The christ with fingers of light: The enigma of the salvator mundi, between genius and mirage

Since that historic evening, the painting has vanished. No one has seen it—not the experts, not the journalists, not even the curators of the Louvre, who had nonetheless announced it for their grand Leonardo retrospective in 2019. It has dissolved into the limbo of Swiss vaults or Saudi yachts, leaving behind a trail of doubts, scandals, and theories as fascinating as the master’s own sfumato. So, lost masterpiece or brilliant deception? Let us plunge into the labyrinth of this enigma, where art, money, and power intertwine like the threads of a Venetian tapestry.

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01The hand that blesses and the globe that lies

Imagine for a moment this walnut panel, barely larger than a medieval book of hours. Christ appears frontally, like a Byzantine icon, yet his face breathes a disquieting humanity. His hair, painted with that sfumato technique that melts contours into light, seems alive. His right hand rises in a gesture of benediction, while his left holds a crystal orb that captures and refracts light like a lens. This detail alone would be enough to betray Leonardo’s touch. Who else in the Renaissance could have rendered a transparent object with such mastery of optics?

And yet, it is precisely this globe that crystallises doubt. Some experts, like Carmen Bambach of the Metropolitan Museum, point to a troubling anomaly: Christ’s left hand appears to float above the sphere without truly touching it, as if glued on afterward. Worse still, the globe itself, meant to symbolise Christ’s dominion over the world, reflects no map, no continent. A mistake by Leonardo, that genius of perspective? Or proof that another, less skilled brush passed over it?

X-ray analyses have revealed pentimenti—those alterations artists make during creation. The globe’s initial position was higher, as if the painter had hesitated before lowering it to balance the composition. A detail that argues in favour of authenticity: Leonardo, a perfectionist to the point of obsession, endlessly retouched his works. But those same X-rays also showed areas where the original paint had been scraped away and repainted. How many hands, over the centuries, have retouched this face? How many forgers, overzealous restorers, or clumsy pupils have left their mark on this panel?

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02The sfumato and the fingers that speak

If part of the mystery lies in what the painting does not show, another resides in what it reveals with almost surgical precision: Christ’s hands. Examine them closely, if you have the chance—or study the high-resolution photographs. The fingers of the right hand, those that bless, possess a delicacy verging on the supernatural. Veins rise beneath the skin, tendons play under the epidermis like violin strings. Light seems to pass through the flesh, lending these fingers an unreal transparency. It is here, in these anatomical details, that Martin Kemp, one of the greatest Leonardo scholars, sees the master’s signature.

Kemp spent years comparing these hands with those of the Mona Lisa, Saint John the Baptist, or The Virgin of the Rocks. The same modelling, the same play of light, the same way of suggesting volume through layered glazes. For him, no doubt: Leonardo painted these fingers, perhaps even drawing on his own dissection studies. For Vinci’s genius was not content merely to observe—he dissected, analysed, understood the mechanics of the human body before transposing them onto wood or canvas.

Yet even this certainty has its detractors. Jacques Franck, another renowned expert, argues that the restoration carried out by Dianne Modestini between 2005 and 2011 "smoothed" the painting to the point of erasing traces of the original. In his view, the fingers we see today are partly the work of the restorer, who filled in gaps with a virtuosity worthy of Leonardo himself. A cruel paradox: what if the Salvator Mundi owed its apparent authenticity to a modern hand, as talented as it was dishonest?

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03The curse of the collectors

The history of the Salvator Mundi reads like a Balzac novel, where art mingles with money, power, and the downfall of men. Its journey, traced by historians, is punctuated by dramas and eerie coincidences. Take Charles I of England, who acquired it in the 17th century. The painting appears in the inventory of his collection in 1649, the year the king was beheaded. Did the curse strike from that moment?

The painting then passed through the hands of the British royal family before being sold at auction in 1763 as a mere "copy of the Lombard school." It sank into obscurity for over a century, resurfacing in 1900 in the collection of Sir Francis Cook. At the time, no one dreamed of attributing it to Leonardo. It was seen instead as the work of Bernardino Luini, one of his most gifted pupils. The panel, then in poor condition, was sold for a song in 1958—45 pounds sterling, the equivalent of a few hundred euros today.

Everything changed in 2005. A consortium of New York dealers, led by Robert Simon and Alexander Parish, bought it for $1,175 at an auction in Louisiana. The painting, covered in overpainting and yellowed varnish, looked like a worthless old crust. Yet something intrigued the experts. After a meticulous restoration—some would say too meticulous—the face of Christ emerged from layers of grime and paint. Specialists grew excited. Martin Kemp, consulted, saw it as "the closest thing to Leonardo we have ever found." In 2011, the Salvator Mundi was exhibited at the National Gallery in London, where it provoked as much admiration as scepticism.

