By L.K. Peterson / Illustrations by Randy Jones

The shocking truth behind The Last Supper's deterioration and
Leonardo Da Vinci's secret attempt to cure the common cold!

Introduction

Leonardo Da Vinci was truly a Renaissance Man. That he was born, lived and worked during the Renaissance pretty much makes it a lead-pipe cinch. But beyond the inspired timing of his birth he, like so many of the era — maybe even more so, his being a genius and all — sought to expand mankind's knowledge and understanding of the world.

Da Vinci achieved this through his art and stacks of notebooks filled with meticulously drawn observations of nature and detailed plans for mechanical devices so advanced that by the time the technology existed to actually build them they were completely obsolete.

It is no small irony then, that one of his greatest works is as noteworthy for its technical flaws as for its artistic merit.

The Last Supper is one of the world's best-known paintings, second only to Da Vinci's other masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. Yet this iconic mural, painted directly onto the wall of the refectory (dining hall) of the Monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie between 1495 and 1498, began to flake and fade almost as soon as Leonardo finished it, and within a century of his death was undergoing the first of many restorations.

What caused the painting's deterioration has been a mystery for 500 years.

But now, thanks to cutting edge technology, pure dumb luck and the dogged perseverance of a shadowy and secretive organization, the amazing story behind the mystery can finally be told.

Mostly.

Our story spans half a millennium, two continents, three cities and the entire Broadway run of Cats. We start near the end, jump to the middle and then wind up within walking distance of the Grand Central Oyster Bar & Restaurant (Reservations recommended. Closed Sunday).

1: The Germs of a Mystery

For centuries, scholarly debate about the cause The Last Supper's rapid deterioration focused on Leonardo's choice of materials; tempera and oil paint on dry plaster, instead of the traditional — and more chemically stable — fresco method of mixing tempera with wet plaster. Many blamed the long-term effects of the refectory's dampness, to say nothing of the harm done by clumsy restorers.

A small but annoying minority, however, believed that germs had caused the damage. Specifically, germs expelled by a sneeze — or even deliberately spat — onto the mural while the paint was still wet. Derisively referred to as "Sneeze Theorists," reaction to both them and their ideas was usually "How did you get in here?" and "That's it, I'm calling security!"

Early in the 19th century these Sneeze Theorists, frustrated by decades of being scoffed at as "cranks," "morons" and "doody-heads" by academics with "degrees," "credentials" and "facts," formed a shadowy and secretive organization known as the Association of Artists, Curators, Historians & Others Outcast ("AACHOO").

Today, two hundred years after its founding, this group is still so shadowy and secretive that its own members know little about it, each other or even that they are members at all. By tradition, they meet only on February 29 of alternate leap years but are never told where.

Within their cloistered chambers, members of AACHOO argued furiously over what (Allergies? Sinusitis? Cold?) caused the sneeze and who (or possibly whom) the offending sneezer might have been.

One faction insisted the sneeze came from Da Vinci's long-time companion, Gian Giacomo Caprotti da Oreno, who often acted spitefully toward the maestro and whom Leonardo himself referred to as "a thief, a liar, stubborn, a glutton," and, occasionally, "Mary."

Another group suspected the Santa Maria delle Grazie's head abbot, with whom Leonardo often publicly feuded and once threatened to use as the model for a waiter seen in the background spitting into the soup.*

*There is some doubt as to whether this was an idle threat or if Da Vinci removed this figure before finalizing the composition.

Still another bunch proposed a "Second Sneezer Theory" to explain the extent and severity of the damage.  

Clearly, these guys had way too much free time on their hands.

But the simple and frustrating truth was that it could have been any of the dozens of people who were in and out of the refectory during the years Leonardo worked on The Last Supper, including — although few could bring themselves to admit it — Leonardo himself.

For 500 years, these questions and others — although mostly the others — lingered in the air.

Until now.

2: Who Moved My Sneeze?

The first answers came during the extensive restoration of The Last Supper that lasted from 1977 to 1999.

After incessant pestering by AACHOO, the restorers allowed them to do DNA testing on a small sample of original portions of the painting.*

*Those in charge of the restoration finally relented after 18 years, sighing, "Se farà questi scatti andare via, dia loro una parte della pittura goddam." ("If it'll make those jerks go away, give them a piece of the goddamn painting!")

