In our tenth season, we’re going at art history with a skeptical eye and a myth-busting attitude to uncover the fictions and facts about some of our favorite artists. We’re starting our season today with this controversial subject: are there hidden messages in Leonardo's The Last Supper

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Episode Transcript

In 2003, there were a few things that were totally inescapable: trucker hats and studded belts were everywhere, people were nuts for Peter Jackson’s Lord of the Rings Trilogy, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix became the best-selling book of the year. But also huge, and equally inescapable, was the second-highest grossing book of that year: Dan Brown’s smash hit, The Da Vinci Code. I remember that I, a graduate student in art history, grabbed a copy at my local bookstore—sorry not sorry, and spent the entire weekend devouring it—really only taking a break here and there to make myself some snacks before diving back headlong into its narrative. By now, you probably know the story: Brown’s “symbologist,” Robert Langdon and his cryptologist colleague Sophie Neveu struggle to solve a murder couched in symbols that translate to spell out incredible consequences—for world religion, and thus for the world at large. And the bombshell claims that this fictional book—and I stress, fictional-- made were many, and two-decade-long spoiler alert, by the by:  Jesus was married to Mary Magdalene, and after his death she fled to what would become France and bore him a daughter, whose descendants founded the Merovingian line of French kings. This secret has been kept throughout the centuries, first by the Knights Templar, then after their destruction by the Priory of Sion, a secretive group led over the years by many great men, including, as the title so clearly states, Leonardo da Vinci. Most fascinatingly, Dan Brown wrote that Leonardo had revealed these—and many more—secrets in his paintings: the “Da Vinci Code.” It’s an irresistible premise, and it was catnip even for an art historian like me who should have known better… and hopefully did know better. But ever since its publication, many have wondered: is there really a “Da Vinci Code?” And if so, what painting might truly contain allusions to these secrets? 

Some people think that visual art is dry, boring, lifeless. But the stories behind those paintings, sculptures, drawings and photographs are weirder, more outrageous, or more fun than you can imagine.  In this season, season 10, in which we’re going to dig deep on some great art historical facts--and fictions. In this episode, we’re ending the season with a big question.  Does Leonardo’s epic fresco, The Last Supper, truly reveal a “Da Vinci Code?”  This is the ArtCurious Podcast, exploring the unexpected, the slightly odd, and the strangely wonderful in Art History. I'm Jennifer Dasal.

We began this season with an episode on Leonardo da Vinci, so it only felt appropriate to end the season with an episode on Leonardo. He bookends our season because his life and most of all, his works of art—have been the ones around which so many of the greatest fictions in art history have developed in the last few decades. And though I can’t place all the blame on Dan Brown, there is truly a corollary between the interest in Leonardo’s secrets, or Leonardo’s hidden agenda, or alternative meanings behind his works of art… and the Da Vinci Code. A lot of this, as we’ve learned from various case studies this season—not only in our previous episode about Leonardo and the Mona Lisa, but especially I’m also thinking of the episode on Johannes Vermeer’s Girl with a Pearl Earring—a lot of the myths and legends that have sprouted around these works is due to the fact that there are missing pieces in the stories behind them. We fill in the gaps with these occasionally incredible and unbelievable stories because… well, we don’t have much preventing us from doing so. But not having much is not having nothing, and in the case of Leonardo’s epic commission for The Last Supper, we do have at least something to go on.

