Lessons from "How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci" by Michael J. Gelb

 Why do some minds burn like supernovas while others barely flicker? Genius isn’t just a gift; it’s a craft—one that can be studied, mastered, and wielded like a sculptor shaping marble. And no one embodied this more than Leonardo da Vinci.

His mind was a storm—relentless, electrified, crackling with questions that no one else thought to ask. He wasn’t just a painter or an engineer. He was a biologist before biology existed, an inventor before the industrial age, a scientist before the scientific method had a name. He saw the world not as separate fields of knowledge, but as a grand, interwoven tapestry—art and science, logic and intuition, flesh and machinery, all part of a single, unified equation.

Most people think da Vinci was born a genius. But here’s the shocking truth: he trained himself to think this way. His brilliance wasn’t the result of divine inspiration or genetic lottery—it was the product of deliberate habits, relentless curiosity, and a way of engaging with the world that anyone can learn. And Michael J. Gelb’s How to Think Like Leonardo da Vinci breaks it down into seven principles, revealing that genius isn’t some rare anomaly—it’s a skill set.

Yet, here we are, centuries later, drowning in knowledge but starving for wisdom. Schools teach us what to think, not how to think. We’re told to specialize, to stay in our lane, to trade curiosity for efficiency. We reward answers but discourage questions. Leonardo would have laughed at this. He never chose between art and engineering, between philosophy and physics—he devoured everything, letting each discovery fuel the next.

So here’s the real question: What if you stopped thinking the way you were taught and started thinking like da Vinci? What if you could rewire your mind to break through creative barriers, solve problems in ways no one else sees, and turn the ordinary into the extraordinary?

For the next fifty minutes, we’re pulling back the curtain on da Vinci’s mind—dissecting his methods, exploring his obsessions, and revealing the blueprint he left behind. Because the difference between mediocrity and genius isn’t talent. It’s vision. And vision can be learned.

They say curiosity killed the cat. But what they don’t tell you is that satisfaction brought it back. The greatest minds in history didn’t rise to greatness by accepting the world as it is—they questioned it, dismantled it, and rebuilt it in their own image. And no one embodied this more than Leonardo da Vinci.

He wasn’t just interested in the world—he was obsessed with it. Why does the sky change color at dusk? How do birds stay aloft without flapping endlessly? What lies beneath the skin, behind the eyes, inside the human heart? His notebooks, filled with over 13,000 pages of sketches, musings, and questions, weren’t just records of his thoughts—they were evidence of a mind that never stopped asking why?

Today, curiosity is often treated like a childish distraction, something to outgrow in favor of practicality. Get the degree. Land the job. Specialize. Stay in your lane. But Leonardo knew that the opposite was true—curiosity wasn’t a luxury, it was the foundation of genius. The broader your knowledge, the deeper your insights. A question about birds leads to a flying machine. A study of water currents leads to groundbreaking anatomical sketches.

And here’s the part that might sting a little: You were born with this kind of curiosity. As a child, you asked hundreds of questions a day. But somewhere along the way, you were trained to stop. To sit still. To memorize answers instead of chasing new questions.

The good news? You can reclaim it. In fact, every revolutionary thinker of the modern era has. Take Steve Jobs—he didn’t just study computers; he studied calligraphy, music, design, and Zen Buddhism, blending them all into products that felt almost alive. Or take Richard Feynman, the physicist who played the bongo drums and picked locks just because he needed to know how things worked.

Curiosity isn’t just about acquiring knowledge—it’s about training your mind to connect the unconnected, to see beyond the obvious, to never stop asking. Leonardo did this every single day. And if you want to think like him, you should too.

So here’s your first challenge: Start keeping a curiosity journal. Every day, write down at least ten questions—big or small, serious or absurd. Why do cats purr? What would a skyscraper look like on the moon? How does memory actually work? It doesn’t matter if you know the answer. What matters is that you’re flexing the muscle of curiosity.

Because curiosity isn’t just how we learn. It’s how we invent, disrupt, and create. And in a world that thrives on the predictable, the curious mind is the one that changes everything.

Knowing something isn’t the same as understanding it. You can read every book on swimming, but until you hit the water, you’ll never know if you can float. This was one of Leonardo da Vinci’s deepest convictions—that true knowledge isn’t absorbed, it’s tested. It’s one thing to believe something is true; it’s another to prove it through experience.

Leonardo didn’t take information at face value. He challenged it, dissected it, questioned everything—even the teachings of his time. When others accepted medieval anatomical diagrams, he cut open corpses to see the human body for himself. When they repeated Aristotle’s claims about water flow, he conducted his own experiments, watching how currents moved, how waves formed, how droplets merged. He wasn’t just a thinker; he was a doer, a relentless tester of ideas.

And here’s the shocking part: most people today do the exact opposite. They trust secondhand knowledge without ever testing it themselves. They accept headlines, obey instructions, and memorize answers, but they never step outside the classroom of theory and into the laboratory of reality.

