Leonardo's Lost Princess (11 page)

Evidence of Bianca’s favor with her father is the fact that he commissioned the creation of a sonnet by the court poet, Bernardo Bellincioni, on the occasion of her betrothal.

One can recognize and see the person,

With a great mind in their early years;

Today Bianca will be for the world a phoenix,

Because good fruit stems from its roots,

And she is the heir of her father’s mind.

Heaven accords her a groom

Who will make them both happy.

What an unerring choice, both proper and wonderful,

Was made by my patron Ludovico,

Because nothing is missing in this couple.

This star [Bianca] was lacking for Galeazzo,

And Galeazzo, friend of virtue, was lacking only Bianca.
8

It was common during the Renaissance for portraits to be commissioned around major events in a subject’s life, and the Sforza court, with its love of pageantry, followed this tradition. The portraits were often bound into tribute books, often garish and elaborate, that sang the praises of the subject. Indeed, Leonardo’s portrait of Cecilia Gallerani was accompanied by such a poem, which began:

Nature, what provokes you, who arouses your envy?

It is Vinci, who has painted one of your stars!
9

Knowing of Bianca’s place in Sforza’s heart and of her betrothal to Galeazzo, we can quite plausibly say that she was the subject of
a
portrait. There is also evidence that this portrait was bound into a book, possibly of poems, which was the tradition. Impressions on the grooves of the vellum of our portrait suggest that it was removed from a book. This may help explain why the portrait disappeared from view for such a lengthy period.

All of the beauty and promise evident in the portrait was short-lived. In November 1496, only four months after her marriage, Bianca died as the result of a fatal
passione de
stomach
.
The cause is not known, although one speculation is that she may have had an ectopic pregnancy. At the time, there were also whispers of the possibility of poisoning, but they led nowhere.

Niccolò da Correggio, the court poet who replaced Bellincioni after his death, wrote the bittersweet tribute:

Bianca, the daughter of the Duke,

having achieved two lustri

Plus a little more than one half of the third,

Was delighting with Galeazzo in the pleasures of marriage.

When conjoined in passion within their encampment,

In the midst of a such a sweet game,

She departed her body

And went amongst the elected souls,

Her beauty and grace buried first in human breasts,

Not content with being only in one place.

Why do you reside in such different graves?

The stones have the bones,

While the world preserves her name,

Since her virtues can be preserved in prose and poetry.

Above all others, Galeazzo, for whom the harvest

Was reaped while still green,

His fruits becoming lost,

Can say that Death was unripe for him.
10

Incidentally, a
lustro
is a span of five years, so the poem would indicate that Bianca was thirteen or fourteen at the time of her death. Studying
La Bella Principessa
, Martin had a new thought. Noting her lack of celebratory jewelry and the restraint of her costume, he had initially been puzzled. He especially found the absence of pearls interesting. The Sforza court delighted in pearls, and the duke had something of a fetish for them. Martin now wondered if the portrait might have been commissioned as a memorial at the time of Bianca’s death and not as a celebratory matrimonial portrait. “If so,” he wrote, “Leonardo has evoked the sitter’s living presence with an uncanny sense of vitality.”
11

Martin and others who viewed the portrait from a historical perspective could not fail to conclude that everything about the style and fashion of the subject was consistent with the Milanese court of the late fifteenth century.

The long braid she wears in her portrait is called a
coazzone
—it was typical for the fashion-conscious ladies of the court to wear extremely long and elaborately bound pigtails in the 1490s in Milan; the mistresses could be portrayed in less conventional poses, but their daughters, the princesses, warranted the formal profile.

While he was studying the portrait, Martin was contacted by a young Italian costume historian named Elisabetta Gnignera. She was in the process of writing a study of hairdressing in the fifteenth century, and she wanted to include
La Bella Principessa
, since in her opinion “the portrayed Lady wears a beautiful example of a late fifteenth century/early sixteenth century
coazzone
hair dressing—the so-called
acconciatura alla spagnuola
[Spanish hairdressing], which was in fashion in Italy no later than the first years of the sixteenth century.”
12

As Gnignera studied the portrait, she elaborated on the following points to Martin:

• The hairstyle in
  La Bella Principessa
  was in fashion in Italy from 1491 to 1499—and “absolutely not beyond 1500.” This would fit the period of Bianca’s marriage, as well as Leonardo’s presence at the court.
  
