Mona Lisa in Camelot

On December 3, John Walker sent a three-page letter to Jackie detailing the extensive French stipulations for transportation of the Mona Lisa. French officials demanded that the painting travel in a customized isothermal aluminum packing case in which the temperature would be set at precisely sixty-three degrees. In the event of an excessive atmospheric variation during the voyage or a breakdown of the cooling system within the crate, the picture would be seized by French authorities and returned to the Louvre.

The painting was to be consigned to the President of the United States and would arrive in New York on the SS France on December 19, 1962. The French specifically requested grandes manifestations to coincide with the painting’s arrival. “This means they hope the France will come up the harbor escorted by United States Naval vessels,” Walker told her. “There will be television and press, but all they’ll see will be the box. Perhaps a Marine Guard of Honor would be attractive.”

A special convoy would then transport the painting to the National Gallery in Washington, D.C. “I suggest one or more FBI agents, some Marines, and some National Gallery guards,” Walker added. A motorcycle escort would accompany the group of vehicles. “At the Gallery,” he said, “I would like two Marines on guard while the picture is on view to the public, and some FBI representation 24 hours a day.”

French officials insisted that at least one delegate from the Louvre be in constant attendance while the painting was in Washington. Upon its arrival, the crate would be moved to the vault of the National Gallery where the air-conditioning would be set at the precise temperature of that inside the traveling crate. (The same temperature and humidity levels as those recorded by Madame Hours inside the Grande Galerie at the time of departure.) Next, museum officials would remove the picture from the crate and place it on a special easel inside the vault.

The French communiqué was insistent on both proper ceremony and proper temperature: “On the eve of the day set aside for the inaugural ceremony to be led by the President of the United States and Mrs. John Kennedy—January 8, 1963—the picture will be transported to the Gallery called the West Hall, main floor, opening on the Great Rotunda, where it would remain during the entire period of exhibition.

“For the duration of the exhibition all technical measures will be taken to maintain the stability of the atmosphere and the humidity. In the event of an excessive atmospheric variation in the gallery or a stoppage of the air-conditioning system, the picture would be immediately transported to the vault of arrival where the air conditioning can be effected by an installation functioning independently of the general air-conditioning system of the museum.”

Above all else, it was essential for the temperature to remain constant. As for the painting’s physical security, the French listed their additional requirements: “For the duration of the exhibition exceptional measures would be taken to reinforce the exterior, interior, diurnal and nocturnal surveillance of the building, particularly of the area where the picture will be exhibited. Members of the police force will be added to the museum guards. During the hours the museum is open to the public, two armed policemen will constantly be surrounding the picture. Police officers will be in attendance in the adjoining galleries and along the way of access leading from the entrance of the museum to the exhibition gallery. At night, an observation post with police surveillance will be installed in the exhibition gallery. Visitors will be absolutely forbidden to enter the museum bearing packages.”

“At the end of the exhibition,” officials added, “the picture will be put back into the isothermal crate in which it arrived. The same security measures which were taken for the arriving voyage would be put in effect for the return from Washington to New York.”

Of particular concern was the glare of flashing camera lights that might harm the painting, something that had worried Madame Hours and the other curators at the Louvre: “In no instance would the public be allowed to photograph the picture. Photographers from the press, motion pictures, television, will be able to photograph only with the authorization of the Director of the National Gallery of Art, providing that the picture was at its place of exhibition, framed and shown under its protective glass, and that the photographers were kept at a distance from the work of art so as not to cause over-heating of the panel.” Any unnecessary filming of the Mona Lisa would be prohibited. Furthermore, officials added, “admission to the exhibition of ‘la Joconde ’ at the National Gallery will be free.”

The French surprised Walker by suggesting that the Mona Lisa might be sent to New York for a brief visit, but only if the French deemed the conditions satisfactory. The Metropolitan Museum was at that moment installing an enormous air-conditioning system, and officials couldn’t yet know if the system would be completed in time. “The possibility of exhibiting ‘la Joconde’ for a month in New York might be considered,” French officials advised Walker, “if the air-conditioning system which is being installed at the Metropolitan Museum permits it, and if the picture’s reaction to its sojourn in Washington causes no concern.” Until the cooling system was operational and working properly, though, Mona Lisa’s extended visit to New York was placed on hold.

