It is Florence in 1503. Leonardo da Vinci is beginning to paint his new commission, Lisa del Giocondo, the wife of Francesco del Giocondo, but he just can’t get the right expression. The story gives a clue to where the name of the painting actually came from.

It was early in the afternoon; Lisa had come to my studio in Florence for a preliminary sitting. I had agreed, much against my best opinion, to paint the wife of Francesco del Giocondo. Francesco was a silk merchant in Florence and had patronised me for many years, often furnishing silks for my models to wear. It was difficult for me to refuse his generosity, although I often wished I could. I think that I had always known that one day he would exact a price.

“Here, Leo,” he would say as we drank a lemon draught. “I have a bolt of beautiful green silk; use it with my pleasure for your next portrait.” He never asked for anything in return, and occasionally, he would bring his wife Lisa with him. He was a lucky man; Lisa was a rare beauty, a unique lady that I would have wished as my wife, but he took her at fifteen years old and has kept her mostly out of the public eye ever since.

I had set up my studio, ready for the sitting, with a couch and draped it with the bolt of green so generously given by Francesco. Behind was a window showing to the north, the streets of Florence winding away through it, but that mattered not; I could paint any background I chose, perhaps a winding path, perhaps a barren landscape. I had yet to decide.

Lisa arrived by carriage; she was accompanied by a servant of her husband to ensure her safe arrival. I told the man that Lisa would be with me for seven hours and that he should then return to take her back to her husband. The man nodded his agreement and then departed.

“How do you want me, Ser Vinci?” She asked me, her voice soft like velvet, assailing my senses, capturing my mind.

This would be our first sitting, and I was sure in my mind how I wanted her, but I wasn’t certain if I would achieve it today.

“Sit on the chaise, Lisa,” I said, “and turn towards me. I shall do a portrait of you, and I want you looking at me.”

Usually portraits were done from the side, almost a silhouette, but I wanted to capture her essence. I wanted her eyes, I wanted the crease in her bosom; I wanted her to captivate the viewer, the viewer who I was sure would only ever be her husband.

She sat and turned to me, and my heart melted in that moment. I was desolate that del Giocondo had already claimed her; I was determined that I would do a portrait that no man would be able to walk away from without a feeling of need, of wanting.

I took my charcoal and began to sketch out my portrait, outlining her head and her shoulders, positioning her eyes, and defining the crease and flow that would be her bosom; all the time I wished she were without vestments, that I could see her true glory.