Looking for Mona Lisa by Mary Hoffman

As I wrote in my Cabinet of Curiosities post a few days ago, I have been reading all I can find about the subject of the world's most famous painting, known as Mona Lisa, or La Gioconda. Who was the sitter? A real woman or an idealised composite of all that Leonardo da Vinci found admirable in a woman?

The most common identification of her is as Lisa Gherardini, the Florentine wife of a silk merchant named Francesco del Giocondo, hence La Gioconda. Francesco got his surname from a great grandfather who was always jolly - or "jocund." The idea caught on because of Lisa's husband's surname and the implied reference to her smile.

But she is not the only candidate - other who have been put forward include Isabella d'Este, who was desperate for Leonardo to paint her portrait, Pacifica Brandino, who was the mistress of Lorenzo the Magnificent's youngest son Giuliano, Isabella Gualanda, who is the cousin of Ceclia Gallerani, better known as the Lady with an ermine in another portrait by Leonardo.

(I have incidentally always liked this painting best of all Leonardo's work and was thrilled to see it "in the flesh" at the National Gallery exhibition a few years ago.)

It was the rather unreliable Giorgo Vasari who gave the identification of the subject as Lisa del Giocondo in 1550. Lisa had died only eight years earlier and three of her children were certainly still alive then and living in Florence so he could have checked but perhaps that was not Vasari's way. He certainly didn't change his description of the portrait when he revised the book we now know as Lives of the Artists. But then he had never seen the painting and praised the depiction of the eyebrows, which we know are not present.

I thought this was the beginning and end of what we knew about Lisa Gherardini until I saw a television programme about the painting on BBC2 last December. It was mainly about a new high-tech way of scanning the painting, used by Pascal Cotte, with the permission of the Louvre, which institution - interestingly - did not put up a spokesperson to comment on his findings.

But what really caught my attention was Andrew Graham-Dixon interviewing an Italian specialist in a Florence in an area clearly recognisable as being in the Santa Croce district, where I have often stayed. This turned out to be Giuseppe Pallanti and I found he had also written a book, called in English Mona Lisa Revealed (Skira 2006).

Pallanti is the kind of meticulous researcher who spends his life looking at historic documents of the driest kind: deeds of sale of properties, the equivalent of tax returns, records of baptisms - that sort of thing. And from that he has found out plenty about Lisa Gherardini, where she was born, the houses she lived in, her marriage, her husband's life, her children and her probable burial place.

He continued his searches after publishing the book and they were passed on to an American journalist called Dianne Hales, whose own book, Mona Lisa: A Life Discovered (Simon & Schuster 2014) has publicised his further findings and added some of her own.

Mark Rylance as Leonardo in the 2003 TV mini-series

Leonardo of course looked exactly like this when he was painting his most famous portrait. If we follow Vasari, the picture was started in 1503. It certainly is the case that the young Raphael, in Florence the following year, sketched a female model in a remarkably similar pose. And in 2005, half a millennium after Leonardo was at work on the painting, a marginal note was found, dated October 1503, in a volume of Cicero, stating that Leonardo was at work on a painting of Lisa del Giocondo.

And, whether the painting was commissioned by Francesco del Giocondo or Giuliano de' Medici or someone else, they never possessed it. Leonardo took it with him when he left Italy for France in 1516, never to return.

I wrote about Leonardo's portrait of Lisa Gherardini in my novel David: the Unauthorised Autobiography. I showed Gabriele del Lauro, the fictional model for the giant statue, watching the artist at work in Francesco del Giocondo's house in the Via della Stufa:

' It was glorious. He had captured a quality in the sitter that would have been easy to overlook. Truthfully, she wasn't as lovely as Gandini the baker's wife, but she ha a restful presence - I can't explain it any other way - that had nothing to do with any of her features, nor yet her figure.

She was past her first youth and had borne several children but was not yet quite matronly. Yet she radiated tranquility.'

And now here I am writing about her again for a novel for Barrington Stoke, a short fiction for teenagers called simply, Smile.

This portrait of John the Baptist is thought to be modelled on Leonardo's apprentice and probably lover, Gian Giacomo Caprotti, known as "Salai" or "little devil." There is a marked resemblance between his features and those of Mona Lisa. Was this true in real life? I like to think so.