In 1482, Leonardo da Vinci, at thirty years old, was sent, alongside a Florentine emissary, to meet with Lodovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan. Leonardo, it seems, was looking for a change of scenery and was enthusiastic about leaving Florence for a while, where he had been working on several unfinished commissions, including the Adoration of the Magi, now at the Uffizi.  And just as enthusiastically, one of his patrons, the great Lorenzo de’ Medici, of Florence’s ruling family, sought to recommend Leonardo for a kind of artistic exchange—sharing the wealth, it seems, with one of his allies. And Leonardo was into this: in fact, he wrote an introductory letter for himself where he not only spoke of his artistic talents, but also of his many other interests as well, including his usefulness as a hydraulic engineer and –get this—as a pageantry designer. Eventually he would go on to work for the ducal household designing said pageants and entertainments, but though his qualifications and achievements were certainly impressive, he was not immediately granted many commissions, so Leonardo had some time to take on other jobs for other patrons, including Milan’s Confraternity of the Immaculate Conception. The Confraternity, by the way, commissioned an altarpiece from Leonardo that would eventually become both versions of his famed Madonna of the Rocks, which are in Paris and London today. When Leonardo was finally commissioned to produce a work of art by the Sforza court, they went BIG—and asked Leonardo to go big, too. Now, I don’t want to go into too much depth on this because I definitely intend to cover it on an upcoming season of this show, but in short, Leonardo was asked to design a huge equestrian monument to commemorate the founder of the Sforza line, a man named Francesco Sforza. This horse was to be a giant—26 feet high, or the equivalent of a two-and-a-half story building—but, as Leonardo was wont to do, he bit off way more than he could chew and never succeeded in bringing his creation to fruition outside of a scale model—but after the Sforza dynasty was toppled in 1499, the money for such an incredible, giant work of art toppled out of sight, too.

 Not that Leonardo was unable to create anything under the Duke’s purview during his time in the Sforza household. IN 1494, before the Sforza collapse, Lodovico Sforza began commissions to beautify the monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie, a Dominican church in Milan, which he intended to choose as his final resting place, as well as those of his descendants. (Lodovico wasn’t actually buried there after all, but that’s beside the point, I suppose).  To Lodovico’s eyes, Santa Maria delle Grazie needed a little bit of love, and any sprucing up could only help to glorify Lodovico and his family for centuries. Pretty burial place, much respected family, the line of thinking goes. So he asked Leonardo to help out with a fairly traditional ask: please, he said, please paint a scene of the Last Supper in the refectory, the monastery’s dining area.  

Coming up next, we’ve finally got Leo’s Last Supper in our sights. Come on back, right after these messages from this episode’s sponsors, and thanks for listening.

Welcome back to ArtCurious.

That Leonardo da Vinci was asked by the Sforzas to fulfill a commission for a painting of the Last Supper in a monastery’s refectory isn’t a surprise. And I call this a traditional ask because it truly was—it was very common, especially in the Renaissance, to paint scenes of the Last Supper—the final meal had by Jesus before his arrest and his crucifixion the following day--in refectories of monasteries and convents in Italy. (And if you are one of the lucky listeners who have taken my “Breaking Barriers” course on Avid.fm, then you’ll know that this was a tradition that was especially beloved in Florence, and an artist like Leonardo (who was born right outside of the city’s boundaries) would have been hugely familiar with this convention. Much of the interest in having a picture of The Last Supper came from—just really having something to do while a monk or a nun was having a meal. Most monastic orders, for example, required silence during meals, a requirement that was only occasionally broken if someone was leading the group in prayer or reading scripture. Having something to look at—something to contemplate, to dig deep with, or even just enjoy—would have helped both to pass this quiet time and to provide these holy men and women with an opportunity to consider Jesus’s ultimate sacrifice. Plus, having a scene of a feast just makes logical sense within the refectory, like how the walls of a McDonald’s might be plastered with posters for a Big Mac or a Happy Meal: you’re taking in an image of food, or of people dining while you, yourself, are dining. And as the most important feast in the Christian bible, choosing the Last Supper as your subject just… fits.

Accounts of the Last Supper can be found in each of the four Gospels of the New Testament, though the details aren’t the same and are often in conflict with one another. Matthew, Mark, and Luke, for example, all deem that the Last Supper was a Passover meal, eaten by Jews on the last night of Passover and typically features lamb and unleavened bread. The evangelist John’s account, however, claims that this all took place before Passover. During the meal, Matthew, Luke, and Mark each make mention of what we would eventually call the “institution of the Eucharist”—that moment where Jesus breaks bread and shares it and wine with his disciples and encourages them to continue doing so as a remembrance of him after his death: a pivotal moment in the New Testament as well as in Christianity and church history. John, ever the dissenter, makes no mention of this. But Leonardo da Vinci doesn’t particularly care what Gospel says what, and he does what is most dramatically effective: he mixes and matches the narrative, as artists had done before him—combining the institution of the Eucharist with that big reveal of the upcoming betrayal to make the moment bigger and bolder—and weightier, too, for those inclined to use it as a prayerful inspiration. 

