Leonardo da Vinci’s TED Talk: The Death of Curiosity

(Lights dim. The TED stage glows softly. Neil deGrasse Tyson walks out, notebook in hand.)

Neil deGrasse Tyson:
Before there were machines to think for us…
Before we mapped the body, the heavens, or the mind…
There was a man who dared to ask everything.

He asked why birds fly, not to escape—but to understand.
He asked how light bends, not to impress—but to witness.
He asked what makes us human, not through answers—but through relentless curiosity.

Leonardo da Vinci was not content to master a single field.
He believed that to see the truth of the world, you had to love all of it—art, science, anatomy, motion, water, wind, war, peace, spirit.

He lived in a time when the unknown wasn’t feared—it was worshipped.

But today, in our age of instant answers, predictive algorithms, and artificial intelligence that finishes your sentence… we must ask:

Have we lost what he cherished most?

Tonight, Leonardo returns—not from history, but from the hunger to learn that lives in each of us.
And he brings no conclusion. Only a challenge.

So… silence your phone.
Open your mind.
And listen not just to a legend… but to the echo of your own curiosity.

Please welcome—Leonardo da Vinci.

 (Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)

Why Is the Sky Blue?

Leonardo da Vinci:
Why is the sky blue?

That question haunted me. Not because I needed the answer—but because I didn’t. It was the mystery that pulled me forward. The not-knowing. The ache of wonder.

When I was a boy, I watched the light shift on a river’s surface for hours. I didn’t call it science. I didn’t call it art. I called it seeing.

Today, the question is answered before it is even fully asked. A search engine finishes your thought. An AI gives you the explanation, the diagram, the simulation… and just like that, the wonder is gone.

But I ask you: What happens to the soul when we stop wondering?

The Boy Who Watched the River

I was not raised to be a thinker. I had no formal education, no noble blood. I was born illegitimate, raised on the fringes. But I had one gift—I saw differently.

I remember the first time I saw a bird take flight. It wasn’t just beautiful. It was mechanical. The wing tilted. The wind caught it. There was math in the feathers, music in the motion.

I began to chase that bird in everything. I sketched its bones. I built models with leather wings. I watched bats at night and insects at dawn. My notebooks filled with hundreds of failed designs—because failure was proof that I was asking better questions.

And it wasn’t just flight. I wanted to understand the heart, so I dissected human bodies in the dead of night. I drew the valves, the muscle fibers, the arteries. It wasn’t morbid. It was holy.

Each question I asked—How does water flow? Why do faces age? What is light?—was a door. Not one I wanted closed, but one I hoped would open deeper into the labyrinth of reality.

I did not live to find all the answers. I lived to keep asking.

We Scroll, Not See

We live in an age where the most powerful minds are not measured by the depth of their curiosity—but by the speed of their answers.

You say, “We have advanced.” And yes, you have. You split atoms. You simulate galaxies. You code machines that learn.

But have you felt awe lately?

Have you sat under the stars and not taken a photo?

Have you listened to the wind and not checked the forecast?

In your age, knowledge is abundant. But wisdom is withering. Wonder is vanishing. Mystery is now called inefficiency.

Let me be clear: It is not the presence of answers that dulls the spirit—it is the absence of patience. Of play. Of hunger.

You are drowning in data, but starving for meaning.

Because meaning comes not from knowing—it comes from seeking.

Art vs. Understanding

You feed machines millions of images. They return beauty. But beauty is not understanding.

When I painted The Last Supper, I did not aim for accuracy—I aimed for presence. The twitch of a hand, the curve of Judas’s wrist, the tension in the bread—these were not data points. They were human moments, captured with questions.

Who would betray a friend? How does guilt shape the shoulder? What does love do to the gaze?

The machines you create may answer what, but they cannot ask why. And without why, you have only replicas.

When I dissected the human body, I didn’t do it to make better art. I did it because I believed that the soul lived in the folds of flesh, in the chambers of the heart, in the tiny curl of an embryo.

You say AI can write poetry. But has it ever grieved? Has it ever stared at a sunset and wept, not knowing why?

The Clock and the Child

What if your greatest progress is not in building smarter machines—but in relearning how to ask?

There is a child in each of you, still, who once took apart a clock just to understand it. Not to fix it. Not to sell it. Just to see what made it tick.

That child still lives in you. But you’ve buried them beneath productivity, speed, certainty.

And yet, what you call “genius” in me was only this: I never stopped being that child.

I let questions ferment. I watched shadows move across stone for months. I believed every small thing contained the universe.

Even as I lay dying, I whispered to a friend, “Tell me—did I finish anything?”

I didn’t mean art. I meant the great project of seeing. Of staying in love with mystery.

There is a phrase I wrote late in life. I did not shout it. I did not publish it. I scribbled it like a prayer:
“Ancora imparo.” I am still learning.

Because curiosity is not something you outgrow. It is something you return to.

In your age, the temptation is to automate wonder. To outsource it. To build tools that ask on your behalf.

But the great questions must come from you. From your longing, not your programming.

So here is my invitation:

Put down the answer. Pick up the sketchbook.

Go watch how leaves spin in water.

Go ask a child what they think the moon is made of.

Go break something just to learn how it works.

Go love something that cannot be explained.

Because if there is one legacy I hope I’ve left, it is not a painting or a notebook.

It is this:

A life devoted not to what is known… but to what is possible.

Thank you.

Final Thoughts by Neil deGrasse Tyson

Neil deGrasse Tyson:
Some say the future belongs to those who know the most.
Leonardo would disagree.

He’d say the future belongs to those who are still willing to be amazed.
To sit by a river for hours.
To take apart a clock for no reason other than wonder.

Tonight wasn’t about answers.
It was a reminder—that curiosity is not something we outgrow.
It’s something we reclaim.

So tonight, before you search for anything…
Before you Google, ask ChatGPT, or consult a textbook…
Try this:

Look. Listen. Linger.
You might not get an answer.
But you’ll touch what Leonardo lived for.

And if you walk away still wondering…
then the talk has done its job.

Thank you.

Short Bios:

Leonardo da Vinci
Renaissance polymath, artist, inventor, and visionary thinker whose insatiable curiosity led him to revolutionize art, anatomy, engineering, and the scientific method. Da Vinci saw no boundary between disciplines—only connections to be discovered.

Neil deGrasse Tyson
Astrophysicist, author, and science communicator known for making the cosmos accessible to all. As Director of the Hayden Planetarium, Tyson champions curiosity, critical thinking, and the poetic wonder of the universe.