Viewpoint-Mona Lisa

Another day starts. I know this, although it is many years since I last saw the sun. The room is suddenly illuminated by some subtle witch-craft. The servants enter and polish the floor with their strange, noisy devices, supervised by my guards. Then the multitudes enter to admire me, pressing close to my glass shield.

Many people come each day to gaze upon me, from all corners of the globe, to judge by the hue of their skin and cast of their features. Few seem to really see me, and even fewer love me. And I have been loved, truly loved.

When a painter makes a truly great painting a little of his soul is left behind in his work. Leonardo and Del Giocondo’s wife may be long dead, but they have attained immortality through me. Leonardo loved me so much, that when I was finished he refused to sell me to his patron. Instead, I travelled with him throughout France and Italy. Other painters, great nobles, courtiers and bishops came from afar to look upon me. Leonardo always positioned
me so that I was the first thing he saw on awaking. He shed tears on our parting after almost 20 years together. He gave me to the French King in exchange for a castle.

Life at Fontainebleau was full of excitement and intrigue. The ladies of the court would try to decipher the secret of my gaze, but none ever succeeded in emulating me. Whilst they were before me practising their arts, I became the repository of many of their secrets and plots. If I could have spoken, what storms I could have unleashed.

Decades passed, and I made a new conquest. The little Emperor had me moved to his private chamber in the Tuileries. He didn’t care for me like Da Vinci did, rather he coveted me like a miser his hoard. He would strut before me in one of his many uniforms, gloating on his possession of me.

After his downfall they moved me again, to the Louvre. Then it seemed anyone could come to visit me. Young men would spend hours looking upon me, sometimes sketching me or composing poetry in my honour. Whole families would come, parents pointing me out to their children as an example of great art.

One day my chamber was closed to visitors. A work-man entered, early, removed me from my frame, and hid me under his smock. There followed a long journey, longer than I had made in years. Vincenzo was the young man’s name, Vincenzo Perrugia. He took me to his home in Florence, and kept me wrapped in a cloth, hidden in a trunk of some kind. He was the first man to love me since Leonardo. Late at night, when all was quiet, he would reverently unwrap me, and place me on his work scarred table in his poorly furnished room. He would contemplate me in the lamp-light and talk to me. Sometimes he would run a caressing hand across my surface, and smile. It seemed he was an Italian patriot and believed that I had been stolen from Italy by Napoleon. He had decided to bring me home but didn’t know what to do next to accomplish this. As he explained to me he was poor and had a mother and sisters to support. I could bring them more money than they had ever dreamed of, so, much as he loved me, he had to sell me. The next day strangers came, I was packed away and returned to France. As my box was carried out I heard sounds of fighting and Vincenzo’s screams.

Later there were rumours of war. I was sent away into darkness again, before my return to the Louvre. I have not travelled for many years now, and I am rarely touched. Occasionally the guards carefully move me to a room where I am handled delicately, like the most precious Venetian glass. The people there cover the lower part of their faces, and wear outlandish gloves. They shine magical lights at me, probe me, and cleanse me with strange fluids, and then I am returned to my place in the Salle des Etats.

I hear the first of my guests arriving, a young woman. She stands before me entranced. At times I grow weary with the endless passage of the centuries, and the constant unseeing stares. But sometimes, like today, I know that the person looking at me wants to see and understand me. It is then I feel young again once more .