But it wasn’t only the subject matter that would prove to be dramatic in the creation of this iconic work of art.  You see, Leonardo took the commission, but as we know, Leonardo was a big experimenter, and he wanted to use this opportunity to try something new. In this case, he decided not to paint a traditional fresco, and instead opted to use his oil paints on a dry wall.  To be totally fair, this wasn’t Leonardo’s original idea: the technique had been mentioned in one of the great art treatises of the 15th century, Leon Battista Alberti’s On the Art of Building, wherein Alberti writes, quote, “It has recently been discovered that  linseed oil will protect whatever color you wish to apply from any harmful climate or atmosphere,  provided the wall the which it is applied is dry and in no way moist.” And artists had indeed followed this guidance and produced beautiful works, such as Domenico Veneziano in his oil paintings for the Portinari Chapel in Florence, which Leonardo had undoubtedly seen. (And indeed, Veneziano had apparently done such a great job that his patron—inspired by the artist’s gorgeous colors—gave him a monetary bonus after the work’s completion.) So Leo was in good company to begin with, but he also wanted to improve upon Veneziano’s methods, too, so he had begun combining oil paints with tempera paints to produce a mixture that he believed would produce even more remarkable results.  And off he went to Santa Maria delle Grazie to complete his very non-traditional fresco.

As we learned in episode #85 this season, about Michelangelo’s frescoes for the Sistine Chapel, making a true fresco, or “buon” fresco is not the easiest thing in the world, nor is it a leisurely experience. Fresco artists must work quickly and with a very particular set of tools and pigments to be able to properly integrate their designs into the plaster and to essentially become part of the wall itself. But we know that Leonardo was no blind follower. He was Leonardo! And he wanted to do things his own way! So here, he worked leisurely and deliberate, sometimes stopping for hours to gaze at his work, only making, perhaps, one delicate change before ending his work for the day, to the great chagrin of the abbot of the monastery.  It was a worthy endeavor, but we now know that Leonardo’s take on the medium would not stand up to the test of time, and the fresco today is, quite literally, a pale imitation of itself. It’s still a sight to behold in person, to be sure, but, like the Mona Lisa, it’s not the easiest sight to behold. Luckily for us, though, copies of Leonardo’s original design were created after its completion during the Renaissance, a lucky break that allows us to understand the details of the painting far more clearly.

So, who, and what, do we actually see in Leonardo’s Last Supper? In the center, we see Jesus, of course, framed so nicely in an eye-catching trio of windows.  To each side of Jesus are his disciples, who each react dramatically, horrified, to Christ’s announcement of his impending betrayal. What’s really cool is that all of the figures here are unique—each with differing expressions and hand gestures, and supposedly based on real-life individuals whom Leonardo came across during his walks in Milan, where he would sketch the people around him. On the left-hand side we see Peter, identifiable by the knife he holds, which he’ll later use to attack the men who will arrest Jesus later), and he leans in speak to long-haired John, seemingly to confirm that he heard Jesus’s declaration clearly.  In front of them, Judas leans back in shock, holding the traditional purse of silver he’ll be granted for his betrayal of Christ. To be sure, these four men are the primary figures in this image, and they are all surrounded with the spoils of their feast: cups and platters, fish, eels and oranges, fruit, and, of course, bread and wine. Leonardo then, ingeniously, ups the ante by organizing the space to match the interior of the refectory so that his fresco appears to be a continuation of the monk’s dining room—a lovely and psychologically-compelling choice that would hit home, emotionally, for those setting eyes on it during their mealtime. So that’s what The Last Supper shows to us… but is there more than meets the eye here? That’s coming up next- right after this short break.

 Welcome back to ArtCurious.

