Mona Lisa in Camelot

On the brisk clear morning of December 19, 1962, a flotilla of small ships bestowed a bellowing welcome as fireboats sprayed columns of seawater high in the air and the SS France entered New York Harbor. The U.S. Coast Guard cutter Campbell, once called the “fightin’est ship ever seen,” and dozens of tugboats sounded their horns as the world’s longest ocean liner steamed into view. The $80 million French superliner was a breathtaking sight, with her sleek design and huge red and black canted stacks. Despite the early-morning hour, many of the ship’s passengers lined the decks, waving scarves and tiny flags announcing their arrival.

“She is Here!” declared Edward Folliard to the world on the front page of the Washington Post. The fragile treasure of the Old World had finally arrived in the New. “Washington will receive the Mona Lisa with all the care due a lady of her high station and fragile beauty.”

Four uniformed French line crew members carried her from her first-class stateroom into the luxury liner’s Grand Salon as the ship’s public address system played the “stirring strains” of Modest Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition,” adding a spiritual dimension to the ambiance.

As bulbs flashed in rapid-fire succession, Jean Chatelain, director-general of the museums of France, ceremoniously handed safekeeping of the Mona Lisa to National Gallery Director John Walker, who accepted the painting on behalf of President Kennedy. The President was in Nassau, Bahamas, meeting with British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan for discussions concerning the multilateral force and the Skybolt missile program.

In remarks barely audible over the din of cranking cameras, Chatelain said it was both a great responsibility and a joy to accompany the masterpiece on her first visit to the United States. In perfect English tinged with a hint of a French accent, France’s leading museum official called the portrait a symbol between two great nations. After the men grasped hands in a warm handshake of good relations, Walker declared that the visit would “leave a deep imprint on the cultural history of the United States.”

Walker and Chatelain patiently posed for photographs. Immaculately dressed in a finely tailored, double-breasted wool suit with a narrow gold and black striped tie, Walker looked dashingly handsome. Despite his extreme anxiety, he managed a large toothy grin, turning his face one direction and then another as photographers shouted his name.

The ship’s pastry cook had baked a sugar and butter cream cake in the image of the Mona Lisa, and the “culinary masterwork” was placed atop the real lady’s traveling case. It was the only image of the Mona Lisa reporters would get to see that day, and pictures of Walker posing awkwardly near the funny cake were printed in newspapers around the world.

When it came time for Walker’s formal remarks, he did not disappoint the crowd tightly packed in the ship’s Grand Salon. He had worked for weeks on his welcoming speech and delivered the text completely from memory. The noisy din of the room became quiet as Walker put the moment into eloquent historic perspective:

The most important single work of art ever to cross the ocean, the Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci, has come to America through the generosity of the French Republic. I would like to express the gratitude of the American people for this gesture of solidarity and friendship.

His Excellency the Minister of Cultural affairs, André Malraux, on a recent visit to Washington, said very truly that the supreme achievements of genius belong to all humanity. Instinctively we feel that such masterpieces are the real justification of our precarious life on this planet.

But though in one sense the Mona Lisa belongs to all humanity, in another it is an important part of the artistic patrimony of France. For it was one of the pictures Leonardo took with him across the Alps when he made his final journey, at the invitation of the French King, Francis I, to his newly adopted country where he stayed the remaining years of his life.

Thus the travels of this great work of art are woven into the history of France. Its present journey, its longest voyage, will leave a deep imprint on the cultural history of the United States. An ambassador of good will between the two republics, this most inscrutable of ladies, will I am sure, perform her mission of friendship with unparalleled success, and when she leaves America she will take back to France the affection and gratitude of us all for the honor of her visit.

“I’ve nothing to declare except a hangover,” he told customs officials. Folliard had taken full advantage of the ship’s fine wine list during the ocean voyage, and during the trip with the Lady of his fantasies, he had happily indulged in such offerings as Château Beychevelle Saint-Julien and Chambertin Clos de Bèze. “What could I do?” he said with a shrug.

