Leonardo Da Vinci was born in 1452 at Anchiano, near Vinci, in Tuscany, the son of a Florentine notary. Trained in the workshop of Andrea Verrocchio, he became one of the greatest and most versatile artists of the Renaissance. Indeed, he must be considered one of the master-minds of all times, for there was scarcely a sphere of human knowledge in which he did not excel and surpass his contemporaries. He was not only preeminent as painter, sculptor, and architect, but was an accomplished musician, poet, and improvisatore, an engineer—able to construct canals, roads, fortifications, ships, and war-engines of every description—an inventor of rare musical instruments, and a great organiser of fêtes and pageants. Few of his artistic creations have come down to us; but his profound knowledge of art and science, and the wide range of his intellect are fully revealed in the scattered leaves of his notebooks, which are now preserved in the British Museum, the Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, the Ambrosiani in Milan, and other collections. The first edition of the "Treatise on Painting" was a compilation from these original notes, published at Paris in 1651. Leonardo died at Cloux on May 2, 1519.
From Da Vinci's Notebooks
The eye, which is called the window of the soul, is the principal means whereby our intelligence may most fully and splendidly comprehend the infinite works of nature; and the ear comes next, by gaining importance through hearing the things that have been perceived by the eye. If you historians or poets, or mathematicians, had not seen things with your eyes, badly would you describe them in your writings. If you, O poet, call painting dumb poetry, the painter might say of the poet's writing blind painting. Now consider, which taunt is more mordant—to be called blind or dumb?
If the poet is as free in invention as the painter, yet his fiction is not as satisfying to mankind as is painting, for whereas poetry endeavours with words to represent forms, actions, and scenes, the painter's business is to imitate forms with the images of these very forms. Take the case of a poet, describing the beauties of a woman to her lover, and that of a painter depicting her; you will soon see whither nature will attract the enamoured judge. And should not the proof of things be the verdict of experience?
If you say that poetry is more enduring, I may reply that the works of a coppersmith are more enduring still, since time has preserved them longer than your works or ours; yet they are less imaginative, and painting, if done with enamels on copper, can be made far more enduring. We, in our art, may be said to be grandsons unto God. If you despise painting, which is the sole imitator of all the visible works of nature, then you certainly despise a subtle invention which, with philosophical and ingenious reflection, considers all the properties of forms, airs, and scenes, trees, animals, grasses and flowers, which are surrounded by light and shade.
And this is a science and the true-born daughter of nature, since painting is born of this self-same nature. But, in order to speak more correctly, let us call it the grandchild of nature, because all visible things are produced by nature, and from these same things is born painting. Wherefore we may rightly call it the grandchild of nature, related to God Himself.
How Sculpture is Less Intellectual
Being sculptor no less than painter, and practising both arts in the same degree, it seems to me that I may without arrogance pronounce how one of them is more intellectual, difficult, and perfect than the other.
Firstly, sculpture is subject to a certain light—namely, from above—and painting carries everywhere with it light and shade. Light and shade are, therefore, the essentials in sculpture. In this respect the sculptor is aided by the nature of the relief, which produces these of its own accord; the painter introduces them by his art where nature would reasonably place them. The sculptor cannot reproduce the varying nature of the colours of objects; painting lacks nothing in this respect. The sculptor's perspectives never seem true, but the painter's lead the eye hundreds of miles into the work. Aerial perspective is alien to their work. They can neither represent transparent nor luminous bodies, neither reflected rays nor shiny surfaces like mirrors and similar glittering bodies; no mist, no dull sky, nor countless other things, which I refrain from mentioning to avoid getting wearisome. It has the advantage that it offers greater resistance to time, although enamels on copper fused in fire have equal power of resistance. Thus painting surpasses sculpture even in durability.
Were you to speak only of painting on panels, I should be content to give the verdict against sculpture by saying: Whilst painting is more beautiful, more imaginative, and more resourceful, sculpture is more durable; and this is all that can be said for it. It reveals with little effort what it is. Painting seems a miraculous thing, making things intangible appear tangible, presenting flat objects in relief, and distant near at hand. Indeed, painting is adorned with endless possibilities that are not used by sculpture.