 Before we answer the question about the existence of any real da Vinci codes, it’s helpful to go back and remind ourselves of Dan Brown’s fictional take on the work of art. Brown’s big reveal in The Da Vinci Code is that the figure  traditionally identified as John the Evangelist, often called the “beloved disciple,” isn’t John at all, but instead is actually Mary Magdalene, who, remember, has been determined to have been Jesus’s wife. Much of this identification is based on our contemporary interpretation of the figure of John, whose long hair frames a gentle, androgynous face, and even shows, as Brown writes, quote, “the hint of a bosom.”  Unquote. And, look: I get it. John is, by far, the prettiest of the men in Leonardo’s image; and it would indeed be super sexy and gratifying to my feminist heart to believe that Jesus’s all-boys club here at the Last Supper would have been attended by a truly awesome lady—and I won’t get into Mary Magdalene too much today, so go back and listen to my mini-episode, A Little Curious, on Donatello’s groundbreaking take on Mary Magdalene. And androgyny was something that Leonardo played with, to stunning effect, by the way—just see his John the Baptist for proof of that. But we’ve got to remember that, just as Leonardo inherited ideas about his oil-paint-on-the-wall technique from artists before him, he also inherited their iconography, or the traditional symbols and images long used in art history in order for us, the viewers, to interpret and understand works of art. In the European tradition, John has long been routinely shown as a young, beardless man—the lack of beard, then, emphasizing his youth—and also with a slightly feminine appearance, or at least what might be read as “feminine” to us today. In the Middle Ages in Europe, the understanding and characterization of John and Jesus’s relationship was one of a deep spiritual affection, even love, which some religious scholars would compare to a kind of “heavenly” or “mystical” marriage: a devotion to Christian belief that artists LITERALLY through John’s positioning in their works of art. He is almost always shown sitting beside Jesus, even often leaning or sleeping on Jesus’s chest. Leonardo’s take on this concept thus fits fully in line with tradition. And the concept of The Last Supper, in visual art, as we’ve already established was highly codified, with a set cast of characters so that viewers—many of were illiterate in Italy in the late Middle Ages, when these images were just beginning to be systematized. True, there are paintings that do show Jesus alongside Mary Magdalene, but up to this point in art history, there were the standard thirteen men: the twelve disciples, all known by name and including that scoundrel Judas, and Jesus, of course. For Leonardo to just up and paint a scene of Jesus with 11 of his male disciples, and opting to leave John out—one of Christ’s most important followers—and substituting him with Mary Magdalene? Well, that would not only have been totally unprecedented, but it just would have been straight-up odd. He may have been a prankster and a rule-breaker, as we learned from the first episode of this season, but that doesn’t mean he broke all the rules. And don’t even get me started on the supposed “M” or “V” shapes that Dan Brown claims that the bodies of John and Jesus make—what’s most important to know is that Leonardo specifically isolates Jesus so that our eyes are drawn to him. Jesus is separated, with John—the non-Mary—leaning away from him, to make sure, visually, that it is indeed Jesus who is our center of attention.  

 So there isn’t a “Da Vinci Code” in the way that Dan Brown would like us to believe—or in fact, would hope that we would believe. The book plays with ideas of facts and fictions—not the least of which is including real historical people, known locations, and—yes—works of art to ground its story. But it even claims, in spaces, to be telling at least a somewhat truthful narrative. It’s often forgotten that Brown’s book is set up by the author with a statement that reads, and this is a bit long-winded, but bear with me: quote,

“FACT: The Priory of Sion—a European secret society founded in 1099—is a real organization. In 1975, Paris’s Bilbotheque Nationale discovered parchments known as Les Dossiers Secrets, identifying numerous members of the Priory of Sion, including Sir Isaac Newton, [Sandro] Botticelli, Victor Hugo, and Leonardo da Vinci. The Vatican prelature known as Opus Dei is a deeply devout Catholic sect that has been the topic of recent controversy due to reports of brainwashing, coercion, and a dangerous practice known as “corporal mortification.” Opus Dei has just completed construction of a $47 million National Headquarters at 243 Lexington Avenue in New York City. All descriptions of artwork, architecture, documents, and secret rituals in this novel are accurate.” Unquote.

