The Mona Lisa Conundrum

The air at the Louvre was kept at a precise, low temperature to protect the art. However, in an ante-room away from the main exhibits temperatures were starting to rise. Security officer Louis Durand was the one losing his cool. He was joined by one of the Louvre’s art ‘connoisseurs’ (who lurked at the back of the room very much outside his comfort zone), and their chief suspect, a curious man who looked like Santa Claus - that is to say: long white hair and matching beard, but less jolly and more confused as to why he was here. Beside him on a table lay a used wooden paint pallet, a loaded brush, and an assortment of oil paints.

Durand slammed his hands down on the table. “I’ll ask again! What is your name? Your real name?”

The man looked up. “I already tell you my name: Leonardo DaVinci.”

Durand stood back, exasperated. He paced around what space there was in the room. He threw a glance at the art expert lurking in the corner, but he offered no help. Durand turned back to the bearded man. “DaVinci is dead. Died -” He looked over his shoulder.

“1519.’ The art expert said.

“1519.” Durand repeated to the bearded man. “So you can see my confusion. Care to explain that?”

The man stroked his beard whilst considering his answer. “It would appear that I am dead in your time, yet still very much alive in my own. I am the alive Leonardo DaVinci.”

Durand gripped the back of a chair until his knuckles whitened. He let out a long breath. “What?” he said.

DaVinci looked at him as a parent might when explaining a simple idea to a child. “I have travelled here from my time - where I am alive - to your time, where, it would appear, that I am dead. This should not surprise me, considering the passage of the years.”

“Time travel now.” Durand said, exasperated.

“Indeed, Sir. I created a machine that was attuned to my art and could follow it to its final resting place. It brought me here, to this curious place. I must be honest, I assumed it was a flight of fancy and had not expected it to work.”

“And this ‘time machine’ is here, yes?”

“The machine is at my home. In Italy. Why would it be here?”

“Didn’t you travel in the machine?”

“No. The machine sent me here. The machine stayed where it was.”

“Convenient, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes.”

Durand shook his head. “So, how do you get back to ‘your time’?”

“If the machine works as I hope then once the power winds down, I should be returned.”

“So you’ll just vanish?”

“Presumably.”

“And you did this so you could vandalise the Mona Lisa?”

“Vandalise?”

“We caught you painting eyebrows on the Mona Lisa.” Durand waved a hand over the painting tools.

“Embarrassing really. An oversight on my part that I should have corrected at the time.”

“It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world and you’ve destroyed it.”

“It’s my painting.” DaVinci said, matter of factly.

Durand exploded. “It’s OUR painting-”

Movement over his shoulder. The expert raising a hand. “What?” Durand said.

“Technically,” the expert said, “if we’re to accept that this man is who he says he is, then he’s quite correct: it is his painting to do with as he wishes. If Leonardo DaVinci meant the Mona Lisa to have eyebrows then he can add eyebrows.”

Durand turned to the expert. “The painting is famous for having NO eyebrows.”

“It’s famous for more than just that - it is a study of the balance between humanity and nature; not just a ‘woman with no eyebrows’ as many see it.”

Da Vinci smiled, nodded and pointed at the man.

The expert continued, “It survives here because, we, as scholars, understand the historical importance of the piece, and the skill with which Mr DaVinci produced it. Popular culture made it ‘famous’. Are we to take ownership of the art away from the creator to keep the uncultured masses happy?”

Durand struggled - torn between both conversations. “But…” was all he managed.

“Perhaps,” the expert said, “we might ask the creator himself what he thinks?”

Durand was lost. “You’re bringing God into this now?”

The expert frowned. “DaVinci,” he said.

“Of course. Sorry. This day has been a lot.”

Durand turned his attention back to DaVinci. Who was no longer available; having vanished, leaving the argument open ended.

The two remaining men in the room exchanged glances; both asking themselves the same question: how are we going to explain this?

On the table remained a paint pallet, a loaded brush, and an assortment of oil paints - from the 1500’s. Unanswered lay the question: whose art is it anyway?