• In 1491, when Beatrice d’Este entered the Sforza court as the wife of the duke, she established herself as a trendsetter by putting into fashion a particular style of
  coazzone
  , which she made unique with subtle differences from the Spanish style. This is the
  coazzone
  worn by the subject of
  La Bella Principessa.
  
• By the final years of the fifteenth century, a new hairstyle—the
  f
  ò
  ggia alla Francese
  (French style)—replaced the
  coazzone.
  An example of the new style can be found in the drawing of Isabelle d’Este attributed to Leonardo, with long hair wrapped in a subtle hairnet.
  

Gnignera’s input confirmed what Martin’s studies had showed him regarding the high fashionability of the
coazzone
in the Sforza court during the 1490s. To achieve the required length on these elaborately bound pigtails, a hairpiece was generally added and colored to match the lady’s hair.

Martin was also drawn to the intricate knot pattern in the fabric. Leonardo had been fascinated by knots since at least 1480 and had earlier used them as a motif in his portrait of Cecilia Gallerani. Martin would later write down his view that the two examples “show not only an identical way of fashioning the loops, but the same skill and intelligence in rendering the perspective as the ornament follows curves and recedes into the distance. This element is very important, for it confirms that we are in the presence of two works realized with the same creative spirit, the same sense of perfection, and an identical manner of treating details, however tiny they might be.”
13

Vezzosi was also very taken with evidence found in the patterns, commenting, “The ‘Leonardesque knot’ on the shoulder is obviously a paradigm of the artist and not only a decorative feature. It constitutes here an original assemblage, in a unique arabesque, in the form of geometrical matrices with two knots, alluding to symbols of infinity, like those drawn at the end of 1473 and which can be seen elaborated in the clothing of both
Lady with an Ermine
and the
Mona Lisa.
The border reinforces it, also with simplified knots, which run around the edge of the sleeve in a reticulated pattern, which is, in its turn, created by the most refined interlacing. The hairdo, called in Milan a ‘coazzone,’ is also characteristic of the period and was fashionable at the Sforza court.”
14

Cristina Geddo concurred, writing,

This was a fashion of Spanish origin, imported by Milan upon the marriage of the daughter of the King of Naples, Isabella of Aragon, to Gian Galeazzo Sforza (1489), but refined and imposed by Beatrice d’Este, daughter of Eleonora of Aragon and younger sister of Isabella, who married Ludovico il Moro in 1491 and was already dead in 1497. The hairstyle, a “
coazzone,
” is also worn by the
Belle Ferronière
(
Lucrezia Crivelli
) in the Louvre, datable to about 1496–99 and thus chronologically close to our portrait. This look quickly dwindled at the turn of the century with the arrival of the French and the abrupt end of the era of Ludovico il Moro, and was replaced by the loose, layered cut inspired by Transalpine fashion, already adopted by Isabella d’Este in the Leonardo cartoon, datable to early 1500. . . . This is therefore an important element for securing the
Portrait of a Young Woman in Profile
to Milanese territory, and to a time period before 1499, when the artist left the Lombard capital.
15

In other words, the Master’s hand is distinctive.

“The lady in profile is an important addition to Leonardo’s canon,” Martin said with certainty. “Within the apparently inflexible format of a profile, it exhibits a graphic refinement and poetic beauty that lies far beyond what anyone in his circle could accomplish. He has characterized the youthful sitter, perhaps the tragic Bianca, with infinite tenderness, decisively surpassing (as he would fervently have wished) the effusions of the court poets.”
16

Based on an accumulation of interlocking evidence, Martin had no doubt of Leonardo’s authorship. “After forty years in the Leonardo business, I thought I’d seen it all,” he told me emotionally. “But I had not. The delight I had when I first saw it has been reinforced enormously. I’m absolutely convinced.” He added, with a slight shaking in his voice, “Above all, it’s thrilling to look at. There is an incredible freshness, a delicacy. I have seen
Mona Lisa
out of its frame. I have seen
Lady with an Ermine
out of its frame. All of Leonardo’s works have an inner life. The sitters seem to live. This is a rare gift that no other artist, with the possible exception of Rembrandt, could achieve.”

