10 Most Famous Works by Leonardo da Vinci

Few names in the history of art carry as much weight as Leonardo da Vinci. He was an inventor, scientist, philosopher, and, above all, a painter whose works still feel strangely contemporary despite being over 500 years old. Exploring his masterpieces is not only a journey through the Renaissance but also a reminder of how powerful visual storytelling can be. Today, people browse an online art gallery or visit an artists online shop seeking works that bring emotion, mystery, and depth into their homes—qualities Leonardo mastered long before the modern era.

Below are ten of his greatest achievements. Each work reveals a different facet of his genius: his scientific precision, his fascination with nature, his ability to portray the human spirit, and his gift for turning simple scenes into extraordinary meditations on life.

Mona Lisa (c. 1503–1506)

Few artworks have been discussed, debated, photographed, or imagined as often as Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa. Painted in the early years of the 16th century, likely between 1503 and 1506, it began as a portrait of Lisa Gherardini, the wife of a Florentine merchant. That, at least, is the straightforward part of its story. Everything else—the atmosphere, the technique, the almost unsettling sense that the sitter is aware of the viewer—belongs to Leonardo’s own extraordinary intuition about how painting could express human depth. Most Renaissance portraits were stiff, formal, and symbolic; Leonardo went in the opposite direction. He created a woman who seems to be thinking.

Her expression is famously ambiguous. You look at her once and she appears warm, as if she wants to speak. Look again and she seems distant, reflective, perhaps even amused by your uncertainty. Leonardo achieved this effect using the sfumato technique: countless layers of thin, translucent glazes that blur the edges between shadow and light so gently that the eye cannot tell exactly where one ends and the other begins. The result is a face that flickers subtly with every shift of light or mood in the room.

The background plays its own quiet role. Instead of a simple backdrop, Leonardo constructed a fantastical landscape of winding rivers, uneven bridges, and pale blue mountains fading into mist. It’s not a real place, but it feels real enough to breathe. The strange harmony between the sitter and this dreamlike environment gives the portrait a sense of timeless calm—something many people still look for today when they browse museums or even when they try to buy affordable original art to bring a touch of meaning into their own homes.

Over the centuries, the Mona Lisa has survived theft, war, and endless speculation, each event adding another layer to its cultural mythology. Today it is considered priceless—not because of market value, but because its influence is immeasurable. Few paintings manage to feel alive after five hundred years. This one does.

The Last Supper (1495–1498)

Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper, painted in the closing years of the 15th century, is one of those rare images that people recognize instantly—even if they’ve never seen it in person. It covers an entire wall of the refectory at Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan, and despite centuries of damage, restoration attempts, and environmental wear, the painting still feels electrifying the moment you stand before it. Leonardo wasn’t content to repeat traditional religious imagery. Instead, he treated the biblical moment as if it were unfolding in real time, with all the natural shock, confusion, and emotion you’d expect if such news were delivered at a dinner table.

The scene captures the exact second Jesus tells the apostles that one of them will betray him, and what makes it so gripping is how differently each figure responds. Some recoil in disbelief. Others lean toward Jesus, searching his face for answers. A few erupt into argument, their gestures sharp and anxious. Leonardo had spent years studying human expression—how tension gathers in the eyebrows, how grief tightens a mouth, how suspicion narrows the eyes—and he poured that knowledge into every figure. It’s almost like watching a freeze-frame of an emotional explosion.

Technically, the painting broke rules. Instead of working with traditional fresco techniques, Leonardo experimented with a mixture of tempera and oil applied to dry plaster, hoping for richer detail. The method turned out to be unstable, but the softness he achieved, particularly in the faces and table setting, was worth the risk. The perspective lines of the room converge precisely behind Jesus’s head, creating a natural halo without painting one. This combination of geometry and spirituality became a cornerstone of Renaissance art.

Over time, The Last Supper has absorbed layers of cultural meaning. It survived Napoleonic troops using the room as a stable, Allied bombings during World War II, and the slow decay of experimental materials. Today, its value is beyond monetary calculation. It stands as a monument not only to Leonardo’s genius but also to the enduring human fascination with stories, emotion, and the fragile attempt to capture truth in a single moment.

Vitruvian Man (c. 1490)

Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man is one of those rare images that feels both ancient and startlingly modern, as if it belongs equally in a Renaissance sketchbook and on the cover of a scientific journal. Drawn around 1490, the work began as Leonardo’s attempt to interpret a passage by the ancient Roman architect Vitruvius, who believed the proportions of the human body revealed deeper truths about harmony in nature. But Leonardo didn’t simply copy Vitruvius’s ideas—he reimagined them, tested them, and ultimately created something far more alive than a diagram of geometry.