Walker advised Jackie that on the evening of the Mona Lisa’s debut, Nicole and Hervé Alphand would host a formal dinner party at the French Embassy for eighty VIPs. Invited guests would then drive to the National Gallery where the unveiling ceremony would take place in the West Sculpture Hall at 10:00 P.M.

“The French hope that the President and Minister Malraux will say a few words in front of the picture,” he told her. “If the speeches are ready in advance it would be helpful to have them printed and distributed to the guests. This would avoid the necessity of a translator for Minister Malraux and also provide a souvenir for the guests.”

Walker recognized that the details connected with the guest list were fraught with problems, and the final list would be of keen interest to Jackie. “Admission would be by invitation only,” he said. He went on to state: “We would invite all the Congress, the Supreme Court, the cabinet, the trustees of the National Gallery of Art, and of the Metropolitan Museum, and the representatives of the Society of Art of Atlanta. To this we would add any other government officials you might suggest and any friends you wish. I think the number should run about 1,500. The French will suggest the wording of an invitation. They have promised that I would have this wording by Dec. 10th. I can show it to you and get your approval when I come to dinner that night. I hope the invitation will be printed and sent out by the White House, so that the President and yourself would be host and hostess at the Gallery. This will make the ceremony more impressive, and I am sure will please the French immensely.”

For reasons of security, the announcement of the exhibition dates would be made only after the painting departed France. Statements to the world press were to indicate that the French government had chosen the date of January 8 for the unveiling to concur with the opening of the American Congress and the visit of Minister Malraux to Washington. The picture would remain for four weeks at the National Gallery and then, if satisfactory “climatisation” could be provided, it would travel to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where it would be exhibited for several weeks.

“I need a little help from you,” Walker told Jackie. “Would you tell the President’s Naval aide that I will come to see him about Naval vessels to escort the France and also about a Marine guard. Please also let me know whether the[se] arrangements are satisfactory to you and to the President.”

After reviewing Walker’s list, Jackie replied that it sounded fine, except any matters pertaining to grandes manifestations must be checked first with the President. She instructed her secretary to make arrangements to schedule an appointment between Walker and Tazwell Shepard, the U.S. Navy captain and security advisor, making sure that “all be cleared with JFK.”

Back in Paris the proposal to ship the fragile wood panel across the Atlantic Ocean had sparked angry nationalist outbursts in the streets. French newspapers published impassioned editorials denouncing the American exhibition. Art experts and commentators protested the insane scheme—aliéné they raged—of Culture Minister André Malraux, who had the nerve to even think of allowing the Mona Lisa to leave the Louvre.

Though strictly speaking, the Mona Lisa was an Italian masterpiece, the French public had long claimed it as theirs and its popularity reigned supreme. No other artifact, not even the Winged Victory of Samothrace, considered the Louvre’s crown jewel, received such attention and adulation. Each day multitudes of determined visitors flocked to the museum to view the Mona Lisa inside the Grande Galerie. The Florentine lady with the inscrutable smile was the uncontested mistress of the palace.

Over the years, the history of the Mona Lisa and the Louvre had been so intertwined that when the painting was stolen in 1911, French citizens were outraged. French officials closed the borders in the hopes of finding the masterpiece, and when it was not recovered the entire nation entered a state of public mourning. One disgraced government official tried to commit suicide. When it was revealed that a former museum worker had walked out of the Louvre with the picture tucked under his coat, citizens were shocked. Investigations were demanded among cries for heightened security. Italian-born housepainter Vincenzo Perugia was arrested for the theft in 1914. “I thought of taking a Raphael, a Titian, a Correggio and several other masterpieces,” he told police, but the Mona Lisa had much more appeal.

The picture was returned to Paris by train amid widespread jubilation under heavy guard aboard the Milan-Paris Express. Perugia was placed on trial in Florence, where surprisingly he gained popularity as a patriot who returned the artifact to its original homeland. Louvre officials instituted new security measures, including electric alarm wiring and steel rods to lock paintings to the walls. Secret chambers where unseen guards could keep watch were constructed and police dogs were stationed every fifty feet to keep visitors from getting too close. French citizens had grown fiercely protective of the masterpiece, and any plan to allow her to leave the Louvre seemed unthinkable.