A special gangplank had been built to protect the painting from the winter chill as she disembarked from the enormous ship. The custom-built passageway was sheathed in clear plastic and fully heated by three giant blowers that provided constant air flow at precisely sixty-two degrees.

Thousands of New Yorkers had descended on the harbor to witness the arrival, and at Pier 88, hordes of people pushed up against the circle of New York police that formed a protective barrier against the crowd, creating a security nightmare. At moments the situation grew tense and Walker closed his eyes, but order was immediately restored by uniformed New York City police who stood guard surrounding the National Gallery’s dark black truck.

The painting was reverently loaded into the Gallery’s air-conditioned vehicle for the 250-mile trip to Washington. The interior of the truck had been lined in thick, soft foam rubber, and the painting’s metal box was “nestled in a special cradle and covered with a padded comforter.”

Under direct orders from President Kennedy, Secret Service agent John E. Campion was locked inside the back of the van with the painting. Campion was heavily armed under his loose-fitting, dark gray wool overcoat. New York City police cleared traffic from the city’s tunnels along the route before the van carrying the masterpiece passed through. According to one report, several sharpshooters were stationed on rooftops in a few strategic locations, but the details of the security operations in place were kept strictly secret.

With sirens screaming and red lights flashing, the eight-car convoy made up of police, Secret Service, and Treasury agents proceeded to the Lincoln Tunnel. The motorcade was escorted by state troopers in New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland. As the procession crossed each state line, motorcycle officers roared into view and joined the convoy, taking turns as her official escort. During the entire route, the Mona Lisa’s entourage never stopped for a single red light.

When the truck carrying the picture was down to less than one gallon of gas, the caravan was forced to stop. One National Gallery car in the entourage “limped” into the gas station on a flattening tire. Once the procession fully stopped, the doors to the Gallery truck were unlocked and Campion leaped into the fresh air.

Campion stood near the van, drinking coffee with Folliard and keeping a close eye on the precious cargo. Despite the sensitive nature of the assignment, Campion could not help smiling as Folliard downed the dog and shared colorful details about the painting’s historic voyage across the Atlantic. Campion lit a cigarette and held it discreetly to his side as he listened to the reporter’s remarkable tale.

Campion had sheltered the Kennedy family from danger since the inauguration, and the President had specifically asked that he head the Mona Lisa detail. In his early forties, Campion boasted soft fleshy features and salt-and-pepper hair that disguised his capabilities. His code name, known only to other agents of the service, was “Dragon.” (Jackie Kennedy’s Secret Service code name was “Lace,” while the President was known as “Lancer.”)

As the motorcade neared the outskirts of Washington, Mona Lisa’s escorts grew somber when the skies turned cloudy. Icy wind whistled through the streets and temperatures fell below 20°F. The small fleet slowed to a crawl as the streets became dangerously icy, and Walker grew increasingly worried as the outdoor temperature plummeted into single digits.

At last, the convoy entered the streets of downtown Washington, and the black van with the words “National Gallery of Art” painted in gold leaf on the driver’s door was forced to drive less than five miles per hour. The skies grew dark and visibility became poor as the van’s tires crunched against the icy asphalt and the motorcade inched its way toward Constitution Avenue.

After what must have seemed like an eternity for Mona Lisa’s nervous escorts, by mid-afternoon the painting arrived at the loading dock of the National Gallery. Several heavily armed guards stood nearby as Gallery workers gingerly moved the crate to its temporary home in the Gallery’s basement.

Once the Mona Lisa was inside, museum curators locked the steel doors to Vault X, and Gallery guards and a small bevy of Secret Service agents kept vigil over the masterpiece via a closed-circuit television system that consisted of a single camera and two grainy black-and-white monitors. By morning the world would want to know the condition of the famous face. Walker feared that it might not be a madman or terrorist who would destroy Leonardo da Vinci’s great artwork, but the icy conditions of a Washington winter. Alone inside the vault, exhausted from her travels, Mona Lisa rested until her grand American debut.

