The Mona Lisa and her damn smile

This morning I woke up early to see the Mona Lisa before the hordes of Snappers arrived. Although it was my ninth trip to The Louvre I had been putting off a visit to the main attraction until the right moment. Today, for some reason or other seemed right.

I got to the museum around 8:45 a.m. and the line was surprisingly small. Even the non-ticketed, sorry-looking bunch of unfortunates whom I usually enjoy strolling passed each morning with my yearly Louvre pass in hand thinking things like ‘this is how Justin Bieber must feel everywhere he goes,’ hardly reached beyond the maze of ropes, whereas some days it stretches for three or four city blocks.

I walked directly to the Mona Lisa, only pausing to admire The Winged Victory of Samothrace perched atop a massive staircase. This 2^nd Century marble sculpture of the Greek goddess Nike portrays an incredible headless winged goddess standing on a massive boat like a sail. I pondered for a moment if one could be headless and still be considered the goddess of victory, but thought in the end, who could really say.

And then I walked in to see the world’s most famous painting, the Mona Lisa.

There she was, her plain face, her enigmatic smile, her Mona Lisa folded hands; and aside from the brief excitement of seeing her in person, she was as dull as she was dull in the photo in my guidebook.

And as I tried to convince myself of the sheer phenomenon of this masterpiece, of the thrill of seeing it in person, of how many people I could bore to tears at cocktail parties (if my friends ever start having cocktail parties) about what it’s like to see the Mona Lisa in real life—I decided that if the Mona Lisa wasn’t already so damn famous people wouldn’t notice it much at all. If it was just another important Renaissance work hanging in the gallery between the celestial blue of a Raphael sky and the Venetian cityscapes of Guardi, then most tourists wouldn’t give two shits about Mona’s puzzling smile.

And I may not be entirely wrong. In fact, my art tutor here claims in regards to artistic significance, that the work actually isn’t that important. That it was made famous by its theft in 1909 when a former Louvre employee stole the painting and the poet Apollinaire and Pablo Picasso were called in for questioning as suspects. For almost two years it was thought to be lost until the thief, an Italian patriot who believed the painting belonged in Italy, tried to sell it to the Uffizi gallery in Florence. Oops. Apparently the directors of the gallery weren’t as patriotic as him.

Perhaps even further adding to the notoriety of the work (and if not, still funny) in 1974, a handicapped woman sprayed red paint at the painting and in 2009 a Russian woman shattered a mug against the glass that was purchased from the museum gift shop. Though each perpetrator’s motives were accounted for (the first was protesting the museum’s handicapped policy and the latter was pissed off because she was denied French citizenship), I hypothesize that either A) they were disappointed by the dullness of the work or B) Mona’s enigmatic smile really got under their skin.

Fortunately, however, in each case, the painting was unscathed and the quizzical smile remained.

But for a moment as I stood beside the Snappers and grown men with fanny sacks, I tried to be serious and really contemplate the work. If the Mona Lisa is only remarkable because of her profoundly ambiguous smile, than what is it that attracts people to ambiguity? I certainly don’t think people are attracted to ambiguity in life, but perhaps in art they are. And if so, why? Do we believe that ambiguity is somehow more truthful than certainty? Or does it have more to do with the fact that pure ambiguity gives critics and bored married couples something to squabble over for the rest of time?

Of course, if there is no answer, if the work is truly ambiguous than everyone is entitled to their own opinion, the validity of which will be based on how clearly it is defended, regardless of “truth.” Though ultimately the only real “truth” is that the truth is uncertain, unknown, and our opinions such as—“I think she is smiling at her lover Leo” or “That ugly bitch is mocking me because I was not granted French citizenship!”—do not need to be defended by sophisms but can be, in fact must be, based purely on faith alone.

Perhaps then, that is what we want in art. Something that inspires us to have faith, that inspires us to believe on our own accord.