“The unbelievable news item seems true,” blasted the French newspaper Le Figaro on December 3. “We are about to pack the Mona Lisa and send it to America for a traveling exhibition. During the 400 years this masterpiece has been in France, it has never crossed our borders except when a thief took it to Italy in 1911. Five years ago, a maniac stoned the Mona Lisa and damaged part of the panel. A third aggression is now planned.”

Irate Frenchmen expressed their fears that the long ocean journey would destroy the fragile portrait. Some went so far as to claim that American gangsters might kidnap her and hold the Mona Lisa for ransom. On December 7, the morning edition of Le Figaro printed a passionate appeal to all Americans to refuse the loan of the Mona Lisa in order to spare “endangering the world’s most famous painting.”

The fiery protests reached such a crescendo that even The New Yorker felt compelled to chime in on some of the reasons to stop the exhibition. “Indignant letters against the proposed journey of this invaluable, fragile chef-d’oeuvre have been pouring into the offices of Le Figaro, leader of the vociferous campaign,” noted the magazine. “She is not considered lucky despite her immortal smile.”

Adding to the fire, a committee of the curators of France’s fine art museums sent a written appeal to Malraux demanding that the painting remain in Paris based on a long list of concerns over security and preservation. Malraux found himself pummeled by attacks from officials at the Louvre, who, like nearly every art authority around the world, raised passionate objections against the exhibition.

French intellectuals also protested the Mona Lisa’s trip to America on cultural and political grounds. Critics accused the culture minister of succumbing to the charms of the American First Lady, claiming it was more advisable to hurt the feelings of Mrs. Kennedy than risk the utter ruin of the Mona Lisa. Minister Malraux simply ignored the taunts and maintained his typical joie de vivre, making only limited statements to the press. He kept up his normal pace of activities and planned to leave for Washington as scheduled.

Le Figaro, however, continued its campaign, publishing an interview with Louis Hautecoeur, the man who was said to know more about the Mona Lisa than anyone else in the world. Following the painting’s recovery after the theft of 1911, Hautecoeur had been asked to determine if the painting was genuine. He had examined the picture inch by inch with a microscope and reported that its wood panels were now “curved like a warped bicycle wheel.”

Hautecoeur expressed doubt that it was possible to protect the painting from sea air even with the use of the specially designed air-tight crate. “Handling,” he said, risked “aggravating the curvature of the panels, provoking the scaling off of the very thin coating of the pigment.”

Le Figaro also quoted the fears expressed by American expert Hubert Von Sonnenberg, head of the restoration department of New York’s Metropolitan Museum: “In my opinion it is never a good idea to transfer old works of art from one continent to another. The loan of the Mona Lisa originates [solely] in political reasons.”

Popular French painter Roger Chapelain-Midy reinforced the point, arguing that the idea to move her was madness. “Masterpieces should never move. It is for the public to come to them. Masterpieces are much more vital than all the important people who could look at them. We are not protesting out of chauvinism, trying to keep the Mona Lisa for us and for the Louvre Museum, but because we are custodians of this masterpiece.”

The core of the opposition to Mona Lisa’s American visit, however, came from the prestigious Académie des Beaux-Arts, a French cultural institution dating to the 1600s, which unanimously called for the Mona Lisa to stay home. In support of the institution, bold headlines throughout Paris cried out: “LA JOCONDE MUST NOT LEAVE THE LOUVRE.”

Reports soon surfaced of widespread spontaneous rioting among French youths, and embarrassed government authorities reportedly ordered a “Mona Lisa news blackout” in an attempt to quell further outbursts. This did little to quiet the uproar, however, and the French newspaper Libération added fuel to the fire when it angrily declared that the Mona Lisa must remain in Paris. “After all,” the paper implored, “one does not ask a pretty woman to come to one’s home. One goes to her.”