Think about it. How often do you actually test what you know? You hear that morning workouts are best, so you believe it. You read that cold showers increase energy, so you assume it’s true. But have you experimented? Have you tried working out at night to see if it suits your body better? Have you measured your own reaction to hot versus cold showers?

Leonardo would have. And so did some of the greatest minds who came after him. Thomas Edison didn’t just theorize about light bulbs—he built and tested thousands of them. Marie Curie didn’t just accept scientific assumptions—she isolated radium with her own hands. And Richard Branson? He never let fear of failure stop him from testing business ideas in the real world.

Dimostrazione is the art of learning by doing. It’s about abandoning blind acceptance in favor of hands-on proof. Because the only way to truly know something is to put it to the test.

So here’s your challenge: Pick one belief—something you think is true—and put it under the microscope. Maybe you believe reading before bed makes you sleep better. Maybe you think you work best in silence. Maybe you assume your diet is healthy. Test it. Track the results. Find out for yourself.

Because Leonardo didn’t just ask questions—he demanded answers. And not from books, not from teachers, but from the world itself.

Most people look, but they don’t see. They hear, but they don’t listen. Their senses are dull, numbed by routine, blurred by distraction. Leonardo da Vinci understood something that many of us have forgotten: the sharper your senses, the richer your experience of reality—and the deeper your capacity for genius.

To him, the world wasn’t just a backdrop; it was a symphony of light, shadow, texture, and movement waiting to be studied. He trained his eyes to see details others missed—the way candlelight flickers differently in a draft, the subtle shifts in a human expression just before a smile forms. He didn’t just paint the Mona Lisa; he captured the mystery of human emotion, an effect so hauntingly lifelike that we’re still debating it 500 years later.

But it wasn’t just his sight. Leonardo sharpened all of his senses. He listened to the echoes of footsteps in cathedrals to understand how sound moved through space. He studied the scent of plants, the taste of different ingredients, the feel of materials under his fingertips. He knew that a mind disconnected from the body is a mind that misses everything.

Today, our senses are under siege. We live in a world of artificial stimulation—bright screens, processed flavors, background noise—and we’ve grown numb. We eat without tasting, listen without hearing, and pass through life half-aware. But Leonardo’s approach offers an antidote: train your senses, and you awaken your mind.

Great artists, musicians, and scientists all understand this. Beethoven, losing his hearing, felt the vibrations of sound through the floor. Einstein played the violin, using music to unlock insights about the universe. Chefs don’t just cook—they refine their ability to taste at an atomic level.

This isn’t just about appreciating beauty—it’s about precision. The sharper your senses, the better your decisions. A skilled investor reads between the lines of a CEO’s tone during an interview. A great negotiator senses the hesitation in a handshake. A master strategist sees patterns where others see chaos.

So here’s your challenge: slow down and tune in. When you eat, taste every ingredient. When you listen to music, pick out the individual instruments. When you walk, feel the texture of the ground beneath your feet. Train your eyes by sketching, your ears by listening, your hands by touching.

Because the world isn’t just there—it’s whispering secrets to those who are willing to pay attention.

Most people are addicted to certainty. They crave clear answers, black-and-white thinking, neatly packaged truths. But Leonardo da Vinci understood a fundamental reality: the world doesn’t work that way. Life is messy, full of contradictions, blurred edges, and unanswered questions. And rather than resisting uncertainty, he embraced it.

The word Sfumato—which means “soft” or “smoky” in Italian—describes the artistic technique Leonardo used to create lifelike depth in his paintings. Look at the Mona Lisa. Her expression is neither fully smiling nor fully neutral—it’s both, existing in a paradox that keeps us captivated centuries later. But sfumato wasn’t just a painting trick; it was a mental model—a way of thinking that allowed Leonardo to hold multiple, conflicting ideas in his mind at once without rushing to conclusions.

This is where most people struggle. They want immediate answers, instant clarity. But the truth is, certainty is an illusion. The greatest breakthroughs come not from knowing, but from not knowing—from exploring the spaces in between.

Think about the greatest scientists, artists, and innovators. Einstein’s theory of relativity was born from questioning time itself. Shakespeare’s greatest characters—Hamlet, Macbeth—are defined by their contradictions. Steve Jobs didn’t create the iPhone by following a straight path—he lived in the tension between technology and art, business and beauty, simplicity and complexity.

The ability to sit with uncertainty is a superpower. It allows you to be flexible in the face of change, to navigate complexity, to make decisions when the right answer isn’t obvious. People who fear ambiguity get stuck. They hesitate. They cling to old beliefs even when the evidence changes. But those who embrace sfumato stay open, adaptable, and dangerously creative.

So how do you train this? Start by questioning your own beliefs. What if you’re wrong about something you’ve always assumed to be true? What if both opposing viewpoints hold some truth? Engage with ideas that challenge you, read books that make you uncomfortable, have conversations that stretch your mind. Learn to say “I don’t know”—not as an admission of weakness, but as a gateway to deeper understanding.

Because in a world obsessed with certainty, the people who master uncertainty are the ones who change everything.

