The last document to mention an easel painting by Leonardo is the sarcastic note by Agostino Vespucci, who in 1503 expressed profound reservations regarding the artist’s ability to complete the portrait of Monna Lisa. The last significant work that we know about is the second version of The Virgin of the Rocks painted in Milan, for the most part by his collaborators and de Predis, between 1507 and 1508. For the remaining 11 years of Leonardo’s life, the sources reveal a man who was interested solely in his anatomical and mathematical studies, was overwhelmed by the chaos of his own writings, and tried to sort out and publish his research with the help of Francesco Melzi, even though the latter only managed to produce the Libro della pittura.13 As early as 1508 Leonardo had been assailed by fears of being unable to classify and order his notes, and after that matters only got worse.
Begun at Florence, in the house of Piero di Braccio Martelli, on 22 March 1508. This will be a collection without order, made up of the many sheets which I have copied here, hoping to arrange them later each in its place, according to the subjects of which they treat. But I believe that before I am at the end of this [task] I shall have to repeat the same things several times; for which, reader, do not blame me, for the subjects are many and memory cannot retain them [all] and say: ‘I will not write this because I wrote it before.’ (Arundel Codex, p. 115, f. 1r)14
From 1506 onwards, painting seemed to be the last thing on Leonardo’s mind; but we know that during his time in Rome he did not abandon his brushes and colours; the presence of that ‘bench for grinding colours’ listed in the estimate of works on the Belvedere apartment provided by Giuliano Leno hinted that much. Moreover, he could not abandon painting because he had to continue to employ his loyal disciples, who had followed him each time: Salai and Melzi, as well as the one called Fanfoia, who had come from Milan (this individual has not yet been identified with certainty). We know that during his time in Rome Leonardo travelled to Parma with Giuliano de’ Medici in September 1514, drew a memorable drawing of the Pontine marshes, (perhaps) in preparation for a reclamation project [Plate 56], prepared studies for the reorganization of the harbour at Civitavecchia, performed dissections, tried to finish Giuliano’s commission to manufacture mirrors, and argued with the ‘German deceiver’; but undoubtedly he also painted, finishing his three most modern – and perhaps most beautiful – paintings:
One of a certain Florentine woman, drawn from life, at the instance of the late Magnificent Giuliano de’ Medici. The other of Saint John the Baptist when young, and one of the Virgin and the Christ Child who are seated on Saint Anne’s lap, all completely perfect.15
The three paintings on which he worked in Rome were later taken to France, after he abandoned the Eternal City and accepted Francis I’s invitation to stay at the small châteaux of Cloux near Amboise. In the elegant châteaux on the banks of the Loire Leonardo would receive a visit on 10 October 1517 from a guest of honour, Cardinal Luigi d’Aragona, a friend of the pope and of the Medici. The cardinal’s secretary, Antonio de Beatis, recorded the highlights of the visit in his diary, leaving one of the most truthful documents concerning the artist’s condition in the last months of his life. The paintings, shown to the visitors for the perfection of their execution and for the originality of their composition, would alone be sufficient to make Leonardo one of the greatest Italian Renaissance painters, but all three are particularly difficult to interpret. Of these paintings, the Saint Anne is the one whose story is best known, because when he left Milan in 1513 at least one copy remained in the city, revealing the extent of its completion at that date. The story of the other two paintings is much more complicated, namely Saint John the Baptist [Plate 57] and the portrait of ‘a certain Florentine lady’ [Plate 58], now known as La Gioconda. This last one was perhaps the same painting that was mentioned in 1503 by Agostino Vespucci, but on that morning in 1517 it was presented by Leonardo as the portrait of a favourite of Giuliano de’ Medici, and therefore there is no reason to doubt that it was indeed made for the pope’s brother.
