The Mona Lisa is a vampire

When Bernard Berenson learned that Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa had been stolen from the Louvre Gallery in Paris, the art critic heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Finally, he reflected, he could remove himself once and all from the dangerous influence of the work. “She had simply become an incubus,” he recalled years later, “and I was glad to be rid of her.”

At long last, Berenson had freed himself from the vampiric face of the Mona Lisa.

Today Leonardo’s painting, happily recovered in 1913 for generations of visitors after its theft in 1911, still looms large as perhaps the definitive symbol of Italian Renaissance art.

French president Emmanuel Macron recently announced plans for a project titled Nouvelle Renaissance, which will see the artwork moved to its own exhibition room, relieving pressure on the main gallery space. One of the most visited artworks in the world, Berenson’s pronouncement of the enigmatically smiling figure as a male demon in female human form, sits oddly with her endless appearance on t-shirts and tea-towels.

But looking again at how the myth of the Mona Lisa emerged, I believe that her fame is due not just to the painting’s display of artistic ingenuity – but to the troubling vampirism and gender ambiguity that 19th-century critics saw in Leonardo’s work.

Unlike many of his artistic contemporaries, Leonardo’s reputation remained relatively stable following his death in 1519. But praise for his work was, for centuries, caveated with one apparently intractable problem: he seemed a better draughtsman, inventor and scientist than artist proper.

John Ruskin, England’s preeminent mid-Victorian critic, wrote off the Mona Lisa as a total mess. He lamented that the painting’s background was simply “grotesque” being all “blue and unfinished”.

But as the century progressed, the tide began to turn, particularly in France. Writers newly praised the strange feelings that Leonardo’s paintings provoked, interrogating the nervous smiles and ironic stares of their subjects. “You are fascinated and troubled,” the historian Jules Michelet imagined in his monumental book Histoire de France (1855), describing himself in the Louvre moving like hypnotised prey towards the sinister artworks.

The Mona Lisa was being slowly injected with a dose of eerie, haunted beauty. But it wasn’t until 1873, when the Oxford aesthete Walter Pater published his explosive book Studies in the History of the Renaissance that the character of the Mona Lisa took a decisively gothic turn. In it, Pater described her as one of the undead:

She is older than the rocks on which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times and learned the secrets of the grave

“Lady Lisa”, as Pater memorably nicknamed her, turned from an Italian noblewoman into a dangerously deathly femme-fatale. Pater claimed that she carried all of time and history within her body, bearing the world’s experience from “the animalism of Greece” to “the sins of the Borgia”.

The passage caused shockwaves, and a generation of readers were hooked. The poet Richard Le Gallienne recalled in his memoir how his friends were “all going round quoting the famous description”, as wannabe aesthetes endlessly recited, copied and reworked Pater’s lines.

Pater scholar Michael Davis has explained how the book “queered the Renaissance”: he called on his readers to worship at the altar of a strange beauty, demanding that they “burn” with a “hard, gemlike flame” as they did so. Pater’s new reading of Mona Lisa was at the heart of an erotic revolution. The Mona Lisa had become a symbol of a new way of looking and feeling, charged with the aching pain of melancholic beauty.

By the early 20th century, an industry of criticism had developed that took increasingly outrageous stances against the Mona Lisa.

Stories circulated about virtuous mothers who refused to allow reproductions of the work to enter their home. Sigmund Freud reworked Pater’s interpretation of the Mona Lisa’s “unfathomable smile” to evidence his theory of Leonardo’s homosexuality, claiming that the Mona Lisa’s smile was in fact a painting of his dead mother’s smile. Pater’s passage, as the Irish writer W. B. Yeats summarised, had taken on a “revolutionary importance” and with it the Mona Lisa changed from a minor work to an icon of a decadent generation.

Beyond the canon

As part of the Rethinking the Classics series, we’re asking our experts to recommend a book or artwork that tackles similar themes to the canonical work in question, but isn’t (yet) considered a classic itself. Here is Frankie Dytor’s suggestion:

The lesbian poet couple Katharine Bradley and Edith Cooper, published the poem La Gioconda (the Italian name for the Mona Lisa) under the pseudonym “Michael Field” in 1892:

Historic, side-long, implicating eyes;

A smile of velvet’s lustre on the cheek;

Calm lips the smile leads upward; hand that lies

Glowing and soft, the patience in its rest

Of cruelty that waits and does not seek

For prey; a dusky forehead and a breast

Where twilight touches ripeness amorously:

Behind her, crystal rocks, a sea and skies

Of evanescent blue on cloud and creek;

Landscape that shines suppressive of its zest

For those vicissitudes by which men die.

The poets frequently turned to historical subjects and artworks to explore queer and same-sex desire. Here, they show themselves to be the disciples of Pater’s cult of beauty, openly incorporating his stress on the “cruelty” that surrounds the “historic” features of the figure.

But they also go beyond Pater, revelling in the desire that saturates the work, such as the twilight touching the Mona Lisa’s breast “amorously”.