At first glance, the drawing seems straightforward: a man standing with his arms and legs extended, enclosed by a circle and a square. But the more you sit with it, the more it becomes clear that Leonardo was not just mapping measurements. He was asking a question that obsessed him throughout his life: What connects the human body to the architecture of the universe? The overlapping poses, drawn in multiple lines as though the figure is moving, hint at this search. Leonardo believed the body was a kind of microcosm, a world in miniature, governed by the same ratios and rhythms that shaped rivers, plants, and the motion of the planets.

The drawing also showcases Leonardo’s relentless curiosity. Around the figure, he filled the page with notes—observations, proportions, recalculations—written in his characteristic mirror script. He measured everything: fingertip to fingertip, foot to shin, navel to crown. For him, understanding the body was not a technical exercise but a philosophical one. The circle represents the divine, the infinite; the square represents the earthly and the measurable. The man bridges those worlds.

Today, the Vitruvian Man is often reproduced as a symbol of balance, human potential, and the harmony between science and art. Even people browsing replicas or searching for an oil painting purchase online encounter echoes of Leonardo’s obsession with proportion and beauty. Its value cannot be measured in currency alone; its influence extends into medicine, engineering, architecture, and every field that seeks to understand how the human being fits into the vast machinery of the world.

More than five centuries later, the drawing still invites viewers to pause and reflect. It suggests that the body is not merely flesh and bone, but a map of the universe itself—an idea as poetic as it is scientific.

Annunciation (c. 1472–1476)

Leonardo da Vinci’s Annunciation, painted when he was still a young apprentice in Verrocchio’s workshop, feels like a quiet breath from another world. At first glance, the scene seems peaceful and almost expected—the angel Gabriel kneels before the Virgin Mary to deliver his message—but something about the painting lingers. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t dazzle in the grand, theatrical way many religious works of the time did. Instead, it draws you in slowly, like a conversation you weren’t meant to overhear.

Leonardo was still in his twenties when he contributed to this piece, yet the signs of his emerging genius are already visible. He was fascinated by nature, and that sensitivity appears everywhere in the work. Look closely and you’ll see blades of grass painted individually, flowers rendered with a botanist’s precision, and shadows that fall exactly where they should as the sunlight drifts across the stone ledge. This was unusual for the era; most painters treated backgrounds as decoration. Leonardo, even then, treated them as living spaces.

Mary herself is calm, but it’s the kind of calm that suggests a mind in motion. Her hand rests on the open book, as though she has been interrupted in the middle of a thoughtful passage. The angel, radiant and poised, addresses her with a grace that feels less like a divine apparition and more like a respectful visitor. Leonardo didn’t want the supernatural to feel distant. He wanted viewers to encounter something miraculous within something human.

The background landscape, however, reveals Leonardo’s signature most clearly. Soft blue mountains fade into atmospheric haze—a technique he would later perfect in the Mona Lisa. The distant city, winding path, and luminous sky stretch the scene into a vast, contemplative space. It’s easy to imagine Leonardo walking the hills outside Florence, observing how distance turns colors cooler and shapes softer. He brings that quiet observation into a biblical world, blending the sacred with the familiar.

What makes the Annunciation especially striking today is how contemporary it feels. The emotional restraint, the subtle storytelling, the harmony between figures and landscape—these are qualities modern viewers still respond to instinctively. People who browse museum collections or search for affordable artwork online often gravitate toward works with this kind of peaceful intelligence.

Standing before the painting, one has the sense that Leonardo wasn’t merely illustrating a sacred text. He was exploring a moment of awakening—a pause before transformation, when life is still ordinary but about to change forever. The Annunciation captures that fragile threshold with remarkable tenderness, offering not just a religious story but a meditation on the power of quiet revelation.

Lady with an Ermine (c. 1489–1490)

Among Leonardo da Vinci’s portraits, Lady with an Ermine occupies a special place—intimate yet monumental, elegant yet psychologically charged. Painted around 1489–1490, the work depicts Cecilia Gallerani, the young and exceptionally educated mistress of Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan. While many Renaissance portraits aimed to immortalize aristocrats in formal poses that often felt more symbolic than human, Leonardo approached Cecilia differently. He imagined her as someone alive in her own moment, caught in a gesture that feels spontaneous and almost conversational.

