The Enigmatic Whisper: Da Vinci’s La Scapigliata

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From the first time I saw Da Vinci’s La Scapigliata in an art book I loved it. Beauty and simplicity co-mingled. Though aware of it for more than half a century, I never dreamed that I would actually one day see it. Here's a little background about the painting, followed by an anecdote about that unanticipated encounter.

Leonardo da Vinci’s Head of a Woman, dubbed La Scapigliata—the disheveled one—hangs on a wall in Parma’s Galleria Nazionale, an unfinished marvel from around 1508. It’s not the Mona Lisa with her poised enigma or lavish scenery; it’s rawer, simpler—a woman’s face emerging from earthy browns and ambers, her wild hair swirling like wind-tossed waves. For art lovers, it’s a jolt—not a shout, but a whisper that lingers.

The sketchiness is what hooks you. Leonardo’s brush dances, half-formed, as if he paused mid-breath. Her hair spills free, untamed, framing a face with eyes turned away. Sfumato softens her edges, blurring lines so she floats, ethereal yet rooted. It’s not a finished portrait; it’s a moment—genius caught off-guard, teetering between thought and stroke. The tension is magnetic.

From my very earliest years I've been fascinated by this magical power artists have of conveying three dimensional objects on two dimensional surfaces. See how the light makes her face glow, how the face emerges from the background.

A Wikipedia entry states the work was "mentioned for the first time in the House of Gonzaga collection in 1627. It is perhaps the same work that Ippolito Calandra, in 1531, suggested to hang in the bedroom of Margaret Paleologa, wife of Federico II Gonzaga. In 1501, the marquesses wrote to Pietro Novellara asking if Leonardo could paint a Madonna for her private studiolo.

Some have called her a study, perhaps for a lost Leda and the Swan, but she feels too whole in her incompleteness. The delicate cheekbones with the light brushing her skin conveys an intimacy, like a secret shared. She’s no icon on a pedestal; she’s a muse, human and fleeting. 

Art lovers chase that paradox—timeless yet fragile, simple yet profound. She doesn’t demand attention like Picasso's Guernica or Michelangelo's David; she just is.  

I'd come to Parma after three full days of gettng dazed with paintings and sculptures in Florence. After taking in some of the history and architecture for a couple days I ventured into the Galleria Nazionale, which was directly across the street from the very inexpensive AirBnB I'd booked. As I walked and gawked, my brain slowly began to fog, overwhelmed by everything I was taking in. While walking down a huge hallway in my "eyes glazed" state, I was stopped in my tracks by the presence of this gem, which--I should note--everyone else was walking past without seeming to even notice. There were no big signs saying "Look!" or "Check this out." It was just another painting for visitors already inebriated by art.

What surprised me was how small it was, painted on a small walnut wood panel, measuring only 9.7 x 8.3 inches.  What also amazed me was that the painting was behind a plexiglas shield that enabled me to stand with my nose just inches from this painting. Somewhere I read that her expression was like a faint smirk, but I didn't read it that way. I see angelic modesty mixed with mystery. 

As with the Mona Lisa, I suspect her mystery is the point. Da Vinci left her undone, and that’s her magic. 

If you haven't yet grasped it, this was a very special moment for me. And just one more reason I fell in love with Italy.