Young Leonardo: The Evolution of a Revolutionary Artist, 1472–1499

257 Pages·2017·94.34 MB·English

by  Jean-Pierre Isbouts

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INTRODUCTION
The noblest pleasure is the joy of understanding.
—LEONARDO DA VINCI
The traditional view of Leonardo’s early career is that he was recognized as a
prodigy in the workshop of Verrocchio, enjoyed a promising start in Florence,
and then moved to Milan to become the celebrated court artist of Duke Ludovico
Sforza, the ruler of the Duchy of Milan. As this book aims to show, the opposite
is true. Almost from the beginning, Leonardo struggled to develop a style that
rejected the formulaic Quattrocento “brand” of his master, Andrea del
Verrocchio, but he was stymied in his efforts to finish his first masterpiece in
Florence. He then left for Milan on little more than a wing and a prayer, but for
many years was studiously ignored by Ludovico. It was only because of his
association with the de Predis brothers that he was able to survive. Worse, when
he finally did receive a ducal commission—the famous Sforza equestrian
monument—it ended in failure, whereupon he had to satisfy himself with
secondary commissions, such as the portraits of Sforza’s mistresses.
In fact, the reader may be astonished by the questions that still swirl around
the work of young Leonardo. For example, what is the true reason that The
Adoration of the Magi, the seminal work of his early Florentine period, is
unfinished? And why did Leonardo decide to move to Milan, of all places—a
court known more for its wealth than for the quality of its artistic endeavors?
And why did Milan’s ruler, Duke Ludovico Sforza, ignore Leonardo for so many
years? Why did all the truly important commissions that emanated from the
court of Milan, such as church frescoes, monuments, and “Sforza propaganda
art,” go to Lombard artists who were much less talented? Indeed, should
Leonardo be considered a “court artist” at all? If he was truly Sforza’s celebrity
painter, the leading light of his court, then why was he not involved in the
projects the duke genuinely cared about, such as the decoration of the massive
Milan Cathedral, or the Certosa di Pavia monastery complex, or countless other
churches, including the Santa Maria delle Grazie itself?
Even the Last Supper fresco, about which scores of books have been written,
still harbors many mysteries. For example, what is the relationship between The
Last Supper and the fresco of The Crucifixion, which was begun on the opposite
wall at exactly the same time as Leonardo began his painting? Is there a hidden
program between the two? And why is there such an obvious connection
between Leonardo’s donor portraits on the Crucifixion and the mysterious
“Sforza Altarpiece,” the Pala Sforzesca?
Why have these questions not been addressed before? The answer is perhaps
simpler than we might expect. Most modern authors are so focused on the
centuries-old effort to physically restore the Last Supper fresco, Leonardo’s
Milanese masterpiece, that they are almost blindsided by it. And while the latest
restoration, completed in 1999, is certainly impressive from a technical point of
view, its outcome is rather sobering: only some 20 percent of Leonardo’s
original masterpiece is still extant.
The conclusion is inevitable: we no longer know what this painting looked
like. Yet, there is no question that with this painting, Leonardo singlehandedly
introduced the era of the High Renaissance. But how can we appreciate the work
as Leonardo’s contemporaries saw it? Is it possible to reconstruct the fresco by
other means?
This provocative book was written to answer these questions, and to offer a
fascinating window on the mind of a young artist as he slowly developed the
groundbreaking techniques that would transform Western art.
PART I
Toward The Adoration of the Magi
Leonardo’s Early Oeuvre in Florence
PROLOGUE
Art is never finished, only abandoned.
—LEONARDO DA VINCI
They were, by any measure, outrageous terms. Some would have called them
downright insulting. For the contract stipulated that, to begin with, the artist was
expected to pay for the commission himself—not just his brushes, pigments, and
all other materials, but also the cost of the assistants who would be mixing the
paints, prepping the panel, and applying the gesso, the preparatory coat of
gypsum and glue. Worst of all, the artist would not be paid for his labors until
the work was completed, delivered, and duly accepted to the patron’s
satisfaction. Even then, the painter would not be paid in cash, but in kind—in the
form of a portion of a small estate in the Val d’Elsa that a benefactor had
bequeathed to the monastery some months before. On the plus side, the property
had been valued at three hundred florins (roughly forty thousand dollars in
modern currency). On the downside, half of it was supposed to serve as the
dowry for the patron’s daughter—which, incidentally, the artist was expected to
advance as well. And if at any time the painter decided to walk away from the
commission, he would, as the friars told him, “forfeit that part of it which he has
done.”
Outrageous terms indeed—which suggests a few things. For one, it indicates
a deep skepticism on the part of the commissioning agency, the Augustinian
monks of San Donato a Scopeto, in Florence, that the artist could actually pull