The tests confirmed that human germs consistent with someone suffering a head cold were indeed embedded in the pigment of The Last Supper.

Further testing that compared these germs to DNA samples known to be from Da Vinci (don't ask) resulted in a 98.6% probable match that it was Leonardo himself who had sneezed onto the painting.

As startling as this news is to anyone who didn't see it coming in the previous chapter, these revelations raised as many questions as they answered.

Chief among them was why hadn't Leonardo, a compulsive record-keeper, ever mentioned his condition? In the 15th century, a common cold was a serious illness, rating at the very least a "Dear Diary" moment.

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place in 2005, with the rediscovery of a suite of rooms in Florence's Santissima Annunziata Monastery. These rooms, with their fresco-covered walls, were long-rumored to have been Da Vinci's abode from 1502 to 1506, but it was only during the close study of their contents and decor that Leonardo's residency there was positively established.

The conclusive proof was a notarized letter tucked inside a dusty notebook. Dated 1506 and addressed personally to Da Vinci, this letter was the landlord's refusal to refund Leonardo's security deposit, citing the lease's strict "No Fresco" clause as well as mentioning a "most foul aroma" and "stains on the carpet."

The murals were quickly determined to have been painted by students of Da Vinci. The notebooks, however, were another matter altogether.

Just as Florentine researchers began to examine the various papers found in the rooms came an astounding claim from America.

A single large notebook, matching the general characteristics of the type kept by Da Vinci, and allegedly from the Santissima Annunziata, turned up in the possession of Dr. Gerald Bostock, professor of forensic art history at the University of Upper Manhattan @ Inwood (online), and prominent member of the American chapter of AACHOO.

Dubbed "The Bostock Notebook", whether this portfolio is authentic and, if so, how Dr. Bostock got it as well as what kind of doctor he is, exactly, is at the center of an international storm of controversy, several lawsuits and a book deal worth millions.

According to Bostock, this notebook contains Da Vinci's own — indeed, the only — record of the cold that caused the sneeze that ruined The Last Supper, and Leonardo's secret dabbling in the medical and culinary arts in his effort to cure the common cold and make a few bucks along the way. [see sketches, Chapter 6, below]

Because of the ongoing litigation and a Non Disclosure Agreement between Dr. Bostock, his publisher and the Food Network, the contents of the notebook cannot be quoted at length. The good doctor has, however permitted us to excerpt and paraphrase as much of the material as is legally allowable at this time, in exchange for our announcing the forthcoming publication of a book of Leonardo's recipes based on those in the notebook and entitled The Da Vinci Cookbook ($29.95, Oct. 2006).

What follows, then, is the story of The Da Vinci Cold, presented in chronological order, except for the parts we already told you about, above.

3: The Da Vinci Cold®

Milan, 1497

At the same time Leonardo was painting The Last Supper, commissioned by his patron, Ludovico Sforza, the Duke of Milan, he was also working on a larger-than-life-size bronze equestrian statue of the Duke's father, Francesco. Da Vinci considered the statue far more important and interesting than the painting, because of the artistic, engineering and logistical challenges it presented. When completed, it would have been the largest statue of its kind ever created and the crowning achievement of Da Vinci's career. Plus, it was a good way to kiss up to the boss.

Leonardo knew which side of his biscotti had the butter on it.

As the notebook reveals, working on both projects simultaneously took its toll on Leonardo. By the early spring of 1497 Da Vinci was mentally and physically exhausted. On a cool and rainy Good Friday of that year, Da Vinci awoke with a stuffy nose and a slight fever. He writes in that day's journal entry of sneezing all day while working on the painting [emphasis ours] and complains bitterly about the dank refectory.

Still, however severe his cold might have been, Leonardo was too far behind schedule to take time to rest.

Leonardo's journals frequently mention a neighbor, a doctor described as "the Spaniard," probably a Jewish physician who had settled in Milan after fleeing the Spanish Inquisition. This man, whose real name is lost to history, is referred to in the notebook as "Dr. Morty." This was probably a pseudonym invented by Da Vinci to protect his friend, as Dr. Morty was the likely source of cadavers that Leonardo used in his studies of anatomy. Milanese law at the time deemed using the dead for study as "Icky."