Then came the 2017 sale. Four hundred and fifty million dollars. An absolute record, making it the most expensive artwork in history. Officially, the buyer was Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman. But rumours swirled: what if the real buyer was Qatar, the regional rival of Saudi Arabia? What if the sale was nothing more than a disguised money-laundering operation? Since then, the painting has disappeared. Some say it is stored in a Swiss freeport; others claim it adorns the prince’s yacht. One thing is certain: since 2017, no one has seen it.

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04The Louvre, the silence, and the experts who doubt

In 2019, the Louvre organised a Leonardo da Vinci retrospective to mark the 500th anniversary of the master’s death. The art world held its breath: would the Salvator Mundi finally be exhibited, giving experts the chance to study it up close? Rumours abounded. Some whispered that the painting had been loaned by bin Salman; others claimed it would never leave Saudi vaults. Then, on opening day, shock: the Salvator Mundi was conspicuously absent.

Officially, the Louvre cited "conservation reasons." But in the museum’s corridors, another version was whispered. According to several sources, French experts had concluded the painting was too heavily restored to be authentic. A thorough analysis had allegedly revealed modern pigments, incompatible with Leonardo’s palette. Worse still: the sfumato technique, so characteristic of the master, had been artificially recreated by Dianne Modestini.

This absence fuelled the wildest theories. Some saw it as proof the painting was a fake; others suspected a political manoeuvre to avoid offending Saudi Arabia. One thing was certain: the Louvre’s silence cast yet another shadow over the Salvator Mundi. If the world’s greatest experts refused to exhibit it, what remained of its legitimacy?

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05The globe, the light, and Leonardo’s secrets

Let us return to that crystal orb, that detail which fascinates as much as it unsettles. In Christian iconography, the sphere symbolises Christ’s dominion over the world. But for Leonardo, it took on an almost scientific dimension. The master, obsessed with optics and physics, had studied how light passes through transparent objects. His notebooks are filled with sketches of lenses, prisms, and spheres. The globe of the Salvator Mundi is not merely a symbol: it is a demonstration of technical virtuosity.

Yet this globe poses a problem. In earlier versions of the theme, like Giovanni Bellini’s, the sphere is opaque, often adorned with motifs. With Leonardo, it becomes transparent, almost liquid. But this transparency comes at a cost: it reveals the imperfections of the hand holding it. Some see a perspective error; others proof the globe was added later. What if Leonardo, a perfectionist to excess, had himself retouched this part of the painting, leaving behind a trace of his hesitation?

Light, too, plays a key role. Observe Christ’s face: it seems to radiate from within, as if an invisible source illuminated his features. This technique, which Leonardo perfected in the Mona Lisa, gives the face a near-supernatural presence. But here, too, doubts persist. Analyses have shown that certain layers of paint were scraped away and repainted. Who retouched this face? Leonardo himself, in a fit of perfectionism? Or a 19th-century restorer, seeking to "improve" the original work?

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06The invisible hand of the market

Behind the artistic mystery lies another enigma, just as fascinating: that of the art market. How could a painting overlooked for centuries fetch the astronomical sum of $450 million? The answer lies in one word: speculation.

It all began in 2005, when the New York consortium bought the Salvator Mundi for a pittance. After restoration, the painting was presented as a major discovery. Experts grew excited; the media seized on the story. In 2013, Swiss art dealer Yves Bouvier bought it for $80 million, then sold it to Russian oligarch Dmitry Rybolovlev for $127.5 million. Four years later, Christie’s offered it at auction with an estimate of $100 million. The result exceeded all expectations.

This record sale had the hallmarks of a carefully orchestrated operation. The anonymous bidders engaged in a fierce battle. Some saw the hand of Saudi Arabia, eager to acquire a symbol of prestige. Others suspected Qatar, willing to do anything to outdo its regional rival. Whatever the case, the Salvator Mundi became more than a painting: a power object, a trophy, a bargaining chip in the great game of international diplomacy.

But this speculation came at a price. By making the Salvator Mundi the most expensive artwork in history, the art market also drew the attention of sceptics. How could such a sum be justified for a painting whose authenticity remains debated? What if this sale was nothing more than a high-stakes gamble, where art served as a pretext?

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07Leonardo’s shadow and the future of the mystery

Today, the Salvator Mundi drifts like a ghost between the hands of its owners. Some dream of seeing it reappear, exhibited in a museum where experts could finally study it at leisure. Others hope it will remain hidden, preserving the mystery that surrounds it. For in the end, what do we prefer? An undisputed masterpiece, but one whose price has killed the dream? Or a living enigma, a painting that defies certainties and fuels legends?

One thing is certain: the Salvator Mundi has already made history, whether authentic or not. It embodies the excesses of the art market, the fascination with Leonardo, and that eternal quest for perfect beauty. Perhaps, after all, it is not authenticity that matters, but the evocative power of this face, these blessing fingers, this globe that captures light like a promise.

One day, perhaps, the painting will resurface. Experts will examine it; scientific analyses will decide. Until then, it remains what it has always been: a mirror held up to our time, where art, money, and power dance a waltz as intoxicating as it is troubling. And you—would you be willing to bet $450 million on a face that might be nothing more than a mirage?