What strikes many viewers first is the sense of movement. Instead of facing directly forward, Cecilia turns her head to the right, as if someone has just entered the room or spoken her name. There is a spark of alertness in her eyes, a subtle readiness, suggesting she is engaged in a world beyond the canvas. This kind of psychological portraiture was astonishingly modern for its time. Leonardo believed that personality revealed itself through motion—through hands, posture, and the delicate shift of a glance. Cecilia’s expression, thoughtful yet youthful, gives us the impression that she is someone both observant and fully aware of her place in courtly life.

The ermine she holds has generated centuries of interpretation. A symbol of purity, intellect, and aristocratic refinement, the small animal becomes an extension of Cecilia herself. Leonardo’s rendering of its fur—soft, luminous, almost sculpted—shows his astonishing skill as a natural observer. But the connection between Cecilia and the ermine is more than symbolic. It feels emotional, as if she’s gently restraining a creature both elegant and restless. Some scholars see this as a metaphor for her own position at court: cherished yet constrained, admired yet vulnerable.

The portrait’s cool color harmonies and the gentle interplay of shadows highlight Leonardo’s mastery of subtle light. He uses sfumato to soften transitions, giving Cecilia’s face and hands a softness that feels almost tangible. Viewers often comment on how contemporary she seems, despite the centuries that separate us. Her personality refuses to fade into history.

Even today, when people explore galleries or browse collections—sometimes discovering portraits just as layered and expressive as original flower paintings for sale—Leonardo’s Lady with an Ermine stands out as an early example of portraiture that goes beyond likeness. It offers a study in human presence, an attempt to capture not only how someone looked, but how they were.

The painting’s survival is a story in itself. It traveled across Europe, survived war, looting, and political upheaval, and eventually found its way to Kraków, where it remains one of the city’s most treasured works. Each chapter of its journey has added to its mystique. But what truly keeps it alive is Cecilia herself: a young woman from the Renaissance who still meets our gaze with curiosity, intelligence, and a spark of unspoken thought.

If Leonardo wanted to prove that a portrait could contain a living soul, Lady with an Ermine might be his most convincing argument.

Ginevra de’ Benci (c. 1474–1478)

Leonardo da Vinci’s Ginevra de’ Benci is one of those paintings that quietly rewrites the rules of art. Created around 1474–1478, when Leonardo was still a young painter working in Florence, it marks a turning point—not just in his career, but in the entire history of portraiture. If earlier portraits were stiff, symbolic, and often idealized to the point of unreality, Leonardo’s approach here feels startlingly human. Ginevra is not a decorative emblem or a vessel for aristocratic pride. She is a person. You sense it immediately.

The painting shows a young woman with pale skin, cool eyes, and an expression that is both guarded and intelligent. She doesn’t smile—Renaissance Florentines considered smiling in portraits improper—but her direct gaze is revolutionary. Women in paintings were expected to look modestly away, yet Ginevra meets the viewer straight on. There’s a slight tension in her lips, something calm and resolute in her posture, as if she has made peace with the expectations placed upon her but refuses to disappear behind them. Leonardo was fascinated by inner life, and even at this early stage, he knew how to place a private world behind a public face.

The background deepens the effect. Instead of a flat backdrop, Ginevra stands before a juniper bush—an elegant pun on her name, since “ginepro” means juniper in Italian. The plant symbolized virtue, but Leonardo wasn’t interested in symbolism alone. He rendered every needle with the same patient observation he applied to human features, creating a subtle rhythm between figure and foliage. This sensitivity to nature would later unfold in his landscapes, inventions, and scientific drawings.

What’s most striking about the painting is its psychological realism. You feel as if Ginevra is thinking—perhaps about her place in Florentine society, or about the poet Bernardo Bembo, who admired her deeply and may have commissioned the portrait. She appears self-possessed, aware of her surroundings, and perhaps a little weary of being examined. This sense of interiority was extremely rare at the time. Leonardo was not painting an ideal woman; he was painting a human being.

Today, the portrait hangs in the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., where it continues to surprise visitors with its emotional intimacy. It also reminds modern viewers—especially those browsing an art online shop for meaningful pieces—that the most powerful artworks often speak softly. They don’t need dramatic gestures or ornate settings. They hold your attention because something within them feels alive, unfinished, unresolved.

Ginevra de’ Benci is one of those works. It offers no easy answers, only the quiet certainty that the person before you lived, thought, loved, endured—and has remained present across more than five centuries.