Of all three, the painting of Saint John is the most problematic, because there is no evidence of this composition before 1517 and the design is completely new, even if the saint’s gesture is a reworking of Angel of the Annunciation, a lost work that was painted by Leonardo during his time in Florence and perhaps never even finished.16 The painting has been interpreted almost unanimously by scholars as evidence of the influence that Leonardo’s presence in Rome exerted on Raphael, since the gesture with which the adolescent saint points to the heavens whence Christ would descend was to be copied by Raphael in some of his contemporary drawings. Today this relationship, part of a critical tradition that was heavily biased towards Leonardo, is being reconsidered by many, in view of the fact that the context described by the sources reveals a dominant Raphael, at the height of his creativity, in confrontation with a Leonardo whose presence in Rome appears to be entirely irrelevant, both socially and artistically. One need only consider their respective residences: the former lived in the throbbing heart of Rome, where he would shortly build a palace worthy of a prince, while the latter was relegated to the apartments designed for artisans at the Belvedere. If there were influences between the two men during these three years, it is natural to think of one that was at the very least reciprocal. There are in Raphael’s work several earlier versions of Saint John’s gesture, the index finger of his left hand pointing heavenwards. Raphael’s compositions allow us to follow the slow development of this gesture, from its inception in the frescoes of the Disputa in 1509 to its fullest expression in the Foligno Altarpiece (1512–13), before Leonardo’s arrival at Rome.
The painting of Saint John presents other elements that prompt the suggestion of an influence exercised by Raphael and, more generally, by the Roman environment on Leonardo, an artist arrived from Milan: Milan was a city whose taste was still predominantly anchored in the Quattrocento, whereas Leo X’s Rome was dominated by a classicizing fashion. The evidently pagan character of the painting and the sensual beauty of the youth, who announces the advent of Christ with a beckoning smile, erotic more than devout, are typical of the liberal climate that spread through the city in those years, after the ostentatious triumphs set up for the cavalcade of the new pope on 11 April 1513, in which triumphal arches embellished wonderfully, in the grand style of ancient Rome, lined the streets. The painting represents the point at which Leonardo draws closest to classical culture, and it would be difficult for it to find a patron in any context other than Rome. Although at the current state of research this patron has not yet been identified, it might have been the cardinal of Santa Maria in Portico, Bernardo Dovizi of Bibbiena, who could have intended to use the painting to celebrate Pope Leo X and the city of Florence, whose patron saint was Saint John. The identification of Bibbiena as the possible patron of the work is further supported by the fact that the cardinal was sent as apostolic nuncio to France, at exactly the time when Leonardo moved there too. The fact that Leonardo took with him to France a small panel measuring just 69 × 57 cm points to the fact that he might have intended to deliver the painting to his patron in France, once it was finished.
Such an erotic version of the announcement of Christ’s coming might have been appreciated by the same man who had his bathroom in the Vatican decorated with one of the most licentious scenes of the time: in it the gods were consumed with love, in an iconographic context that echoed in detail the mural decorations of the Domus Aurea. Bibbiena had known Leonardo long enough to be acquainted with his ‘specializations’ and the reality of his working patterns, and he was a very devout follower of Saint John, to whom he paid tribute in Florence on 24 June 1516, on the eve of his departure for France. He was therefore an ideal patron – one who, precisely in view of his forthcoming journey, may have wished to take with him the patron saint’s protection even if, in keeping with the times, his devotion was depicted in the contemporary language of a classical and transgressive beauty.
It is difficult to imagine another context in which such a beautiful and disturbing Saint John–Apollo, so focused on the essential qualities of his own body as to render any devout attributes invisible, could have been conceived. More than announcing a new era of the spirit, the youth exhibits his adolescent body as an invitation to a world of carnal delights, as testified by his own beauty. Would it have been possible for Leonardo to paint Saint John without having seen the nudes in the Sistine Chapel? The erotic ambiguity of these images did not escape Leonardo, because in a lucid note intended for the Libro della pittura he commented on the erotic charge that emanated from devout images:
It once happened that I made a painting representing a divine subject, and it was bought by a man who fell in love with her. He wished to remove any emblems of divinity in order to kiss the painting without scruples, but finally conscience overcame his sighs and lust, and he was obliged to remove the painting from his house.17
The passage may have been inspired by this painting, even if we find it hard to believe that Cardinal Bibbiena resorted to returning the painting in order to ensure a chaste night’s sleep.
