This weekend you can put the finishing touches to your piece of art, ready to submit on Monday to the collective show of peacock philanthropy that is next week’s Free Art Friday. Or you can spend a fiver and go to the Project Theatre tonight, tomorrow or Saturday and watch 4 new pieces of work each night in Project Brand New.

For Free Art Friday, artists create a painting, sketch, sculpture or installation and leave it on the street. The piece can then be picked up by anyone and claim it as their own. Let’s hope it doesn’t rain. I hear that already the busy little bees on the regular “Make and Do” night at Panti Bar have contributed their work to the day. Finders are encouraged to email the artist and tell them how and where they found it. It only needs to be no bigger than 24×24″ (60cm) and with a completed ‘Free Art Friday’ label on the back, and handed in this coming Monday. Details here.

At the Project, each piece lasts anywhere between 10-20 minutes with a short break between, includes live art, clowns, opera, dance, a musical version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Benshi theatre, a recorder ensemble, sound artists, examinations of friendship, glass houses, guided tours and more. It includes a mix of very established theatre practitioners and young people at the start of their careers. Tickets are just €5 and can be bought here.

Renaissance humanism saw no distinction between science and the arts, and Leonardo da Vinci epitomises that confluence of approaches. Nowadays the scientific method seems to be anything but creative, although of course individual scientists can be exceptions to that rule; then, the natural world was to be experienced and reflected upon with both wonder and a sense of artistry. It was observational rather than theoretical, emphasizing the capacity (and, in Leonardo’s case, genius) of the human mind to observe, to pay attention, to notice. It prioritized human reason over blind faith, which, of course, was a challenge to the power of established religion, which held a monopoly of learning until then. But it wasn’t until Galileo Galilei, a hundred years later, with his assertion that the Sun was the centre of the solar system, that the split crystallised, and such a philosophy was deemed to be heretical. But unlike Leonardo’s contemporary, the philosopher and astrologer Marcilio Ficino, who saw the world around him imbued with soul, Leonardo’s approach was more scientific in the sense that we now understand the word. Although he was not interested in metaphysics, he nevertheless saw the planet as a living entity. His work was not burdened by any moral or philosophical theory, but came from an extraordinary devotion to looking at the world around him with fresh eyes, and wondering anew, a belief in his own “simple and pure experience.” This emphasis on scientific, meditative, empirical observation informed Leonardo’s work – his detailed, beautiful sketches of skulls for example, were masterpieces of anatomical precision, which enabled him to paint the human face with breathtaking accuracy. Art was applied to science, as flesh was added to bones.

Leonardo and Michelangelo were contemporaries, rivals, and had little time for each other. Michelangelo, 23 years his junior, was a tortured, melancholic man, obsessed with male beauty, with which he struggled all his life. One only has to see the statue of David to know what possessed him; a commission that Leonardo was first offered, but which Michelangelo fought hard for, and of course eventually won. But in his private life he was inelegant, abstemious, a misanthrope; he was arrogant and impossible to be around, and lived in squalid conditions. He was profoundly dissatisfied with himself. Unlike Leonardo, who revelled in the wonders of nature, Michelangelo’s moral, philosophical and emotional struggle was about overcoming what he perceived to be the limitations of flesh, of desire, of nature itself, seeking beauty anywhere else but in himself, in the real, in the ordinary. He managed to find love, seemingly in spite of himself, at the age of 57, when a young man, Tommaso dei Cavalieri, became his companion, until the artist’s death. This relationship prompted the first modern series of love poems from one man to another, and although at the time it was well known where his interests lay, Michelangelo’s nephew, when he published them after his death, changed the sex of the beloved to female.