The Baptism of Christ (1475)

When people talk about Leonardo da Vinci, they usually imagine him as the fully formed genius—calculating flight paths for mechanical birds, sketching muscles with impossible precision, or painting enigmatic smiles. But long before that legend solidified, there was a young apprentice in Verrocchio’s busy Florentine workshop, a boy with lively eyes who absorbed everything around him. The Baptism of Christ was one of the first moments when his promise broke through the surface.

Picture the workshop: the smell of pigments ground in mortars, the rasp of brushes against wooden palettes, the murmur of apprentices arguing about who forgot to clean the oil pots again. Verrocchio, a master sculptor and painter, had been commissioned to create a serene, reverent scene of John baptizing Jesus. He laid out the composition, marked the poses, blocked in the figures. And then, at some point—perhaps because of a deadline, or because he sensed the boy’s talent—he handed part of the work to Leonardo.

Leonardo didn’t simply fill in a section. He transformed it.

In the left corner, where a supporting angel gently holds Christ’s robe, Leonardo painted an expression and softness no one expected. His angel feels alive, almost breathing—skin rendered with delicate transitions, hair illuminated as if touched by real sunlight. The feathers shimmer with that impossibly light touch that would later define his mature works. Even the landscape behind the figures, which Leonardo quietly adjusted, begins to dissolve into the atmospheric softness we now recognize as his early exploration of sfumato.

According to later accounts, Verrocchio was so astonished by his pupil’s contribution that he vowed never to paint again. Whether that’s literally true or not matters less than the feeling behind the legend: the undeniable arrival of someone incomparable.

Today, when we scroll through images online—artworks scattered across museum pages, social feeds, or even a painters online shop—we often forget the raw human moment behind masterpieces like this. A young artist taking his first bold risk. A master recognizing his student’s brilliance. A painting that marks the quiet beginning of a revolution in how art could feel.

The Baptism of Christ is not just a scene from scripture. It’s the snapshot of a turning point—the moment when an apprentice’s hand surprised even the man who trained him. It captures humility, revelation, and the birth of a genius the world was not yet prepared for.

Benois Madonna (c. 1478–1480)

There are paintings that feel like formal declarations, carefully composed and meant to impress. And then there are works like Leonardo da Vinci’s Benois Madonna, which feel almost as if the viewer has stumbled into a private moment—a mother leaning toward her curious child, a shared glance that carries both tenderness and a hint of playful discovery. It’s a surprisingly intimate scene, especially for a young artist still emerging from the shadow of his training.

Imagine Florence in the mid-1480s: a restless, energetic city humming with merchants, scholars, street performers, and the constant knocking of artisans shaping marble or mixing pigments. Leonardo, no longer the apprentice but not yet the master he would become, had begun to break away from the stiff, symbolic traditions of earlier Madonnas. He wanted warmth. He wanted movement. He wanted to catch that fleeting spark that appears between real people.

In the Benois Madonna, that spark is everything.

Mary doesn’t appear as the distant, untouchable figure of medieval devotion. She’s young—almost youthful enough to be mistaken for a girl from a Florentine household—and she’s absorbed in watching the Christ child twist a small flower between his fingers. The flower is delicate, nearly trembling, and Leonardo paints it with such precision that it feels as if the petals would bruise if touched. This tiny gesture, so simple yet so full of symbolic weight, reveals a side of Leonardo obsessed with expressing emotion through the smallest actions rather than grand theatrical poses.

What makes the painting so compelling is the way both figures lean toward each other. Their heads form a subtle arc, drawing the viewer inward. And in that curved line lies something deeply human—curiosity, love, the quiet joy of discovery shared between mother and child. It’s the kind of moment one might see in a real household, not merely on a church altar.

Collectors today often chase spectacle—huge canvases, dramatic themes, works with shock value. But the Benois Madonna reminds us that some of the most powerful art is quietly observant. It’s a painting that whispers instead of shouts, which makes it even more potent in an age of visual noise. And when people search for where to buy original art that carries emotion rather than trendiness, they’re ultimately searching for pieces that hold this same quality: sincerity made visible.

Leonardo’s Benois Madonna is not just an early masterpiece. It’s a rare glimpse into the artist before the legend—before the inventions, before the notebooks filled with whirlwinds and machines. It’s Leonardo learning to speak in the soft language of human gesture, and realizing that even the smallest flower held in a child’s hand could become a universe of meaning.

Madonna of the Carnation (c. 1478–1480)

Leonardo da Vinci’s Madonna of the Carnation is one of those paintings that doesn’t demand attention with grandeur or dramatic movement. Instead, it pulls you in gently—like a soft breath of air you almost don’t notice until you’re already leaning closer. At first glance, it seems simple enough: Mary cradling the Christ child, a small red carnation resting delicately between them. But as with everything Leonardo created, this moment carries layers of quiet intention.