The following morning, John Walker nervously paced the floor waiting confirmation from Perry Cott that the painting had arrived in good condition despite the brutal weather. Walker had complete faith in Cott’s professional judgment. Cott had earned his Ph.D. in fine arts at Princeton University and during the war had served as one of the “Monuments Men,” rescuing priceless artifacts from Nazi theft. Cott came to the Gallery in 1949 and was appointed chief curator seven years later. Since 1956, the Gallery had acquired dozens of significant paintings, and Cott had influenced every decision. “ To find a scholar and administrator of Perry Cott’s knowledge and taste is never an easy task,” Walker said. “But to find one who also possesses his connoisseurship [would] be difficult indeed.” As chief curator, the highly trained fifty-three-year-old scholar would be one of only a handful of Americans who would come face to face with the Mona Lisa outside her bulletproof glass and gilded frame.

At Walker’s direction, the picture was removed from its aluminum and polyvinyl traveling case and gently situated on a special pedestal. It was the moment of truth. Wearing gloves and a lab coat, Perry Cott fastidiously took a series of photographs of the painting from the front and back and examined the poplar wood closely with an optician’s lens. His examination took over an hour. Walker stood nearby with his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets. To his considerable relief, there appeared to be no further visible buckling or warping of the aged wood. Despite the unexpected snowstorm, the Mona Lisa still smiled. Walker instructed Perry Cott to place the painting in her golden oak frame and cover it with a double layer of bulletproof glass. The temperature was held constant at sixty-two degrees. Somehow, for Jackie’s sake, Walker had to keep the painting safe until its grand debut on January 8.

At Jackie’s suggestion, Walker offered a giant-sized Christmas present to the Washington press corps, when he invited reporters to get an exclusive preview of the masterpiece under what he called “very special conditions.” Walker made the invitation even more memorable by including the children of the press corps as well. The private viewing inside Vault X would take place on January 9 for two hours beginning at 5:30 P.M. Admission was granted only on proffer of the printed invitation that read:

More than seventy-five reporters and their offspring would come to witness history as the small portrait sat on its special easel deep beneath Washington’s National Gallery. Despite the upbeat nature of the occasion, Walker continued to face sharp questioning about why the Mona Lisa would wait so long in the vault before she would be put on public display. Walker emphasized that the French government had specifically requested that the painting not be unveiled until “Congress and Malraux were in attendance.”

“The French to whom ceremony is no trifle,” noted the Washington Post, “apparently wanted to make their gesture of friendship to the United States in as grand a manner as possible.” The January 8 ceremony was selected to coincide with the opening of Congress the next day; the December 14 sail date had been the last voyage of the SS France that could get the painting to Washington in time.

As the Lady rested in her temporary home inside Vault X, more than five inches of snow—the deepest snowfall ever recorded on Christmas Day in Washington—covered the city’s streets. Walker found himself constantly checking the weather reports, as if his actions would help ward off the cold from his illustrious European visitor.

Meanwhile, the President and First Lady were enjoying the warmth and sunshine of Palm Beach, Florida. On Christmas morning, the couple attended services at St. Anne’s Church followed by a leisurely cruise aboard the Honey Fitz, the presidential yacht named for the maternal grandfather of the President. They were accompanied by Jackie’s sister and brother-in-law, Princess and Prince Radziwill.

At 5:30 P.M. on Christmas evening, the Kennedys hosted a party for members of the Secret Service and White House press corps who were traveling with the President’s entourage. Absent from the holiday party was Agent John Campion, who remained in Washington guarding his world-famous charge.

Consumed with every detail concerning Mona Lisa’s care, comfort, and security, Walker was anxious, irritable, and short on patience. He spent the day after Christmas at his office firing off memos and dispensing orders. He had grown paranoid that harm might somehow come to the painting inside the vault—despite his verbal orders restricting access—and he sent a terse memo to staffers with written orders concerning the requisite authorization required to get near the chamber. “On instructions from the French, no one is permitted to enter Vault X except on official business. This rule must be strictly enforced.

