The Mona Lisa and the Stories We Tell Ourselves
Le Louvre la Nuit, October 2017
This is the eighth time I find myself standing in front of the Mona Lisa, La Joconde, and each time brings something different. At first, one is consumed by the fanfare around it - dicing through a crowd filled with raised arms and flashing cameras, selfie sticks and travelers from all over the globe angling to get themselves framed within a shot with the most famous woman in the world. The next few times involved attempts to test the theory of her eyes traveling with you as you move. This time, however, brought something different. This painting was hardly Da Vinci’s greatest masterpiece in the sense of a mastery of brushstrokes or color schemes in comparison to his other master works. But it still is one of his most alluring, and there is an undeniable sense of depth that draws in the viewer, millions upon millions of whom have found themselves speechless and unmoving in front of this tableau.
La Joconde, The Mona Lisa, painted by Da Vinci at some unknown date but verifiably between 1503 and 1517. The myth that surrounds the portrait is what made it larger than life. Arguably the most famous painting in the world, surely due to some level of artistic genius, but mostly due to the story that developed around the person in it. The subject is now confirmed as Florentine Lisa Gherardini. The painting has been on permanent display in the Louvre since 1797, albeit a small interlude in 1911 when Vincenzo Peruggia stole the painting in a bout of Italian nationalism. A failed mission, but one that added to the story and gained the tableau increased notoriety.
The stories of the Mona Lisa, the myth that surrounds the subject of the painting itself - who was she? What catalyzed for this being to be featured by the most famous living artist at the time? The stories we created around her are infinite. Standing in front of her this time brought me to the question, what are the stories we tell ourselves?
Paris is a city of stories, many of which are generated by people who come to this artistic capital to reinvent themselves. Subtle changes in the style of their dress, the intonation of their words, replacing their usual “sounds good” with “ça marche” and the ceremonious “cheers” with “santé.” The savoir faire of knowing how to navigate the Parisian metropolis, perhaps perceptively as a certain je ne sais quoi, but more accurately from studying Haussman’s architecture, reading Maupassant’s Bel Ami, and visiting the old writing grounds of the likes of Victor Hugo and Hemingway.
But the irony of a story is that it is just that - a story. To know Paris is to study her from all angles, just like we do the Mona Lisa. To know the extra layer. The one that goes beyond Hemingway’s Paris est une fête, the moveable feast that is Paris. That goes to the Paris of Émile Zola in Le Ventre de Paris, the underbelly of Paris. The class wars that still persist, as Zola prophesied. Knowing les banlieues, the suburbs of Paris, and understanding that Haussman’s architectural masterpiece brought beauty to the city but pushed many of its poorer inhabitants to the outskirts.
Le bon et le mauvais, the good and the bad. Just like the Mona Lisa - some see the beauty, others see the defects. Either way, they’ve developed a story. A story is a projection of the intention of its creator, but also the perception of the one on the other side. We can seldom know either, and our attempts to make sense of the unknown is what keeps the ball turning. It draws us to religious texts and philosophical discourses. To literature and level-setting conversations. To artwork.
L’habit ne fait pas le moine, the outfit does not make the monk, as the French saying goes. The first glance is hardly the sum of it. To feel the impact of the Mona Lisa in my own perception of it, it took me about eight - and the next certainly won’t be the same.
