Serge Bramly's biography of Leonardo da Vinci is a number of very different books rolled into one. It is an abstruse, highly literary treatise on a Renaissance artist and scientist, but also a tender, intimate portrait of a man Bramly clearly admired. It is a portrait of late 15th century Florence and Milan, and a biography, indeed, of the very conception, in da Vinci's time, of the artist as a tradesperson, rather than the artist-construct that exists in the present western cultural zeitgeist.
Bramly begins, from the outset, to deliberately put a healthy distance between himself and other biographers, clearly being of the opinion that he has managed to avoid many of the errors common to this type of work. He blasts others for descending into hagiography. Others, it would seem, did a great deal of extrapolating, deducing, supposing and guessing in the process of obtaining certain histories, orders of events, details from the life of the man in question. Many gaps do exist in da Vinci's personal history, things that are hard to ascertain from patchy municipal records and subjective epistolary accounts. Harder still is the process of teasing out the character and spirit of a man who wrote prolifically on his many subjects of scientific inquiry, but hardly anything about his inner state.
Bramly very convincingly picks apart fact from extrapolation, and is forthright in disclosing how he arrived at the many conclusions drawn throughout the book. He draws you in with his deep convictions, and his profound respect for da Vinci as a whole human being, with brilliant, glaring flaws, a man who, by dint of taking on spectacular challenges, often failed spectacularly. Through Bramly's often snobbish, but meticulous accounting of his subject, runs a vein of bittersweet, highly nuanced, loving obsession over a strange and fascinating subject. One can't help but be drawn into this labyrinth of conjecture. To watch Bramly try to divine the meaning in many things others might gloss over, to find such haunting depth in the life and work of someone who lived in a distant world so different from our own and yet so strikingly similar, often feels like walking in on something too private to witness.
It bears mentioning that the superb quality of the writing is even more striking considering the book I read is a translation from French, and credit is due to the translator, Sian Reynolds, for a marvellous work. Reynolds was working with a book that featured multiple languages in situ, names, places, concepts, in Italian and French, Latin, German... I can't even begin to imagine how one tackles such a task.