Dr. Morty treated Da Vinci's cold with a hot broth of chicken and vegetables and containing "11 secret herbs & spices," that he called simply sopa de pollo (chicken soup).

Although initially skeptical about this humble elixir, Leonardo was finally persuaded by the doctor's logic, "Non potrebbe danneggiare" ("It couldn't hurt").

Da Vinci recovered quickly and was so impressed that he begged for the formula of this "minestra miraculoso" (magic soup). Dr. Morty demurred, claiming that it was a professional secret handed down from Maimonides' grandmother, telling the artist, "A che cosa, Macy dice a Gimbel?" ("What, does Macy tell Gimbel?"). This statement puzzled Leonardo, but he got the drift.

4: Chicken Soup for the Renaissance Man

Determined to recreate and capitalize on Dr. Morty's formula, Da Vinci, an amateur alchemist and, by all accounts, an enthusiastic but abysmal chef, transformed his kitchen into a laboratory and began working feverishly. His cooking sessions lasted for hours or even days at a time. During these periods, Leonardo neglected both his painting and sculpting for weeks on end, emerging only when he'd made a significant breakthrough.

Visitors to the refectory were often treated to the result of these experiments. Da Vinci would seek out anyone in the crowd with the sniffles and foist upon them, sometimes rather aggressively, a cup or, for a lira-and-a-half more, a bowl of his most recent concoction. Because his intent was medicinal rather than culinary, the recipient's reaction was not always helpful. Many spectators who had initially stopped by to watch Leonardo at work on his mural came back for the free food. Those who'd sampled one of his less-than savory offerings, however, were not so quick to return.

Word got out about his experiments, and in July of 1497, Da Vinci received a visit from a pair of burly "representatives" from Milan's powerful Barber/Surgeon Guild. The guild had a tight lock on all of the region's tonsorial and healing arts. Nobody in Tuscany stayed healthy without their say-so.

The unpleasant duo suggested to Leonardo, in none-too-subtle terms, according to his notes, that the guild didn't take kindly to anyone horning in on its turf. They went on to make thinly veiled threats, "Mural che de Nizza avete ottenuto là; sia una vergogna se qualcosa accadesse esso" ("Nice mural you got there; be a shame if something happened to it), to ensure he understood.

Furthermore, Leonardo's visitors went on to mention, his failure to cease and desist his experiments, would not only guarantee that he'd never get a decent haircut in this town, again, but he could wind up in big trouble with the Tuscan Leech Guild, and you definitely didn't want to tangle with those bloodsuckers.

Leonardo assured them that he got their message loud and clear. Rattled but undaunted, Da Vinci continued his experiments but now did so in secret, keeping his notebook hidden and writing in it not just backwards, but upside down as well.

5: Forward Into the Past!

In 1500, Milan's ruler and Leonardo's patron, Duke Ludovico Sforza, was overthrown by the French (this was back when the French not only fought but sometimes even won). By this time, The Last Supper had been completed and Da Vinci's dreams of a creating a monumental statue were dashed when the bronze meant for its casting was used instead for cannonballs.

With his meal ticket gone and not feeling entirely safe under Milan's new regime, Da Vinci fled south, to Florence, the city of his youth.

Da Vinci secured rooms at the Santissima Annunziata Monastery in Florence, where he lived from 1502 to 1506, tutoring pupils in fresco painting and trading catty remarks with Michelangelo ("Little pisher!" "Old queen!"), who was now the rising star of the Florentine art world that Leonardo had once been and toward whom the older artist grew increasingly envious and resentful.

Although he continued his chicken soup experiments during the first years of his stay (many of the sketches and recipes in the notebook date from this period), by the time Da Vinci left Florence in 1506, his interest in the topic had greatly diminished. A journal entry dated November 1505 states, "Se non vedo mai ancora un altro pollo, sarà troppo presto," ("If I never see another chicken again, it'll be too soon").

Ironically, though, Da Vinci's cooking skills improved dramatically despite his singular lack of progress in finding a workable cold cure. Writings by his contemporaries often refer to Leonardo's talent for making some spectacular dish on the spot from whatever ingredients he had just lying around — so long as one of them was chicken. In 1503 and 1504, a dinner party at Da Vinci's was the place to be and of him it was often said "fa la destra del pollo!" ("He does chicken right!").

6: Selected Drawings from "The Bostock Notebook"