santa Marie delle Grazie in Milan." The painting happens to be on the wall in the refectory of the Dominican convent annexed to the church, where the monks ate all their meals. Not only would such a place be ill-suited for subversive art, given that it was never viewed by the public, the Dominican order had the responsibility of seeking out heresy before it spread. Only a colossal fool would paint a heresy where the monks could study it day after day. While no evidence suggest that Leonardo held the church in contempt, proof abounds that he was no fool.
Brown himself notes the next problem, which he never satisfactorily answers. The painting depicts thirteen people. If Mary Magdalene is supposed to be at Jesus' right hand, that leaves only 11 Apostles. Who is missing? Which of the twelve apostles opted out of the Last Supper? The only Apostle who eventually leaves the meeting, according to the Gospel, is Judas. Yet Judas is clearly pictured in Leonardo's painting, and the scene portrayed involves Judas himself asking: "Is it I, Lord?"
Brown relies on Leonardo's soft-featured, beardless depiction of John to support his fantastic claim that we are dealing with a woman. This assumption merely reveals Brown's lack of familiarity with "types" in the artistic conventions of the day. In his Treatise on Painting, Leonardo himself explains that each figure should be painted according to his station and age. A wise man has certain characteristics, an old woman others, and children others still.
A classic type, common to many Renaissance paintings, is the "student." A favored follower, a protégé or disciple, is always portrayed as very youthful, long-haired and clean-shaven; with none of the hard, determined physiognomy of more weathered men, to show that he has not yet matured to the point where he will question his teacher.
Throughout the Renaissance, artists habitually portray St. John in this fashion. John is the trusting student who reclines on Jesus' breast, the only Apostle present at the foot of the cross. A quick comparison with the "Last Supper" of Ghirlandaio and Andrea del Castagno shows a similarly soft-featured, young John.
Brown's explanation of the symbols of the painting dwells on shapes and letters that Brown finds in the scene, much as a fortune teller "finds" all sorts of images in clouds and tea leaves. Focusing on negative shapes (the empty space next to Christ as a 'V' as opposed to the solid triangle of Jesus), he completely misses the point. The "M" Brown sees in Jesus and "Magdalene" makes for a pretty lopsided letter as the second group is lower than the figure of Christ. Even if one were to play along with Brown's unhinged hermeneutics, the letters "V and M" would seem more likely to indicate the Virgin Mary, a figure that Brown studiously avoids throughout the novel.
But while we have this monumental work in front of us, let's try to glimpse what Leonardo really meant us to see.
It is Passover, and Jesus joins his apostles for the feast. They have been together for three years now, learning and witnessing the miracles of Christ. Amid the bustle and the chatter of the dinner, Jesus announces, "One of you will betray me." Leonardo captures this most dramatic moment of the Last Supper. Like a stone dropped in still water, the announcement sends shock waves around the table.
Jesus sits isolated at the table set apart by the rectangular window. His head and arms form a triangle, a reminder that the man you see betrayed is also the second Person of the Trinity. Leonardo separated the figure of Christ from the others so viewers could begin to understand the profound loneliness of Christ as He prepares for His passion.
The two groups of three apostles to the left and right of Jesus react sharply, the first dramatic splash of reaction after Jesus' words. With the mastery of Leonardo, the gentleness and beauty of John makes a perfect foil for the darkened and distorted features of Judas, the man capable of betraying Christ, and St. Peter with his bristling beard and aggressive manner as he gestures to John to "ask the Master who it is" that will betray Him.
The movement of Peter forces Judas closer to the viewer, forcing one to ask oneself which of these three apostles most closely resembles us. Judas the traitor, blustering Peter soon to deny Christ, or trusting John, the faithful disciple? For most, the comparison becomes uncomfortable.
This painting was never meant to focus on anyone but Christ, a figure dismissed by Brown's analyses. The vanishing point of the painting is at His head. Jesus' face was Leonardo's greatest exercise in sfumato, in that he left it undefined, feeling unworthy to represent the Savior. Jesus' eyes are downcast meditating His terrible trials to come. With one hand he reaches for the bread that He will share with His betrayer, and the other He extends, palm open in acceptance of Divine will. On a daily basis, this challenging image of Jesus' example of obedience confronted the monks vowed to imitate him.
In the end, The DaVinci Code is a work of fiction. Brown's Leonardo is an invented character, light years away from the Christian genius who managed to make people feel as if they were present at one of the most sacred moments in history. But the consciously blurred line between fact and fiction has had the unfortunate effect of making Christians feel ashamed of one our greatest sons. The enduring beauty of Leonardo's works is intimately wrapped up with their sacred character, and the deeply Catholic culture that embraced them.
Elizabeth Lev is an American-born art historian living in Rome. Educated at the University of Chicago and University of Bologna, she teaches Renaissance and Baroque art at Duquesne University's Italian campus. She also contributes regularly to Zenit New Agency and Inside the Vatican magazine.
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