Most people believe that creativity and logic are opposites—two sides of the brain locked in an eternal battle. Artists see scientists as rigid. Scientists see artists as impractical. But Leonardo da Vinci saw something different: a world where art and science were not enemies, but partners. He didn’t just blend them—he mastered both, using one to elevate the other.

This is why his work is alive. His paintings pulse with anatomical precision because he studied the human body—muscles, tendons, bone structures—down to the smallest detail. His engineering sketches feel poetic because he understood not just how machines worked, but how nature worked. He painted air. He designed bridges with the elegance of a sculpture. He dissected both the human heart and the flow of rivers, seeing in both the same patterns, the same rhythms, the same truths.

Today, the world forces a choice. Be analytical or be creative. Choose logic or intuition. Pick a major. Pick a career. Stay in your lane. But the truth is, the people who change the world reject this false divide. They think like Leonardo.

Take Elon Musk—an engineer obsessed with science, but whose success comes from vision. Or take Pixar, where coding and storytelling merge into worlds that feel real. The best designers understand physics. The best entrepreneurs have a feel for aesthetics. The best scientists think like artists.

Because the most powerful minds are whole minds. Leonardo saw knowledge not as separate disciplines, but as interconnected branches of the same tree. And when you train yourself to think this way, everything expands.

So here’s your challenge: Cross-pollinate. If you’re an artist, study math. If you’re an engineer, take a painting class. Read outside your field. Play an instrument. Sketch ideas instead of just writing them down. Ask how and why in equal measure.

Because when you fuse arte with scienza, you don’t just think differently. You think limitlessly.

Most people treat their bodies like inconvenient machines—things to be fueled, pushed, and occasionally repaired when they break down. But Leonardo da Vinci knew better. He understood that the mind and body aren’t separate. They are one system, feeding and influencing each other in ways most people never realize.

To him, physical health wasn’t just about fitness—it was about intelligence. A sluggish body meant a sluggish mind. A strong, agile, well-tuned body sharpened perception, creativity, and critical thinking. This is why he trained himself like an athlete. He walked for miles, swam, climbed, practiced fencing. He studied anatomy not just to paint bodies, but to understand them. He wrote about diet, posture, movement, and even how emotions physically manifest. He treated his body as a living experiment, refining its mechanics like an engineer perfecting a machine.

Today, this idea has been backed by science. Exercise boosts memory. Posture affects confidence. Nutrition changes mood. The sharpest thinkers—Da Vinci, Darwin, Tesla—understood this intuitively. Yet modern life encourages the opposite—sedentary routines, screens, processed food, stress. We separate the mind from the body, and we wonder why we feel tired, unfocused, uninspired.

But the world’s top performers still follow Leonardo’s lead. Olympic athletes use visualization to train their minds. CEOs maintain strict fitness regimens to stay mentally sharp. Writers and inventors take long walks to unlock new ideas. Physical movement doesn’t just strengthen the body—it fuels the brain.

So here’s your challenge: Move like Leonardo. Treat your body as a tool for genius. Walk more. Stretch. Experiment with how different foods affect your focus. Sit up straight and notice how it shifts your confidence. Train your endurance—not just for health, but for mental clarity.

Because the mind is only as strong as the body that carries it. And Leonardo knew that a genius who neglects their physical form is no genius at all.

Most people see knowledge as a collection of separate boxes. Science goes in one. Art in another. Business, psychology, history—each in its own category, never touching. But Leonardo da Vinci saw something different. To him, everything was connected. Ideas weren’t isolated facts, but threads in a vast, intricate web. Pull one, and the whole system shifts.

This is why his mind was limitless. He didn’t just study anatomy—he saw the same spirals in muscles as in seashells. He didn’t just sketch machines—he looked to birds and water currents for inspiration. He realized that the same principles that shape the human body shape the universe itself. Art wasn’t separate from science. Music wasn’t separate from mathematics. Everything was a pattern waiting to be understood.

And the most revolutionary minds think this way. Einstein saw the deep connection between time and space, gravity and acceleration. Steve Jobs saw how calligraphy and technology could merge into elegant design. The world’s greatest investors don’t just study numbers—they understand human psychology, history, and geopolitics.

But here’s the problem: the modern world encourages fragmentation. School subjects are divided. Job titles are rigid. Specialization is rewarded. But when you only think in one dimension, you limit what you can create. You become blind to the deeper patterns running through life.

Leonardo’s secret was simple: see beyond the surface. Connect ideas from different fields. When you learn something new, ask: How does this relate to what I already know? Train yourself to notice patterns in nature, in people, in systems. Read outside your expertise. Explore unfamiliar disciplines. Learn to think like a polymath, and suddenly, innovation becomes inevitable.

So here’s your challenge: Pick two unrelated subjects and find a connection between them. How is music like architecture? How is storytelling like business strategy? How is the movement of a river like the flow of ideas? When you start seeing the hidden links between everything, you don’t just understand the world. You shape it.

Because genius isn’t about knowing more—it’s about seeing deeper.