He concluded, “After repeated viewings, scientific analysis, and intensive research, I have not the slightest doubt that the portrait that I am calling
La Bella Principessa
is a masterpiece by Leonardo da Vinci.” One of the greatest Leonardo scholars in the world was a believer.

I realized that no matter how many experts praised the work as a Leonardo or signed documents stating their beliefs, there would still be an opposing side that would forever question its authenticity. I found the notion somewhat depressing. If only there was a way to prove Leonardo’s authorship beyond doubt!

In that respect we had a potential trump card. Pascal and Martin spoke to me about the fingerprint and palm print that were clearly visible in the pigment—and almost certainly belonged to Leonardo. Martin had a fingerprint expert in mind who might confirm it.

9

The Art of Fingerprints

Anyone who conducts an argument by appealing to authority is not using his intelligence; he is just using his memory.

—Leonardo da Vinci

Peter Paul Biro grew up surrounded by art. His father, Geza Biro, was a moderately well-known artist and conservator, and Biro began working in his father’s Montreal gallery and studio as a boy. Now in his fifties, comfortably settled in Montreal with his wife, Joanne, a mezzo-soprano, Biro retains a fixation on art, the legacy of a remarkable history, and occasionally pauses to enjoy his favorite hobby of stargazing or his marine fish tank filled with live corals and exotic creatures.
1

Geza Biro, who died in 2008 at the age of eighty-nine, grew up in Budapest, where he had the ambition to be a great painter. He studied at the Royal Academy of Fine Arts in Budapest and developed a signature style. Like Leonardo da Vinci, Geza was left-handed. But during World War II, he was drafted into the Hungarian army and was taken captive by the Russians. While he was being transported to a prison camp, the truck he was in crashed, and Geza’s left arm was crushed. He never gained full use of it again.

After the war Geza learned to paint with his right hand, and even though he was accomplished, he would never know whether he could have been great. In the late 1960s, he left Budapest, immigrating to Montreal with his wife and his two sons, Laszlo and Peter Paul. There he set up a gallery and conservation studio.

The story of how Peter Paul Biro came to marry the gritty world of crime analysis with the elite world of art authentication is fascinating. He and his brother began working with paintings at a very young age, learning the ropes at their father’s knee. It was an exciting and challenging environment to grow up in, and it provided an early introduction to the difficulties of art authentication.

Biro trained and practiced as a conservator, and he might have spent his life in this work were it not for an incident of fate. As Biro tells it, about twenty years ago, a client walked into his Montreal conservation laboratory with a large canvas that he wanted cleaned and restored. Biro noticed immediately that the painting seemed heavily overpainted, and recently so. He provided an estimate for cleaning that was quite high, and the client balked.

“It’s not worth it,” he said grumpily. Then he gave Biro a calculating look. “Will you buy it from me?” he asked.

Biro was taken aback. “No,” he said dismissively, but then he inquired curiously, “For what?”

The man was clever. “Why don’t you clean half of it and then you can hang it as a demonstration of your work—a before and after?” he suggested.

After some haggling, the two men struck a deal, and Biro found himself the reluctant owner of what could only be described as a wreck. The painting sat unattended for several months. Finally, Biro got around to testing a small area, removing the overpainting on a portion of sky to see what happened.

“We were awestruck at the beauty of the original surface coming to light,” he later said. Now excited, Biro threw himself into the task, removing ever larger areas of the overpainting that was hiding the original surface. As he worked, the conviction grew inside him that this was the work of a Master. But who?

Biro was a practiced student of art, and he determined that the best candidate was the celebrated British painter J. M. W. Turner. For the next few years, Biro tried and failed to gain recognition and acceptance for his find from the imperious and closed art world. No one would give him a hearing. At best, he was able to get the painting judged as a “good Turneresque work.” His frustration bordered on outrage. “
Turneresque
? Why not Turner?” It was impossible to break through the stone wall of art experts.

