Leonardo da Vinci made art for the world. Sadly, the art snobs of Paris don't see it that way

This autumn, Paris has become “Leonardo Central”; the French capital assuming pole position to mark celebrations for the 500th anniversary of Leonardo da Vinci.

The landmark exhibition is at the Louvre. It’s big in that familiar, blockbustery, art-as-event way, with timed tickets, posters all over the city and themed merchandise – there are fridge magnets, lip salve, pencils, notebooks all adorned with the faces of Leonardo’s wistful Madonnas or beribboned, wary Italian mistresses.

Oh yes, Leonardo was Italian, but you would hardly know that from the show, which calls him "Leonard" throughout and whose every picture label celebrates his place of death (the Loire valley) as much as the titular place of his birth. It’s not dissimilar, frankly, to the way the French have appropriated Picasso, who also died here.

Moving through the crowds clustered before the Madonna of the Yarnwinder (from the National Galleries of Scotland), Vitruvian Man (on loan from Venice) or St Petersburg’s Benois Madonna – not to mention the many mathematical and anatomical drawings lent from the British Museum, and the wonderful cartoon from the National Gallery – it is clear that the curators have scoured the world to make this show an unmissable event for anyone interested in understanding an unmistakable geniuses of Western culture. It’s the sort of show that people will be booking international flights to experience, not least because Leonardo is one of those rare figures whose cultural capital is such that he only needs one name to be recognised.

Which is why my heart fell, when rounding the gallery containing his last works full of expectation, awaiting my moment in front of the world’s most famous portrait, when I found myself baldly confronted with the shop. What? No Mona Lisa?

There is a special audio visual room where you can have a booked audience with the "real" Gioconda via a special headset. But the actual art work, that modestly sized portrait of a wealthy Italian woman which used to hang in the French king’s bathroom.... well, she is not here. Even though the Louvre owns it.

I ask one of the exhibition staff where the Mona Lisa is. She shrugs, in that particular Gallic way. “Upstairs in the main gallerie.” For which you need to buy a separate ticket and stand in another one hour line.

Of course. It’s only right and proper for the Louvre to expect curators in 47 different galleries from Fort Worth to Moscow to carefully pack up and send away their Leonardos, perhaps risking the disappointment of thousands of visitors in the meantime. But to carry old ML down two flights of stairs in the same building? Out of the question.

I feel almost stupid to have expected to have seen the Mona Lisa, childish to have looked forward to experiencing a few minutes in front of her. She has been so mercilessly reproduced, feted, mocked and uploaded, she is hardly acceptable as a work of art any more. It’s a bit like Eine Kleine Nachtmusic. Or the William Tell Overture. They aren’t art; they are jingles. Nobody serious wants to see the Mona Lisa; she is for people wielding selfie sticks.

It's very shortsighted. It’s all very well saying that Leonardo is a genius for everyone; in my view, if you are planning a landmark show, it’s best if you actually mean it in the hang of the paintings. If you want your show to be accessible, then you need to include the painting upstairs that everyone knows.

Oh well, maybe I didn’t want my moments with the Mona Lisa anyway. I go over to the shop instead. I remember reading something in a review about how good the exhibition catalogue is. Perhaps I’ll splash out €39 on a copy. I hail the man behind the counter.

“Can I have an English version of the catalogue, please?” I say in my best French.

“Non. We only have French copies.”

“What? For the whole run?”

“Oui. Desole.”

Leonardo likely thought his art was for the world; not as far as the Louvre is concerned.