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I know what you’re thinking. Really? Mona Lisa? Again? Why is she even famous? I get it. People- critics, men, women, kids, celebrities, politicians- have been asking these questions for centuries. Who is she? What is she feeling? That’s not really the point of my story today, nor will I be answering any of your long sought after answers. However, I think if you will just hear me out you’ll find my account rather frivolous. 

It began when the final guard locked the doors this evening. The paintings waking up, as we subjects like to call it, is not a new phenomenon. I stretched my arms up, and arched my back. I rolled my head around, letting my chin fall to my chest, circling to the left and to the right. I’ve heard of your desk jobs, even writers, especially painters like my beloved da Vinci, those of you who must sit down eight hours a day staring at a screen or your art, getting stiff in your muscles. That’s at least one thing we have in common. 

After a thorough stretch I took a look around my fellow masterpieces pondering which one I might join this evening. Jupiter, the Greek God, is usually a good option if I’m mulling over the vices of the twenty-first century. Madonna The Rabbit if I’m feeling cuddly, in fact I’m quite fond of the Child from this gem as well. I have five different Jesus’ to choose from in my vicinity. The Wedding at Cana, Jesus On The Cross, Supper at Emmaus (a resurrected Christ), Paradise, and The Crucifixion. How I, The Mona Lisa, ended up as famous as, if not more famous, than these paragons is bewildering. 

On this particular day of all my options I chose The Wedding at Cana. There shouldn’t be anything surprising about that. Of my options this one offers the most soul. There’s music, music so grand and happy it makes me weep. Minus the scuffling of shoes, whispered voices, oohs and aahs, our days in the Louvre are quiet, so you can understand how music might give us unbridled joy along with the endless wine and dancing. The chatter and munching, barking dogs, playing children, games, sloshing drinks, it’s all a mercy from my quiet frame. Not to mention the feast! Oh the feast, the sweetness of juicy, delectable fruit, the spices- cumin, paprika, cayenne- lathered on the roasts, the aged cheese, the leavened bread still warm inside, deep red wines, and crisp white wines. Now that I describe it, in all its opulence, it is curious that more of the subjects don’t end up at The Wedding too. Well, to each their own. 

My favorite part upon entering this painting is that the miracle always occurs a quarter past midnight. Now if you don’t know the miracle that happens at this wedding, let me briefly enlighten you. After being invited to a wedding, the bride and groom not necessarily noteworthy, Jesus brings along his disciples. His mother, Mary, is also in attendance whom I love dearly. Part way through the grand festivities the family runs out of wine which is utterly embarrassing for the hosts. This is when Mother Mary steps up, emphatically speaking to Jesus about the state of affairs, pleading that he would help the family. After a brief refusal to his mother, Jesus speaks with the servants, telling them to fill six stone water jars to the brim… and by the time a fresh cup of water is served to the master of the feast it is the most mouthwatering wine he has ever tasted. Here, in the Louvre, us paintings get to witness the miracle firsthand. We get to study it, question it, pull it apart, learn more about this Jesus character. 

Then the party continues on. This is where my engrossing tale begins. I’ve lived a long life so I’ve observed a great deal of bizarre and undomesticated affairs. But this was new… and satisfying. Would you believe me if I told you we have problems inside these frames just like you do out there?

I believed my eyes were lying to me. A fist raised in the air came pounding down into Andrew’s tan stubbled cheek. He stumbled to the side but then stood up straight regaining control. His fingers curled into fists, knuckles turning white as he stared into Simon’s soul. His nostrils flared out, indignation enveloping his face. Simon, yes, his brother, looked at Andrew with repressed animosity. 

I stealthily slid behind a large marble column while the crowds continued on barely noticing the outburst. I highly, highly considered sidling back to my own frame as I realized this fight was potentially because of me. 

“Mona Lisa.” 

My teeth sunk into my bottom lip. My body tensed at the gentle command, no other words needed to call me out from my hideaway. I would know that voice anywhere. The voice that was coated in kindness, strength, and control. I was like Adam and Eve being called out from their hiding place in the Garden of Eden (a devastating story Jesus told me himself). 

