
Mona Lisa
She was probably Lisa Gherardini, a merchant's wife, and Leonardo kept reworking her for years and never handed the portrait over.

She was probably Lisa Gherardini, a merchant's wife, and Leonardo kept reworking her for years and never handed the portrait over.

Nike lands on a warship's prow, wings still open, sea wind pressing the marble drapery flat against her striding body.

Liberty carries the tricolor over the barricade with a boy waving pistols beside her, painted within months of the revolution it shows.

Survivors of a real shipwreck pile toward a speck of sail on the horizon. Géricault studied corpses and asylum patients before he began.

Three brothers salute the swords their father holds up while the women of the house collapse at the right, four years before the Revolution.

A farmer on Melos dug her up in 1820, already armless, and scholars still argue over whether she held an apple, a mirror, or her drapery.

The Virgin lies barefoot and swollen like any corpse. The church that ordered it refused delivery, and Rubens told his duke to buy it.

Couples linger on the shore of Venus's island at dusk, unwilling to board. Watteau gave it to the Academy, which invented a genre to fit it.

A hundred and thirty guests feast while Christ works his first miracle almost unnoticed at the table. Napoleon's troops took it to Paris in 1797.

Ingres stretched her spine past anything anatomy allows, and critics joked she had three vertebrae too many. He was chasing line, not truth.

Leonardo painted this cave twice after falling out with the patrons. This is the earlier version, the one that stayed in France.

Cupid's wings stay up as the two bodies cross in a weightless X, cut so smooth the marble stops reading as stone.

The king watches from his red bed while everything he owns is killed in front of him, on his own orders, before the pyre.

Three generations nest into one shifting pyramid, and Leonardo kept reworking it for years without ever calling it finished.

His eyes are inlaid with rock crystal and copper, and unlike a pharaoh he was given a soft chest and a desk worker's belly.

A clown in white satin stands alone at full length with his arms hanging useless, given the scale of a grand portrait.

Shepherds trace the carved words on a tomb, Even in Arcadia I am here, and Poussin lets death speak without raising its voice.

The newspaper magnate leans forward gripping both knees, and the picture became the face of the commercial class that ran nineteenth-century France.

Six angels stack up the sides of the throne against gold. Cimabue taught Giotto, and the throne here is just beginning to recede into space.

The old man's nose is swollen and ruined by disease, and the boy looks up at him without noticing it at all.