The style of the painting is very late, the paint almost dissolves into the half-darkness, and the contours fade as in a vision, because the consistency of the material is completely subjugated by the transparency of the shadow. The saint’s pose represents a further variation on the pose that Leonardo had developed for the youthful Saint John the Baptist with the bowl, or for The Angel Incarnate that was mentioned earlier. The choice of portraying the saint against a dark background highlighted by the light from above has a symbolic value because it associates the light with Christ’s descent; but, once again, it is also a dramatic device to stage and give the greatest emphasis to the saint’s pearly nudity and to the smile that forms the true centre of the painting.
Parallels with studies carried out by other artists present in Rome at the time, such as Sebastiano del Piombo and Raphael, are clear; Raphael, too, created dark backgrounds for his portraits in order to heighten the psychological impact of their expressions, and it cannot be ruled out that he copied this feature from Leonardo, given that he generally preserved the denseness of the natural material without letting it disintegrate into the half-darkness, as Leonardo did. Studies of shade were at the heart of the work of Sebastiano del Piombo, who does not appear to have been much concerned by Leonardo’s presence and was already exploring the nocturnal effects of painting in his Pietà (now in Viterbo). This particular research was seen by the artist as a personal achievement, and he even accused Raphael of not knowing how to blend the shadows: ‘They contain figures that look as if they had been smoked – figures that seem to be made of shining iron – all bright and dark, and drawn after the fashion of Leonardo.’18 The letter proves that in Rome the study of light and the study of blending shadows did not wait for Leonardo’s arrival before flourishing among the great artists. Although the effects achieved by Leonardo through the use of sfumato in this painting reach an unattainable level of beauty, it cannot be said that there were not artists in Rome who were already moving in the same direction and might have contributed to his research.
Lastly, there are some aspects of the technique of execution that back the hypothesis of a very late date for the painting. The paint film in the shaded areas presents very visible craquelure, typical of a medium with a low pigment content. These cracks are a characteristic of Leonardo’s late painting and also appear on the illuminated skin of the Gioconda, on the breast and forehead in particular, but in the painting of Saint John they are exaggeratedly wide, to the extent of breaking the unity of that imponderable darkness in which, by contrast, the flesh becomes luminescent. Such extensive craquelure cannot be explained simply by the transparent and very oily layers [velature] in which Leonardo painted, which are evident both in the Gioconda and in Saint Anne. This characteristic of Saint John is more likely to be the result of a new experimental insight acquired by the artist – a mix of oil and varnishes, or indeed a mix of pigment and varnish used in the darker parts. A clue to this daring new experiment might come from the artist’s time spent in the Vatican, when according to Vasari [Lives of Artists, p. 297] he started to test new varnishes in the Belvedere workshops: ‘he tried out the strangest methods of discovering oils for painting and varnishes for preserving the finished works.’
Traces of this experiment can be found in all three paintings, which were elaborated, continued or started at Rome. In Saint Anne the exaggerated craquelure appears on the knot in Mary’s robe and on the landscape to the right of the group, which we know with certainty was worked on after Leonardo’s departure from Milan. This use of varnishes over the layered glazes of the shadows is undoubtedly functional to the attempt to reproduce on the panel the evanescence and impalpability itself of natural shade, as he had succeeded in doing since 1501, using a pencil smudged with the finger or with hard brushes. But in Saint John Leonardo goes a little too far, because the expert perfection of the flesh in full light contrasts with the poor depiction of the shaded parts and of the browns in general, so much so that the consistency of the paint is barely distinguishable in the youth’s soft curls and in the leopard skin that envelops his body.
Reflectography also appears to confirm Leonardo’s overriding interest in painting shadows during the closing years of his life, when shadows become more important than the tangibility of bodies. There are very few traces of the drawing, which was barely studied before being transferred to the panel. The mouth was noticeably changed in the painting by comparison to the drawing, where the upper lip had been much higher on the right-hand side of the face. Likewise, the lower contour of the saint’s right arm, at the joint with the scapula, is repeatedly traced using various summary lines, evidence that this detail had been little studied. The painting was conceived almost as if without a drawing, as a thickening of light, an apparition studied directly on the panel. Furthermore, for Leonardo the discovery of the psychological expression could only be accomplished in the light that contoured and softened the face, allowing a bodiless expression to emerge.