Today I decided to post a pic I have made when I was in Italy... This bridge is Ponte Buriano and it is said that it was painted by Leonardo at Mona Lisa's back. This is in honour to a very good friend of mine: Antonio Zopetti, who lives in Milan and has written a wonderful story regarding this bridge as well. I have just translated Zop's story to English....I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. (For those who speak Italian I widely recommend that you visit Zop's blog, just click at the link)
The secret of her Smile, by Zop
Painting me was his perversion. And my lust. You cannot imagine how much is it erotic if you haven’t try, just feel your whole painted everywhere. And more, if the one who does it, is an artist like the one he is…
At the beginning I was ticklish as he draw lines and doodles. A fresh and soft point that passed and passed again. I shivered with the pencil. I felt his hands on me. His breath on me. Then the splashes of painting arrived. When he dipped the brush and smeared me with determined and skilful gestures I could feel the wet that irradiates over my skin. Blue was freezing and made me shake. Red gave me blazes of heat that aroused me. Yellow was rather sour. White and Green refreshed me. The most delicate was the slightly bitter of Burnt Siena. But they were the mixture and concoction of all colors, which dirty me and fulfill me the most. Brown was thick. It dissolved hardly under the brush providing me an orgasmic pleasure. The pleasure grows as more rough blacks pass over and over my exhausted outlines with his rude and rapid rubs. When he was tired he moved away from me and each time I believed I was finished. That he won’t look at it anymore and that he would finished others. But on the contrary, as soon as he could, he started over again, like Penelope and her cloth.
A never-ending not finishing that nourished my desire. What he owns wasn’t perfectionism, it was love. Our love.
Yes, Leonardo loved me. And I loved him. He wasn’t concerned with whatever he was painting. It was just any object. An excuse to paint me and arouse me. For being the whole day with me, for looking at me, for speaking to me, for loving me. Mona Lisa doesn’t mean anything to him. Everything what matters was me. The secret of that smile from which everybody talks about, but that if you look carefully there is not. It is on looking further. It is not the Gioconda who smiles, it is me.
The cloth on which he paints.