Leonardo da Vinci

I was born in Vinci in 1452 and raised among notaries, but pigment and metal drew me more than seals. In Verrocchio’s Florentine workshop I learned to cast, grind, measure, and to see—how a wrist turns, how light goes across a cheek. I am left‑handed; my script runs from right to left; it suits my hand and keeps the ink from smearing.

When I came to Milan, I offered Ludovico Sforza the service of an engineer: bridges that fold, batteries that breach walls, designs for canals and locks. I painted when the city required it. For the refectory of Santa Maria delle Grazie I set Christ and the apostles in a single disturbed moment, experimenting with oil and tempera on dry plaster—a choice that pleased the eye and punished the wall.

At night I dissected in hospitals, following nerves and vessels as if they were roads. I watched vortices in water and found their cousins in the heart; I measured skulls and traced the fetus within the womb. My notebooks—full of mirrored script and machines—served less to proclaim invention than to argue with myself: wings, screws of air, gears, and the behavior of light across mist.

I mapped cities for Cesare Borgia with measured plans, returned to Florence and began the portrait you call Mona Lisa, and later worked in Rome under Giuliano de’ Medici. In my last years King Francis invited me to France; I crossed the mountains with my manuscripts and three paintings, and died there in 1519. I left many panels unfinished; perfection is a moving target, but the question endures.