Leonardo da Vinci was a weird guy. Brilliant, sure, but definitely weird. When you look at his St. John the Baptist, painted roughly between 1513 and 1516, you aren't looking at a typical biblical prophet. Most Renaissance artists painted John as a rugged, desert-dwelling ascetic—basically a guy who needed a haircut and a sandwich. Leonardo did something else. He painted a soft, glowing, somewhat feminine figure emerging from a pitch-black background with a smirk that looks more like a secret than a blessing. It’s haunting. Honestly, it’s one of the most polarizing pieces in the Louvre, and for good reason.
This was Leonardo’s final masterpiece. He kept it with him until he died in France in 1519. Think about that for a second. Out of everything he created—the tanks, the flying machines, the Mona Lisa—this is the one he wouldn't let go of.
The Androgyny That Messes With Your Head
If you’ve ever walked up to the painting in the Louvre, you probably noticed the skin first. It’s incredibly smooth. Leonardo used a technique called sfumato. It basically means "smoky." He layers oil paint in such thin glazes that you can't see where one color ends and another begins.
The result?
A face that looks alive but also totally genderless.
Critics and art historians have argued about this for centuries. Is it a man? Is it a woman? Is it both? Most experts, like the late Kenneth Clark, have noted that the painting feels deeply erotic. That’s a strange vibe for a saint who supposedly lived on locusts and honey. But that was Leonardo's thing. He loved blurring the lines between the physical and the spiritual. He used his longtime apprentice and likely lover, Gian Giacomo Caprotti (better known as Salai), as the model. If you compare this painting to Leonardo's Bacchus, they look almost identical.
It’s confusing. It’s supposed to be.
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That Pointing Finger and the Darkness
The composition is deceptively simple. John emerges from a void. There’s no landscape, no sky, no trees. Just blackness. He’s holding a reed cross in his left hand, and his right hand is pointing straight up to heaven.
This gesture is classic Leonardo. You see it in The Last Supper and his sketches. It’s a "look at God" sign. But in this specific painting, the gesture feels heavy. Because the figure is leaning into the light while the rest of his body fades into shadow, it creates a spiral effect. It draws your eye up, then down his arm, then back to that face.
The darkness matters. In the Renaissance, darkness wasn't just "no light." It represented the unknown, the divine mystery. By stripping away the background, Leonardo forces you to deal with the person. There are no distractions. You can't look at a pretty mountain in the distance. You have to look at John. And John is looking right back at you.
Actually, he's looking through you.
Why the smile is different from the Mona Lisa
People always compare this smile to the Mona Lisa. They're wrong.
Lisa’s smile is polite, maybe a bit guarded. It’s the smile of a woman being watched. John’s smile is a "know-it-all" grin. It’s the look of someone who knows the ending of the movie and isn't telling you. This has led some occult-leaning historians to suggest Leonardo was layering "heretical" meanings into the work, suggesting that John held a higher spiritual status than Christ. While that's mostly Dan Brown-style speculation, the painting definitely feels like it’s hiding a punchline.
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The Science of the Glow
Leonardo wasn't just an artist; he was an amateur scientist obsessed with how light hits a curved surface.
He didn't use harsh outlines. If you look closely at the elbow or the hand pointing upward, there are no "lines." There are just shifts in tone. He understood that in real life, objects don't have black borders around them. He used a palette that was incredibly limited—mostly browns, ochres, and blacks.
- Layering: He applied dozens of translucent layers.
- Light source: The light seems to come from within the figure, not an external lamp.
- Shadow: The "chiaroscuro" (light-dark contrast) is pushed to its absolute limit here.
Recent restorations have cleaned off layers of yellowed varnish, and the "real" colors are actually much cooler and more subtle than they looked fifty years ago. The painting used to look almost muddy. Now, it pops. The curls of his hair—which Leonardo famously compared to the movement of swirling water—are crisp and detailed.
Misconceptions and Why They Persist
A lot of people think this painting was a commission for a church. It wasn't. Or if it was, Leonardo didn't care about the deadline. He worked on it for years, tweaking the shadows, adjusting the tilt of the head. It was a personal obsession.
There’s also a common myth that the painting is "evil" because of the model's expression. That’s a modern projection. In the 16th century, beauty was seen as a reflection of the divine. If John looked beautiful and seductive, it was because he was filled with the Holy Spirit. Our modern eyes see "creepy," but Leonardo likely saw "transcendent."
Then there's the "Salai" connection. Some people claim Leonardo painted his own face onto the body of his lover. There’s no real proof for that, but it’s a fun theory that keeps the Reddit threads alive. What we do know is that Salai inherited the painting after Leonardo died, and it eventually made its way into the collection of King Francis I of France.
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How to actually appreciate it next time you're in Paris
Don't just walk past it on your way to see the Mona Lisa. The Mona Lisa is crowded and, honestly, a bit small. St. John the Baptist is usually less crowded, and you can actually get close enough to see the brushwork.
Look at the eyes. They aren't focused on a single point. They have that "soft focus" that makes the figure seem like he's moving. Then, look at the hand. The foreshortening is perfect. The finger isn't just pointing up; it's receding into the space of the painting. It’s a masterclass in 3D rendering on a flat surface.
Actionable Insights for Art Lovers
If you want to understand Leonardo’s late style, don't look at his big frescoes. Look at his drawings and this painting. Here is how you can dive deeper into the mystery of the "pointing prophet":
- Compare the versions: There is a "workshop" version of this painting where John is holding a bowl and a honeycomb. Seeing the "busier" version makes you realize why Leonardo’s decision to keep his version simple and dark was so revolutionary.
- Study the hair: Leonardo wrote pages in his notebooks about how to paint hair. He believed it followed the same laws as hydraulic flow. Notice how the curls in St. John look like little whirlpools.
- Check the provenance: Track how the painting moved from Salai to the French Royal Collection. It’s a wild ride involving kings, revolutions, and narrow escapes from destruction.
- Observe the transition to Bacchus: Look up Leonardo’s Bacchus (also in the Louvre). It started as a St. John painting and was later modified. Comparing the two reveals how Leonardo viewed the thin line between a Christian saint and a Pagan god.
Leonardo da Vinci’s St. John the Baptist isn't meant to be "pretty." It’s meant to be an encounter. It’s a 500-year-old man reaching out from the shadows to tell you that there is something more than what you see on the surface. Whether that "something" is God or just the genius of a dying man is up to you to decide.
Spend ten minutes with it. It’ll change how you see the rest of the museum. The way the light catches the shoulder, the weirdly knowing look in the eyes—it’s not just a painting; it’s a direct link to the mind of the most famous polymath in history. And honestly, it’s okay if it makes you a little uncomfortable. It was supposed to.