With the opening ceremony less than two weeks away, Walker’s assistant, J. Carter Brown, ably helped with many of the pressing details, working closely with White House staffers in preparation for the official occasion. Brown took the chaos more or less in stride, offering his usual sense of humor and boundless energy. He seemed calm and cool on the exterior but, as the opening neared and the problems piled high, even Brown referred to the enormous preparations for the exhibition as “our Days of Trial.”

New Year’s Eve morning, President Kennedy met with reporters in the living room of his Palm Beach residence for an off-the-record interview to assess his first two years in office. That evening, President and Mrs. Kennedy attended a party at the exquisite orchid-filled estate of Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wrightsman. As noted by biographer Sara Bradford, “Nineteen sixty two closed for Jackie on the same note of fashion and pleasure that it had held throughout. Celebrating New Year’s Eve in Palm Beach as usual at the Wrightsmans’ were no less than six of the World’s Best-dressed Women: Jackie herself and Lee, plus four others who were on her international social circuit—Jayne Wrightsman, Gloria Guinness, Marcella Agnelli and Nicole Alphand, wife of the French ambassador in Washington.”

On January 2, Madame Hours left Paris aboard an Air France jet bound for Washington. She arrived in America in an optimistic frame of mind. Her first stop was a visit to the gray stone, Tudorstyle French Embassy on Kalorama Road for a meeting with Ambassador Alphand, and from there she left for the National Gallery where she met museum colleagues and Gallery Director John Walker.

Only hours into the new year, Kennedy’s ablest White House minds were working on the speech to be delivered by the President during the Mona Lisa ceremony. On January 4, arts advisor August Heckscher delivered to Arthur Schlesinger his rough draft for Kennedy’s remarks. “This is my suggestion for the Mona Lisa text,” Heckscher wrote Schlesinger on the cover sheet. “I leave it with you.”

During the course of the week the speech underwent numerous revisions until it had been worked into a remarkable oration that touched on stirring themes of art, history, and international diplomacy. The speech was intended to infuse the occasion with the most pomp and circumstance possible to reflect the administration’s unprecedented commitment and celebration of the arts. The text of the President’s speech would be distributed prior to the unveiling so that reporters could cover the event for the morning newspapers. White House files suggest that Jackie was sent several drafts of the speech as it underwent multiple revisions.

Mrs. Kennedy drew on her innate understanding of image crafting in order to infuse the exhibition with a sense of drama, spectacle, and pageantry. Visual imagery became a central theme for Jackie, and she used it to brilliant effect in the American visit of the Mona Lisa. The detailed program Walker devised for the ceremony met Jackie’s exacting standards and projected an indelible image of history, internationalism, and fanfare. Jackie understood that the relationship of the President to the American people was one of the most documented relationships in American life, and the unveiling of France’s supreme national treasure in front of the assembled leadership of the nation was the ultimate political statement.

“Never before had any president sought to identify the White House with the whole range of the nation’s intellectual life,” wrote Arthur Schlesinger Jr. in his memoir. “He saw the arts not as a distraction in the life of a nation but as something close to the heart of a nation’s purpose. Excellence was a public necessity, ugliness a national disgrace. The arts, therefore were, in his view, part of the responsibility, and he looked for opportunities to demonstrate this concern.”

With the stars aligning, even Jackie could not have coordinated the one element that made the Mona Lisa exhibition truly an event of global interest. Orbiting the earth was “an astonishing piece of equipment” built by private industry and fired into space by the U.S. government.

Relay, the second U.S. communications satellite developed by the Bell Telephone Laboratories, had initiated a new era in communications. From high above earth the satellite was in perfect position to transmit the first live television pictures from the United States to Europe. If everything went according to plan, the historic images of the unveiling of the Mona Lisa would be flashed on two continents simultaneously.