Indeed, the French commitment to preserving the country’s great works of art for future generations had been amply demonstrated during the world wars, and Madame Hours was among the many who had protected the treasures of the Louvre as a Nazi invasion loomed in the late 1930s. Melancholy over the recent death of her first child, an infant daughter, Hours threw herself into efforts to prepare the museum for a possible takeover by the enemy. She helped store her laboratory machines, files, and radiographic photographs in the basement and then joined volunteers packing up the art. Many of them were clerks from nearby department stores. Madame Hours remembered working in “this surreal army,” wrapping dozens of fourteenth- and fifteenth-century objects, including works by Girolamo di Benvenuto and Domenico Ghirlandajo.

On the day France declared war on Germany in 1939, orders came to remove all important works from the museum by nightfall, and they were spirited away in convoys of trucks to be hidden throughout France. Among them was the Mona Lisa, believed to be on a list of masterpieces the Nazis planned to take to Germany. Fearing its seizure, museum officials moved the Mona Lisa half a dozen times.

During the occupation, Hours gave birth to her first son, Antoine, and she and her family huddled under a blanket inside a windowless bathroom listening to English radio broadcasts. “We listened with passion to those voices full of hope and their strange poetic messages,” she recalled. One of the communiqués was particularly moving: “The Mona Lisa is smiling.” Several years after the liberation of France, Madame Hours learned for the first time that the statement was sent to furtively alert officials that the great masterworks of the Louvre had been saved and were safe.

As protests continued to swell abroad, the Associated Press cheekily asked, “Why, then, [will] the French permit the Mona Lisa to come? Do the French know, for example, that a certain lady named Jacqueline Kennedy has an insatiable yearning for art?”

With Malraux’s support, President de Gaulle’s official blessing, and Jacqueline Kennedy’s ingenuity, the Mona Lisa’s visit to America was quickly becoming a reality. The outcry against the exhibition triggered a “tug [in] every French man’s heart,” one newspaper wrote, and moans of despair from international art experts, but the exhibition was essentially a fait accompli. Only the logistics remained to be sorted out.

Despite the mélodrame surrounding the well-being of the painting, the concerns were justified. It was almost impossible to fully protect the picture from fluctuations in atmospheric conditions; temperature changes could occur through the opening of a door or the rise in room temperature from the expected crowds.

The portrait’s 1911 theft had damaged the wood panels and temperature changes had already caused the painting to crack. And while the damage done by the “mad Bolivian waiter” who threw the rock and shattered Mona Lisa’s glass shield in 1956 had been hidden by delicate restoration, it was not known how much the enamel-hard pigment had been scarred by the concussion. X-rays showed an incipient split in the panel.

What would happen if a chunk of the pigment detached itself from the picture’s surface during its journey to America? How could it be worth the risk? Curators feared that the crack visible in the upper part of the poplar panel could burst open, and the slightest vibration or change in temperature could destroy the masterpiece.

Saving the picture from the ravages of the environment was one thing, but Walker was hard-pressed to guarantee the painting’s safety from thieves or terrorists in an era before global satellite positioning systems, cell phones, or sophisticated video surveillance. French officials considered travel by airplane too risky (the possibility of a catastrophic crash or an explosion during flight was cited) and insisted instead on transportation via ocean liner, but the five days and nights required to cross the Atlantic would make the Mona Lisa a sitting duck for terrorists, thrill seekers, and criminals. Walker could not fully grasp why transporting the painting by air had been rejected by French officials.

Another thorny issue with the French was the matter of insurance. Walker recognized it was impossible to insure the exhibition. No insurer would dare underwrite the risk. False reports surfaced in the media that the painting might be insured by one unnamed source for $100 million. Jean-Claude Winckler of the French Embassy tried to end the speculation by saying that the masterpiece would carry no insurance because the painting was “priceless.” Emphatically he told reporters that the only insurance for the Mona Lisa would be the painting’s “elaborate care and protection.”

In Walker’s view, transporting the picture via airliner was the safest option. It would not subject the painting to the ravages of the salty sea air or the hazards of a long, rolling ocean ride. Positioned inside its special traveling case, the picture could easily be placed onboard any commercial aircraft. Alternatively, the painting could be transported to Washington aboard the President’s official airplane already known as “Air Force One.” The presidential aircraft—with its state-of-the-art navigation and communications equipment, its interior configuration, and stylish furnishings—was the perfect cocoon to safeguard the Mona Lisa during her trip to America.