Imagine Florence in his early years. Workshops filled with half-finished sculptures, wooden panels propped against walls, apprentices mixing pigments in stone bowls. Leonardo was still young, studying how light folded itself around a face or slipped across fabric. He paid attention to things most people overlooked: the slight tension in a hand, how eyes soften when looking at someone they love, the way colors breathe when placed next to one another. All of that sensitivity is present here.

In Madonna of the Carnation, Mary’s expression is gentle but not idealized. She looks at her child with that mixture of tenderness and curiosity familiar to any new mother. The carnation—symbol of love, sacrifice and the future story of Christ—is offered casually, not ceremonially. The baby reaches for it with the seriousness only infants manage, studying the world one object at a time.

Leonardo’s early mastery of light is what gives the painting its quiet radiance. Soft shadows melt into one another, creating that unmistakable da Vinci atmosphere: intimate, warm, almost breathing. Nothing is rushed. Even the folds of Mary’s dress feel like they’ve settled slowly into place.

Today, collectors often gravitate toward large-scale subjects—sprawling landscapes, dramatic abstracts, or the ever-popular marine paintings. Incidentally, here you can find seascapes for sale, which dominate many contemporary galleries. Yet, returning to such a work reminds you how powerful a quiet narrative can be. No crashing waves, no vibrant fields of color—just a mother, a child, and a single flower hovering between them.

Madonna of the Carnation is more than an early Renaissance painting. It’s a moment caught between innocence and destiny, handled with a softness only Leonardo could achieve. It reveals a young artist learning to paint not just what he saw, but what he felt—warmth, light, and the fragile wonder of a small human gesture.

Saint John the Baptist (c. 1513–1516)

Leonardo da Vinci’s Madonna of the Carnation is one of those paintings that doesn’t demand attention with grandeur or dramatic movement. Instead, it pulls you in gently—like a soft breath of air you almost don’t notice until you’re already leaning closer. At first glance, it seems simple enough: Mary cradling the Christ child, a small red carnation resting delicately between them. But as with everything Leonardo created, this moment carries layers of quiet intention.

Imagine Florence in his early years. Workshops filled with half-finished sculptures, wooden panels propped against walls, apprentices mixing pigments in stone bowls. Leonardo was still young, studying how light folded itself around a face or slipped across fabric. He paid attention to things most people overlooked: the slight tension in a hand, how eyes soften when looking at someone they love, the way colors breathe when placed next to one another. All of that sensitivity is present here.

In Madonna of the Carnation, Mary’s expression is gentle but not idealized. She looks at her child with that mixture of tenderness and curiosity familiar to any new mother. The carnation—symbol of love, sacrifice and the future story of Christ—is offered casually, not ceremonially. The baby reaches for it with the seriousness only infants manage, studying the world one object at a time.

Leonardo’s early mastery of light is what gives the painting its quiet radiance. Soft shadows melt into one another, creating that unmistakable da Vinci atmosphere: intimate, warm, almost breathing. Nothing is rushed. Even the folds of Mary’s dress feel like they’ve settled slowly into place.

Today, collectors often gravitate toward large-scale subjects—sprawling landscapes, dramatic abstracts, or the ever-popular marine paintings. Incidentally, here you can find seascapes for sale, which dominate many contemporary galleries. Yet, returning to such a work reminds you how powerful a quiet narrative can be. No crashing waves, no vibrant fields of color—just a mother, a child, and a single flower hovering between them.

Madonna of the Carnation is more than an early Renaissance painting. It’s a moment caught between innocence and destiny, handled with a softness only Leonardo could achieve. It reveals a young artist learning to paint not just what he saw, but what he felt—warmth, light, and the fragile wonder of a small human gesture.

Why Leonardo Still Matters Today

Leonardo’s works feel timeless because they blend science, observation, and empathy. He was not simply painting faces or copying nature—he was trying to understand the world and express its truths in visual form. His art encourages viewers to look a little more closely, think a little more deeply, and feel a little more openly.

Collectors today might search for modern artwork, Renaissance-inspired studies, nature-driven compositions, or even affordable art online that captures some of the same emotional resonance. What draws people in—whether to a centuries-old fresco or a piece discovered in an online shop—is the desire for meaning, beauty, and connection. Leonardo understood that instinct better than almost anyone.

His paintings remain a benchmark for artistic excellence, not because they are technically flawless, but because they feel alive.

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