For all that they lived together for some thirty years, Salai was everything that Lisa Gherardini was not - gluttonous, amoral, promiscuous and not above stealing from his master and friend. Is it too fanciful to think that Leonardo saw in his Mona Lisa the model of a loyal and loving wife, who unaccountably looked like the venal young man he was so drawn to? That he saw in her an alternative life he might have lived, had he been a different man?

One of the many things we will never know and why writers are continually drawn back to the story of the painter, the mdel and the 500-year-old smile.

SAY CHEESE: Turkish Women Laugh Back and the History of the Female Smile – Elizabeth Fremantle

According to Turkish deputy prime minister Bülent Arniç women should not laugh in public because 'a woman should be chaste. She should know the difference between public and private,' and 'chastity is so important.' In response the women of Turkey took to Twitter, posting images of themselves in the throes of laughter or grinning in unchaste abandon, demonstrating the impossibility of controlling the spontaneous happiness of women in a world of selfies and social media.

Arniç's statement may seem utterly absurd to us now but digging down into the past it is clear that this idea is nothing new. The Early Modern period and the Reformation saw the wane of religious iconography and the rise of the secular portrait, but look at any of these images and you will not find a smile amongst them, with perhaps the famous exception of the Mona Lisa, whose 'enigmatic' smile has fascinated generations, partly because of its uniqueness. Surrounded by stern faces the slight smile of La Gaiconda makes for a mystery that reaches far beyond the upturned corner of a mouth.

It is a commonly thought that people didn't smile in early modern portraits because of their bad teeth but this is incorrect. The prevailing belief at the time, as Nicholas Jeeves points out in The Serious and the Smirk, was that women should be modest in their expressions and gestures. Contemporary behaviour manuals stated as much. Smiles and laughter were the preserve of the debauched and occasionally might be found on the mouth of a naughty cherub or a figure such as Eros. Jeeves goes on to suggest that an open smile in a portrait was radical to the point that the image's subject became the smile rather than the sitter, defeating the point entirely.

A portrait's function was not to capture a moment in time, like today's instant photos, nor was it meant as an accurate likeness but more as a demonstration of an overall 'moral certainty' that could only be described by an expression of seriousness. The public face of woman was to show nothing of the dangerous desires that might lurk beneath her surface. Mirth had no place in the public space of a portrait, and where they did it signified danger and moral collapse. After all the abandonment of laughter is easily interpreted as dangerously close to a total loss of control.  A laugh is a spontaneous and often uncontrollable response, something like, says Jeeves, a blush. So in the Early Modern mind laughter was uncomfortably close to the erotic, at best it indicated foolishness, at worst sexual rapaciousness.

There are one or two examples of female smiles in Dutch art, notably Frans Hal's Malle Babbe 1633 in which a woman guerns hideously whilst clasping a tankard, the meaning of which is clear. Hogarth's harlot, in his famous eighteenth century series of images charting the fall of a woman of loose morals, wears a slight smile not dissimilar to that of the Mona Lisa, signifying, one can only suppose, her potential for corruption. So the mirth of a woman is the ultimate signifier of her moral collapse; she might as well display her naked body for all to see. Interestingly, in 1783 Elisabeth Vigee Lebrun painted a portrait of Marie Antoinette which scandalised polite society. Not only was she was 'en chemise' or in her night clothes (though entirely, and to my mind rather modestly, covered up, complete with a large straw hat) but she was visibly and naughtily smiling. We all know what happened to Marie Antoinette. 

It wasn't until the advent of photography that attitudes changed, though there are some wonderful early photographic examples of ferociously stern matrons staring primly out of daguerrotypes. Once cameras could be owned by all the fleeting expression, the glimpse of a moment in time, the holiday snap in which a smile was the norm, became commonplace and from such images was born the selfie and the rise of the pout (which is a whole other issue). It would seem that the genie is out of the bottle and I feel certain that nothing now will curb that wonderful untrammelled Turkish laughter.

Ref: Nicholas Jeeves, The Serious and the Smirk: the Smile in Portraiture

Elizabeth Fremantle is the author of Sisters of Treason, the story of Lady Jane Grey's fated younger sisters, and Queen's Gambit which tells of Katherine Parr who survived marriage to Hanry VIII. Find her on ElizabethFremantle.com