 So that’s how The Da Vinci Code begins—but here’s the kicker: none of these “facts” about the Priory of Sion are actually accepted as such by scholars. And if Brown had done more research, he would have discovered that the Priory was, in fact, a hoax perpetuated by a Frenchman named Pierre Plantard. Quick sidebar: after collaborating with the Nazis during the French occupation, Plantard—perhaps seeking a new but equally dubious career—founded the so-called Priory of Sion as a way to seek fame for himself as part of a long line of protectors of the Holy Grail with incredible connections to the French throne, which then later spun out of control into a further bloodline connection to Jesus himself. Plantard and his associates then forged Les Dossiers Secrets, which made its way into the Bibliotheque Nationale… and then, into texts that trumpeted them as fact. So even though it was exhaustively debunked as one of the greatest literary hoaxes of the 20th century, there are still those who believe that the Priory exists.

 All of this does lead me to note that just because we’re not living in Dan Brown’s mysterious, and certainly colorful, world doesn’t mean that there are NO codes going on in Leonardo’s iconic Last Supper. But most of them aren’t codes the way we might envision them to be, but instead are symbols, visual elements meant to remind the viewer of important connections to the narrative and to scriptural teachings. Jesus’s left hand reaching for the bread, while his right hand hovers over his wine goblet, is a visualization of the Eucharist—the literal interpretation of Jesus as the so-called “bread of life.” Everything from the apples and/or pomegranates in front of the apostles, to the platters of fish and eels, would have meant something within these contexts, even the upturned salt shaker in front of Judas, yet another visual reminder of evil that lay ahead at his traitorous hands, as well as his own bad luck.

 But there are still some folks out there who think that there is more to the Last Supper than we might typically believe. In a small sidebar in my recent book, I mentioned that in 2007, an Italian musician and computer scientist named Giovanni Maria Pala released a 40-second composition gleaned from the placement of--wait for it—the bread and human hands in Leonardo’s crumbling fresco. When played, Pala says, quote, “it sounds like a requiem. It's like a soundtrack that emphasizes the Passion of Jesus.” Unquote. Now, I’m skeptical, but at the same time, it wouldn’t be a total surprise if it really was a da Vinci code after all. As we are acutely aware by now, Leonardo was famously one of the most talented and curious humans to ever live, who not only invented musical instruments and studied the physics of sound transmission, but also tinkered with scoring and composition, some scribblings of which still survive today in his various Codices, or notebooks. If anyone could create an indelible, if fragile, work of art and secretly hide a musical score in it, it’s Leonardo.

 Thank you for listening to the ArtCurious Podcast. This episode was written, produced, and narrated by me, Jennifer Dasal. Huge thanks to Jessica Wollschleger, once again, for her awesome research and writing help with this episode. Our theme music is by Alex Davis at alexdavismusic.com, and our logo is by Dave Rainey at daveraineydesign.com. Our podcast services are provided by our friends at Kaboonki. Subscribe now to their show, Subgenre, a podcast about the movies. Season 1 is available in its entirety now—please visit subgenrepodcast.com for more details.   The ArtCurious Podcast is sponsored primarily by Anchorlight. Anchorlight is a creative space, founded with the intent of fostering artists, designers, and craftspeople at varying stages of their development. Home to artist studios, residency opportunities, and exhibition space Anchorlight encourages mentorship and the cross-pollination of skills among creatives in the Triangle. Please visit anchorlightraleigh.com.

The ArtCurious Podcast is also fiscally sponsored by VAE Raleigh, a 501c3 nonprofit creativity incubator, which means you can donate tax-free to “ArtCurious” to show your support. To find the donation links and for more details about our show, please visit our website: artcuriouspodcast.com. We’re also on Twitter and Instagram at artcuriouspod. And we have podcast merchandise! Check out the link to our TeePublic store in the show notes on this episode, or on our website.

Check back with us soon as we explore the facts, and the fictions, of the unexpected, slightly odd, and strangely wonderful in art history.