Walker watched with interest as arrangements were made to bring Michelangelo’s enormous statue known as the Pietà to the United States for exhibition at the 1964 World’s Fair. Pope John XXIII had agreed to the loan in April, and, like his French counterparts, the Pope considered travel by air too risky for the extremely heavy marble statue. Officials at the Vatican had selected a different option, and plans were underway for the masterpiece to travel to America via nuclear submarine.

With the Pope’s blessing, an underwater journey was selected for the 4,000-mile trip from St. Peter’s Basilica to the World’s Fair “as offering the safest, smoothest and most shock free trip for the priceless 463-year-old statue of the dead Christ and the Virgin.” The U.S. Navy had accepted the responsibility for the “delicate task,” and Pentagon officials were finalizing the details of the operation. Walker had snorted out loud in amusement when he learned about plans for the 8,000-pound Virgin to travel from Europe to America underwater in a U.S. nuclear sub. The Mona Lisa, on the other hand, would glide across the pond inside her spacious first-class cabin aboard one of the world’s biggest passenger ships.

The time of departure was a closely guarded secret. In fact, four different itineraries were prepared, and one was chosen at the very last moment. French authorities insisted that no public announcement about the Mona Lisa’s departure be made until after the painting had been taken from the Louvre and was safely aboard the ocean liner bound for America. But on Saturday, December 8, the French Embassy in Washington leaked word that the Mona Lisa would soon arrive in the United States. “The principle seems accepted that the Mona Lisa will come,” the embassy spokesman said, adding that it had no specific information as to when.

To Walker’s chagrin, a dispatch published by the London Observer released later that day announced that the painting would be placed aboard the superliner SS France on Friday, December 14, on its five-day journey to New York. At the National Gallery, Walker received dozens of calls from the international press, but he declined to make any comment, referring all inquiries to the French Embassy.

Walker continued to receive telephone calls from colleagues who urged him to consider canceling the exhibition. Why risk a sad ending to Leonardo’s masterpiece—one of the most fragile paintings in existence? Why expose her to such terrible dangers?

“Is it possible,” noted the Parisien Libéré, “that the American people thank Monsieur Malraux for his generous intentions but deny responsibility for endangering the most famous painting in the world?”

Criticism kept coming from all corners as Walker kept his focus on preparing for the picture’s arrival. Undoubtedly, he must have smiled when he learned of one more stinging rebuke from the French over the Mona Lisa’s impending trip to Washington: “Knowing the Americans, they’ll probably have her parading down Fifth Avenue in the bitter cold in an open car under tons of confetti.”

On the morning of December 10, Letitia Baldridge typed a short memo for Mrs. Kennedy that described the immediate decisions still required to be made regarding the exhibition. Walker was expected at the White House later that evening, and Miss Baldridge facilitated the quick briefing concerning the “Mona Lisa Project” in anticipation of his visit.

“Taze [U.S. Navy captain Tazwell Shepard, Jr.] probably hasn’t had a chance to tell the President yet,” Baldridge wrote Mrs. Kennedy, “but Admiral Anderson says it would be most improper to bring the U.S. Navy into the welcoming ceremonies of the French liner bearing the painting. It will have to be Mayor Wagner and the City of New York that go all out with tug boats, etc. Anyway, that’s a Navy matter that I shouldn’t be telling you—let Taze tell the President!

“Also,” she added, “the President said to not break precedent by having the invitations to the Gallery sent from the White House—so they will go out either under the National Galley’s heading or the French Embassy—but with it made quite clear that you and the President will be present and opening the exhibition.”

Concerning the extensive VIP guest list, Baldridge continued, “We are helping Johnny with his list of officialdom.” Jackie promptly responded that she agreed: “France wants all the pomp they can get at this—it is really a big headache and responsibility for us . . . [I] agree completely—no navy [and] no White House invitations.”

On December 12, President Kennedy spoke briefly with Walker on the telephone concerning the proper protocol for the invitations. He approved use of the phrase “on behalf of the President of the United States” in connection with the trustee’s invitation, and within hours the invitations were rushed to the printer with the new wording. Time was running out. The Mona Lisa would arrive in America in less than seven days.