Biro gave up his quest. It was pointless. But then, quite unexpectedly, he stumbled upon a new road to authenticity. In 1985, during a visit to London’s Tate Gallery, he found himself contemplating one of Turner’s great works, the
Chichester Canal
. Suddenly he noticed that Turner had used his fingertips to model the scene. It was Biro’s eureka moment. He realized that these were Turner’s fingerprints, right there in full view. Why not compare them with those in the painting in his possession?

He did, and voilà! He had his proof. With time and media attention, some Turner scholars were persuaded that Biro was onto something. In 1995,
Landscape with a Rainbow
was attributed to Turner—the first painting to be authenticated based on fingerprint evidence—and it was sold at the Philips Auction House in London for more than $150,000. (It would have sold for more had it not been in poor condition.) For Biro it was a case of determining the painting’s “forensic provenance.”

Thus began a passion and a career. For twenty years, Biro applied the forensic methods used to solve crimes to the mysteries of art attribution. As part of his database, he conducted an ongoing study of the works of Turner in the Turner Bequest at the Tate Britain gallery, comprising some thirty thousand pages of notes, sketches, and watercolors. He discovered about a thousand fingerprints and hoped to eventually compile up to three thousand. He liked to quip, “The issue is not who committed the crime but who committed the painting or drawing.”

What excited Biro most about the science was the way it opened up new possibilities in art authentication. Traditionally, art had been authenticated by the inexact methods of provenance and connoisseurship. Provenance was the art’s historical paper trail, which was often sketchy, especially for very old pieces. One hoped for provenance but expected disappointment. Connoisseurship relied on the expert’s eye: the ability to compare one work with another and judge whether it was drawn by the same hand. Connoisseurship was by nature subjective. Biro believed that with fingerprint evidence, a work of art could literally be traced back to the artist’s hand, and in that respect it could fill in the blanks from history or knowledge.

Biro never tired of talking about the marvelous science of fingerprints. He found that in the early twentieth century, mathematical analyses predicted the possible existence of sixty-four billion fingerprint patterns, considerably more than the present human population of the planet. Every fingerprint was an original; however, the individuality of a fingerprint was not determined by its general shape or pattern but by the configuration of its ridge characteristics: the combination of a number of characteristics in a given finger impression that are specific to a particular print.

There are three basic types of fingerprints: latent fingerprints, stamped impressions, and plastic impressions. A finger may leave a latent print due to the presence of fatty substances produced by the sebaceous glands in the skin. This is the kind of print found on objects such as drinking glasses and windowpanes. It is called latent (invisible) because it requires development with black powder or iodine fuming to make it visible. A latent print cannot survive for long.

A stamped impression is a mark left with whatever material contamination was present on the finger (such as ink or paint). The longevity of the fingerprint is contingent on the longevity of the substance deposited. If that substance were oil paint, the print might, if conditions permit, be preserved indefinitely.

A plastic impression is left when the finger was impressed into soft material, such as partly dried paint, putty, wax, or a similarly pliable substance; in other words, it can be seen in relief. The longevity of the impression again depends entirely on the substance, combined with other environmental factors. Under the right conditions, however, oil paint can preserve a plastic impression indefinitely.

Biro was quick to explain that contrary to popular belief, fingerprint analysis is not an exact science. The final verdict relies on an analysis of points of similarity in the prints, generally ranging from seven to twelve. Identifying fingerprints on works of art is even more delicate and difficult than for crime cases. For one thing, crime labs use methods such as staining and dusting that potentially destroy the object, whereas the art examiner must guard against any destruction and normally relies on images rather than the original. In addition, the art investigator does not look for latent prints—the kind left on a glass or other surface—because they break down quickly and would not be there to find.