It was left to Walker to orchestrate the massive occasion for Jackie, which was more like a queen’s coronation than the opening of a museum exhibition. Walker dictated to Mrs. Foy a remarkable list of categories for invitations to the private ceremony: All members of U.S. Senate, the House, the Supreme Court, and the Cabinet (State, Treasury, Defense, Justice, Post Office, Interior, Agriculture, Commerce, and Health, Education, and Welfare); all of the heads of the executive offices (Budget, CIA, CEA, NSC, NASC, and OEP); former ambassadors to France; important donors to the Gallery; directors of Washington’s museums (Dumbarton Oaks, Phillips Gallery, Museum of Modern Art, Corcoran Gallery, National Collection of Fine Arts, and the Freer Gallery); the heads of the Smithsonian Institution, the National Trust for Historic Preservation, and the Cultural Center; and all former trustees of the National Gallery of Art. In addition, Walker felt the need to add the presidents of the nation’s best universities; the Librarian of Congress; leaders of the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund; plus a handful of prominent publishers, reporters, and newspaper columnists.

Once Jackie had submitted her lengthy list of names (which included every member of the extended Kennedy and Auchincloss families) and various White House requests, the guest list had mushroomed to nearly 2,000. Walker was hard-pressed to conceive of how he could possibly manage so many prominent guests at one time. Dozens of frantic phone calls occurred between the White House and the Gallery as the list was refined—and refined again. Some calls placed by Carter Brown to Tish Baldridge and members of her staff were only minutes apart as the appointed hour drew near.

As for the logistics of the public exhibition of the Mona Lisa, Walker planned to remove the masterpiece from Vault X and mount the painting on the baffle on the Main Floor in the center of the West Sculpture Hall. The picture would hang rather high, so that visitors could see the painting from as far a distance as possible. Walker, who feared only seven to ten seconds would be granted to each visitor to pause in front of the painting, felt this element was crucial. The public, if all went according to plan, would march up the stairs four by four to the rotunda as they made their way toward the viewing in the West Sculpture Hall. Every element of the installation had been worked out beforehand with precise sketches and meticulous measurements. Even the quarter-inch screw (with eye open on top to receive the quarter-inch hanger rod) had been carefully considered so that when it came time to mount the picture, it would be surprisingly quick.

Next to the painting was placed a bust of Giuliano de’ Medici by Verrochio, made at the same time as Leonardo’s masterwork. Madame Hours had requested this juxtaposition, moved by her “romantic taste for historical coincidences.” Walker loved the idea as well and was only too happy to oblige. When told of the gesture, Jackie must have been especially amused.

Some historians believed that Leonardo’s small masterpiece had been painted at the request of Giuliano de’ Medici, who may have been the lover of the real-life Mona Lisa. “By a strange turn of events, Giuliano and Mona Lisa, two lovers separated for 500 years,” Madame Hours said proudly, “were reunited in the United States.”

There was one other intriguing historical connection related to the Mona Lisa. A team of genealogists later discovered records that indicated that the Kennedys may have had distant family relations with the subject of Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece. The genealogical link stemmed from the fact that the Fitzgeralds of Ireland (the ancestors of Rose Kennedy) can be traced to members of the Gherardini family of Tuscany, Italy, who moved to Ireland in the twelfth century. (“La Gioconda,” the woman who sat for the artist, was the former Lisa Gherardini, before she married Francesco del Giocondo.) Evidence exists to suggest that President John F. Kennedy was in fact a distant relative of the Mona Lisa.

Below the painting, hidden in the flower pots, Hours had situated the hygrothermographs that monitored the temperature and humidity levels—the instruments critical in determining the picture’s well-being. The French flag and the Star-Spangled Banner, both protected by white-capped Marines with bayonets, stood on opposite sides of the painting. Several feet from the wall, Walker had erected a velvet rope barrier to keep visitors at a safe distance.

Walker wasn’t completely alone in feeling that the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. He at least had the companionship of Agent Campion with whom he could share the burden. Campion rarely left the museum during the Mona Lisa’s visit, except for a few hours each day to get some sleep at a nearby hotel, when another agent took his place. But in reality, the real responsibility was Walker’s. It may have been Jackie’s exhibition, but it was Walker’s museum, and at the end of the day, the buck stopped with him alone.

“There will be need for Director Walker’s humor and stamina equal to his eloquence once the doors are open to the public,” noted Edward Folliard in his front-page feature in the Washington Post. It remained to be seen if every precaution and every prayer would be enough to keep the Lady safe.