My body felt like a bag of sand. The breeze still blew in the air, clouds lingered in the powder blue sky, just the way Veronese painted it hundreds of years ago. Laughter and dancing and eating and drinking continued on but it all felt distant. My own worries suffocating my senses. I stepped out from behind my column and slowly walked toward the small group of men, my eyes, shoulders, and spirit suddenly downcast. 

“Daughter.” Jesus extended his hand out to my chin and tilted it up so my eyes met his. “What is this nonsense you’ve created?” 

I darted my eyes to the brothers, feeling culpable. “I… I…” Words have completely abandoned me, I wanted to kick myself for being an absolute fool. 

What was I thinking? I’ll likely live in this room for eternity along with Simon and Andrew and Jesus across from me at their wedding. Did I believe neither of them would find out? No, I suppose part of me knew this would happen… it wasn’t a matter of if but when. 

For centuries I have had handsome men stare at me, questioning my beauty, listening to people grumble that if I was going to be this famous I should at least be pretty. I’ve been critiqued deeply for my nose and lips and hair. Like I could help it.

So when Simon and Andrew began to take interest in me, my soft brown eyes, my quiet demeanor, my wisdom… I couldn’t help it. I indulged myself in their attention, their lingering touches, their brief kisses that left my cheeks rosy. There is a substantial crowd in this painting, along with plenty of space so it is possible to have sacred moments alone with each of them, never going beyond soft, simple kisses, fingers running down each other’s arms or interlaced together, thumbs brushing my jaw, sultry hugs. I am a lady afterall. It was like after all these centuries I was finally able to truly feel, physically and emotionally, comforted by these two men. 

Andrew and Simon stood next to Jesus both waiting upon an answer I wasn’t sure I could give them. 

“I’m sorry,” was all I could muster up. I was feeling completely humiliated and it was as if Jesus read these emotions swirling across my face so he led the three of us back behind the massive marble columns where the crowds tend to dwindle. The brothers crossed their arms and stared at me unrelentingly. 

“Mona Lisa, I know why you played this role. But Andrew and Simon Peter deserve an explanation.” Jesus let a soft hand cup my jaw, kissing me on the forehead like a father to his child and then left us to it. 

Now you understand why my story is frivolous… it doesn’t answer questions about my identity or da Vinci or my mood while I’m inside the frame. And possibly you are cognizant with my situation, recognizing the small satisfaction I had in two terribly handsome men fighting over me. 

“I am sorry to both of you, for whatever pain I might have thrown upon you so selfishly. I want you to know I have grown fond of both of you.” I wrung my hands together, letting out a small groan. “I suppose I knew it would come to this, but never in all my five hundred years have I felt so cared for. I basked in the light you both shed upon me and it was incredibly insensitive and self-serving. I can only hope you will find a way to forgive me.”

Both men dropped their arms and looked at each other as if they could read each other’s minds. 

“Thank you for apologizing, Mona.” Andrew said first. 

Simon piped up, “we understand how hard it is to live a life inside these paintings. We cannot fault you for your indulgence.” To my absolute surprise both brothers hugged me and kissed me on the forehead just like Jesus, as if they were acknowledging the remarkably unusual experience we all shared. I guess after this much life experience we have become really good at apologies and forgiveness, I’ve heard out there in the world these are rather hard actions to express.

A servant walked past with a golden tray passing out the miracle wine, I grabbed a cup satisfying my taste buds and clouding my discomfiture. And as I slowly made my way back toward my own frame, my home, the place where I sat staring at Jesus and Simon and Andrew all day, every day, I pondered over my affections for the three of them. Brotherly love for Jesus and the deep tenderness in my heart for the other. I took my seat in my own frame, hearing the gentle waves in the distance. From across the way I saw Andrew staring at me, our eyes caught. Simon had returned to his original seat, deep in conversation with a guest. But Andrew’s lazy smirk painted across his face, a wink at me conveying a secret, hinting at his feelings for me that I knew ran deeper than Simon’s. I slowly stiffened, knowing the sun was rising outside of this museum, preparing myself for another long day of both compliments and insults. My last thought was hoping and dreaming Andrew would come to me at midnight. The ironic smile settled on my face for yet another day.