Leonardo, on the contrary, was an elegant, graceful, lovable man, who seemed far more comfortable in his own skin. He was an inspiration for his teacher, Verrochio, who sculpted a bronze statue of David, widely thought to be of the young, beautiful Leonardo. He was tall and strong, generous and witty, commanding everyone’s affection. A sparkling conversationalist, he overcame the stigma of his illegitimate birth through the immediately apparent genius he displayed, despite not having a formal education. (One might speculate that this could have been key to his capacity to think in such an original way.) One endearing description of him says that as an old man he wore brightly coloured clothes, and his hair and beard long, against the style of the day, which immediately suggests a wise old hippy to me. He is on record saying that he found the notion of procreation “disgusting”, which seems a bit of a giveaway as to his sexual tastes. When he was 24, he was investigated by the Florentine “Officers of the Night”, a sinister court dedicated to eradicate sodomy and pederasty, that operated on a system of anonymous tip-offs. A seventeen-year-old model and rent-boy was accused of having performed favours to dozens of men, but only four were named, including Leonardo. After two months, charges were dropped, due to lack of evidence, and he remained under official scrutiny for many years afterwards. But this seems not to have dented Leonardo’s confidence or standing, although he was a private man when it came to his emotional life. In his late thirties, a boy nicknamed “Il Salaino” or “little devil”, entered his service as a servant and pupil. He was the model for the painting John the Baptist, and Leonardo drew many erotic paintings and sketches of him. In his fifties, Leonardo met the teenage Francesco Melzi, a young man of noble birth, and he became his lifelong companion, and favourite pupil. Melzi was with Leonardo when he died, in France. Melzi was Leonardo’s main heir, but Salaino, who did not accompany Leonardo to France for the final years of his life, was not forgotten; he was bequeathed the Mona Lisa, among other works.

Leonardo chastised Michelangelo for his exaggeration, one might say fetishization of the muscular male form; he advised him “You should not make all your muscles of the body too conspicuous…otherwise you will produce a sack of walnuts rather than a human figure.” One only has to look at images of six-pack masculinity in the twenty first century to see how prescient Michelangelo was, and yet I’m also drawn to speculate that their different approaches to life and love are as relevant now in understanding homosexuality as they ever were. Leonardo’s appreciation of beauty seems far more gentle, reverential, and imbued with a sense of joy in the ordinary, which can only have come from a deep inner sense of self-worth, an appreciation of the beauty within, which seems essentially humanist to me. The Mona Lisa seems to epitomise this. But Leonardo’s long litany of incompleted works seem to suggest a lack of confidence in his capacity to match the ideal in his mind, and so, perhaps, his nerve failed. The incapacity to complete things is often a mark of the narcissistically wounded, those who cannot bear to accept the ordinariness of producing work, to dare to achieve their enormous ambition and risk the inevitable disappointment when it proves not to be perfect. But he seems to have been very content with his life, and simply got on relentlessly with other projects, distracted constantly by the infinite wonders in the world. He journalled away privately, in notebooks such as the Codex Leicester, which is littered with shopping lists and little scribblings, in between profound meditations on the nature of the world. But he never published his work, eschewed the modern technology of printing, and wrote them in his famously mirror-image scrawl. Perhaps he was ashamed of his lack of formal learning, and didn’t think they were worthy of publication, or perhaps they are indeed proof of a pathological incapacity to complete things, ambition so large and unattainable it was crippling. But, however much he struggled internally, he kept it to himself, and got on with life as fully as he could. Michelangelo, on the other hand, dared to go beyond the natural and bring the ideal, the supernatural into form; but his sense of mismatch between the real and the ideal was tortuous for him to bear in real life, and his life was far less full of joy as a result.

Go see the Codex Leicester. Written between 1508 and 1510, it’s all about water – the workings of it, the mechanics of it, the symbolism of it, the wetness of it, the wonder of it. It’s the work of a hydraulic engineer and a philosopher. An artist and a scientist. There’s nothing else like it in the world. In it, he wondered afresh what caused the tides; was it the Earth breathing? Why did the moon reflected so brightly, was it covered in water? Where did rivers come from? He wondered if the world was hollow, threaded with courses of water, like veins, and that streams originated in mountains when these veins surfaced. In later life, he acknowledged that evaporation was the more likely cause, and he seemed unencumbered by any sense of ego or dogma to allow that change of belief. It was reason and experience, and his deep commitment to honouring that experience, that led him to that conclusion.

Ends August 12th – arrive at 10am and I’m sure you’ll still get in.

I reviewed this exhibition on Nadine O’Regan’s arts and entertainment show The Kiosk on Phantom FM.