Ben Lewis - The Last Leonardo

William Collins

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.WilliamCollinsBooks.com

This eBook first published in Great Britain by William Collins in 2019

Copyright © BLTV Ltd, 2019

Cover image: Photo by Fine Art Images/Heritage Images/Getty Images

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008313418

Ebook Edition © April 2019 ISBN: 9780008313432

Version: 2019-04-15

1 Cover

2 Title Page

3 Copyright

4 Dedication

5 Contents

6 Epigraphs

7 Prologue: The Legend of Leonardo

8 PART I

9 1 Flight to London

10 2 The Walnut Knot

11 3 Buried Treasure

12 4 Paper, Chalk, Lapis

13 5 Zing!

14 6 The Blue Clue

15 7 Vinci, Vincia, Vinsett

16 PART II

17 8 The King’s Painting

18 9 Little Leonardos

19 10 The Salvator Switch

20 11 The Resurrection

21 12 Lost in a Crowd

22 13 The High Council

23 14 Entertainer and Engineer

24 15 The Greatest Show on Earth

25 16 Look, Cook Forsook

26 PART III

27 17 Offshore Icon

28 18 LDV RIP

29 19 Nineteen Minutes

30 20 There is a House in New Orleans

31 21 Mirage in the Desert

32 22 Fragile State

33 Afterword

34 Picture Section

35 Acknowledgements

36 Notes

37 Bibliography

38 Index

39 About the Author

40 About the Publisher

Landmarks CoverFrontmatterStart of ContentBackmatter

List of Pages iii iv v xiii xv xvi xvii 1 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92939495 96979899100101102103104105106107 108109110111112113114115116117118119120121122 123124125126127128129130131132133134135136137138139140141142143144 145146147148149150151152153154155156157158159160161162163164 165166167168169170171172173174175176177178 179180181182183184185186 187188189190191192193194195196197198199 200201202203204205206207208209210211212213214215216217218219220221222223224225226227229 231232233234235236237238239240241242243244245246247248249250251252253254255256257258259260261262263264265266267268269270 271272273274275276277278279280281282 283284285286287288289290291292293294 295296297298299300301302303304305306307308309310311 312313314315316317318319320321 322323324325326327328329 331332333334335336337 ix 339340341342343344 345 346347348349350351352353354 355356357358 359360361 363364365366367368369370371372373374375376377 379380381382383384385386387388389390391392393394395396

Having wandered some distance among gloomy rocks, I came to the entrance of a great cavern, the likes of which I had never seen. I stood for some time in front of it in astonishment. I bent over, resting my left hand on my knee, while shading my eyes with my right. I squinted, shifting first one way and then the other, to see whether I could ascertain anything inside, but this was hindered by the deep darkness within. After having remained there some time, two contrary emotions arose in me: fear and desire – fear of the threatening dark cavern, desire to see whether there were any marvellous thing within it.

The politics of Leonardo scholarship are like any other politics except that so far no blood is shed.

Signs form a language, but not the one you think you know.

It ain’t where ya from, it’s where ya at

Centuries ago, in an age when the world was still ruled by monarchs and dukes and countesses dressed in velvet and golden brocade, there lived a man of illegitimate birth, as warm-hearted in his disposition as he was boundless in his curiosity, fierce in his intellect and skilful with his hands. This man was engineer, architect, designer, scientist and painter – the greatest painter, say many, who had ever lived. A genius, say others, who had brought the modern world into being. His pictures were both real and ideal, more beautiful than anything ever seen before. He studied the natural world in its tiniest details, from the leaves on trees to the paws of bears, and in its hidden rules, such as the proportions of the human face and body. He looked far and peered close, sketching the pale horizons of mountains and peeling back men’s skin so he could see the muscles and arteries that lay beneath.

But this artist was also an enigma. When he died, he left riddles and tricks for those who wished to cherish his memory and preserve his legacy. Sometimes his masterpieces were painted with colours that faded or crumbled even before he had finished the work; others were sealed with varnishes that made them darker and darker with the passing of decades. Like many great men, he seemingly cared little for the gift God had given him, painting little and slowly, and instead burying himself in the notebooks that he filled with scribbles of magnificent ideas, which he had neither the patience nor the technology to build. He made fewer paintings than any other great artist in history, and even fewer have survived: at most only nineteen.

In the centuries that followed his death, people yearned to possess more of his work than they had; there were never enough pictures by this artist to satisfy the world’s craving for his images. Myths and theories proliferated about the pictures that had been lost, hidden or painted over. In the institutes of learning devoted to the arts, there was no higher calling than the study of this artist’s work; and among those scholars who studied his art, there was no greater glory than discovering a lost or forgotten painting, drawing or sculpture by his hand.

The stakes were high – and, if you fell on them, sharp. The artist never signed or dated his work. He had many pupils, whom he taught to paint as skilfully as himself, in exact imitation of his style, and they produced hundreds of copies of his works. Occasionally, a contemporary recorded, he would add the final touches himself – a fact which further confused posterity. Knowing the risks, the wisest scholars sought to resist the temptation to identify a lost painting, preferring to explore an overlooked fragment or a half-finished sentence in the artist’s notebooks. But, eventually, many succumbed to the allure of buried treasure. The corridors of art history libraries were full of the wailing ghosts of professors whose life’s work had been destroyed by the chimera of a ‘new’ Leonardo they believed they had found; the headlines, news reports and celebrations that greeted their discovery were replaced within years, if not months, by academic derision for what was now revealed to be a forgery or copy, betrayed by paint that had been applied too loosely, or colours pronounced too dominant, or in which there was a trim in the costume that belonged to an incongruous era.