Biro was focused on prints that were clearly left by the artist during the creation of the work. “Such evidence,” he said, “has temporal ramifications, the print having been sealed in time, creating a veritable time capsule from when the picture was executed.”
2
However, he acknowledged that an old painting always suffers from wear and tear, the effects of chemical and physical pollutants, and the rigors of cleaning and restoration. In these cases fingerprints could suffer as well.

The multispectral camera opened up possibilities that didn’t exist before of enhancing barely visible prints to the point where comparisons could be made. He observed that the new technology “enables the isolated amplification of the fingerprint information against its background, eliminating other interference such as ‘noise’ created by the imaging device.”
3

Biro was confident that an investigation of fingerprints in the work of great artists was a valid occupation. “Artists have used their bare hands in the creative process—employing their fingers to evoke a variety of effects—ever since prehistory,” he noted. “The potential for fingerprints to be left on the surface of their work, either by accident or by design, is thus hardly negligible. In the Renaissance, for instance, both Raphael and Leonardo relied on their fingertips to stamp fine ridges onto their paintings and create delicate and subtle evocations of shading unattainable with the brush.”

Of course, as in any forensic investigation, the primary question in identifying fingerprints is whom did they belong to. The artist? Assistants? A restorer? This is where the database came in handy. Biro had been able to authenticate Turner’s prints by comparison with others. Might the same be done with a potential Leonardo?

By the time we decided to send the digital file to Biro for his review, he was already quite well known because of his involvement with the authentication of an alleged Jackson Pollock painting.

The story of the Pollock painting epitomizes a popular fantasy about great art: that it is hiding in plain sight in the attics, flea markets, and yard sales of the world. The story of this painting, which was memorialized in a 2006 documentary,
Who the #$&% Is Jackson Pollock
?, directed by Harry Moses, fits into that mode. It was also the subject of a
60 Minutes
report on May 6, 2007, titled, “The Thrift Shop Jackson Pollock Masterpiece.”

Teri Horton was a seventy-three-year-old retired long-haul truck driver from California who came upon a wildly colorful painting in a thrift shop. She bought it for $5, thinking it would be perfect to cheer up a friend who was down in the dumps. She had no inkling that it might be a valuable piece of art. In any case, the 48-by-65-inch painting was too big to fit through the doorway of her friend’s trailer, so Horton decided to sell it at a yard sale. There it was noticed by a local art teacher who declared he thought it might be a Pollock, causing Horton to say, famously, “Who the f— is Jackson Pollock?”

In the film, Moses said, “I think that the evidence threatens scholarly expertise. Connoisseurship no longer plays a dominant role in authenticating works of art. The art world thinks it can dismiss Teri because she’s a truck driver. My movie is a story about class in America.”

It’s a fascinating aside—a controversy that pitted an ordinary woman against the snobbiest of the snobs of the art world. If anyone characterized the unappealing elitism of the art community, it was Thomas Hoving, the former director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Asked to review the painting, he sniffed at it dismissively and declared, “This painting has no artistic soul.” (I had my share of disputes with Hoving. Before he died, he saw a photograph of
La Bella Principessa
and declared it “too sweet” to be a Leonardo, explaining that Leonardo’s pictures were “tough as nails.” I couldn’t begin to fathom what he was talking about.)

Teri Horton clearly enjoyed the spotlight and especially her status as an outlier in the snooty art world. Interviewed by CNN journalist Anderson Cooper on July 16, 2003, she said, “There is no way anybody can get up and look at that painting, or any Pollock for that matter, and be able, by visual examination and wait[ing] for this mystical feeling that they get that comes over them, to decide whether it is or whether it is not authentic.” She added snidely, “They call it
connoisseurship
”—stretching it out as if it were a dirty word. Asked by Cooper what
she
would call it, she laughingly replied, “Bulls—.”

In the midst of the efforts to authenticate the Pollock painting, Biro was hired. After finding a partial fingerprint on the back of the canvas, he set out to look for a fingerprint impression of Pollock’s to which he could compare it. Pollock had never served in the military or been arrested, so his fingerprints were not on file. Biro visited Pollock’s studio in East Hampton, New York, where he found a fingerprint on a blue paint can used by Pollock. He concluded that the two fingerprints were a match.