tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74811943876953615152024-03-13T09:27:55.124+01:00Palettes (Pintura y poesía)Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-45810616611721723272012-02-08T20:04:00.000+01:002012-02-08T20:04:24.847+01:00Prerrafaelite woman´s - Mujeres prerrafaelitas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/v-HR9jXPMl0?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-86173219229564641012011-10-12T18:17:00.005+02:002011-10-12T18:35:26.833+02:00Mariana in the Moated Grange (1850-1851)Obra de John Everett Millais, el que fue presidente de la Royal Academy of Art en el año 1896, el mismo año de su fallecimiento.<br />Millais copió para su Mariana los ventanales de la capilla de Merton College, en la universidad de Oxford.<br />Inspirado por el alegre colorido de los manuscritos de la Edad Media, sirvió de ilustracioón a un poema de Tennyson. La actitud fresca y desinhibida de Mariana al desperezarse le da un toque de cercanía a la composición.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnChWnSgsh8lfjmmcLoQUG5y9M5Zf29IkcJm6kKWCVU4m7i1f-NiuD3OshX2HBC3nqC4A_1mEaSC-soGqj0KbBV_R75WwCFowY1i5RpL6Q5bEKS7hbKVHq9_MvQtz-xcRnYfNcdO6iW-1R/s1600/Mariana_in_the_Moated_Grange_study_Millais%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 277px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnChWnSgsh8lfjmmcLoQUG5y9M5Zf29IkcJm6kKWCVU4m7i1f-NiuD3OshX2HBC3nqC4A_1mEaSC-soGqj0KbBV_R75WwCFowY1i5RpL6Q5bEKS7hbKVHq9_MvQtz-xcRnYfNcdO6iW-1R/s400/Mariana_in_the_Moated_Grange_study_Millais%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662641765341504482" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBNfAgq7ubuKhGpCIjKRvebSEiCFBtSR5SP9M8bQ4iZXRoF28X9_Clt2gojeticOsYxmUs_y-6C4uyzxBgxj3G_ENYl_dj4bBR077OOdpaRps6qDt3Zr7dxdR-CtczvbueJL613HxJzpk/s1600/1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 326px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSBNfAgq7ubuKhGpCIjKRvebSEiCFBtSR5SP9M8bQ4iZXRoF28X9_Clt2gojeticOsYxmUs_y-6C4uyzxBgxj3G_ENYl_dj4bBR077OOdpaRps6qDt3Zr7dxdR-CtczvbueJL613HxJzpk/s400/1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5662641638541763554" /></a><br /><br /><br />Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson<br /><br /><br /><br />Mariana<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />With blackest moss the flower-plots<br /> Were thickly crusted, one and all:<br />The rusted nails fell from the knots<br /> That held the pear to the gable-wall.<br />The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:<br /> Unlifted was the clinking latch;<br /> Weeded and worn the ancient thatch<br />Upon the lonely moated grange.<br /> She only said, 'My life is dreary,<br /> He cometh not,' she said;<br /> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,<br /> I would that I were dead!'<br />Her tears fell with the dews at even;<br /> Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;<br />She could not look on the sweet heaven,<br /> Either at morn or eventide.<br />After the flitting of the bats,<br /> When thickest dark did trance the sky,<br /> She drew her casement-curtain by,<br />And glanced athwart the glooming flats.<br /> She only said, 'The night is dreary,<br /> He cometh not,' she said;<br /> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,<br /> I would that I were dead!'<br /><br />Upon the middle of the night,<br /> Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:<br />The cock sung out an hour ere light:<br /> From the dark fen the oxen's low<br />Came to her: without hope of change,<br /> In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,<br /> Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn<br />About the lonely moated grange.<br /> She only said, 'The day is dreary,<br /> He cometh not,' she said;<br /> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,<br /> I would that I were dead!'<br /><br />About a stone-cast from the wall<br /> A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,<br />And o'er it many, round and small,<br /> The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.<br />Hard by a poplar shook alway,<br /> All silver-green with gnarled bark:<br /> For leagues no other tree did mark<br />The level waste, the rounding gray.<br /> She only said, 'My life is dreary,<br /> He cometh not,' she said;<br /> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,<br /> I would that I were dead!'<br /><br />And ever when the moon was low,<br /> And the shrill winds were up and away,<br />In the white curtain, to and fro,<br /> She saw the gusty shadow sway.<br />But when the moon was very low,<br /> And wild winds bound within their cell,<br /> The shadow of the poplar fell<br />Upon her bed, across her brow.<br /> She only said, 'The night is dreary,<br /> He cometh not,' she said;<br /> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,<br /> I would that I were dead!'<br /><br />All day within the dreamy house,<br /> The doors upon their hinges creak'd;<br />The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse<br /> Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,<br />Or from the crevice peer'd about.<br /> Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,<br /> Old footsteps trod the upper floors,<br />Old voices call'd her from without.<br /> She only said, 'My life is dreary,<br /> He cometh not,' she said;<br /> She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,'<br /> I would that I were dead!'<br /><br />The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,<br /> The slow clock ticking, and the sound<br />Which to the wooing wind aloof<br /> The poplar made, did all confound<br />Her sense; but most she loathed the hour<br /> When the thick-moted sunbeam lay<br /> Athwart the chambers, and the day<br />Was sloping toward his western bower.<br /> Then, said she, 'I am very dreary,<br /> He will not come,' she said;<br /> She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary,<br /> O God, that I were dead!'Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-78627188089905857452011-05-19T21:14:00.003+02:002011-05-19T21:23:13.037+02:00Proserpina - Dante Gabriel Rossetti<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgLmApL_vAMPEzsDWb-WGtqqjONtiZdqYGzpACSbmphSRDaCXIu6tZpWuvZQX_kmb58dypuhgWj3FUPuzbaf07-QaIDYexl6ddc-rRBa1tw23ClMu6laxug5XhfG0OXbXKwP8PGbrpSlR/s1600/Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti_-_Proserpine%255B1%255D.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 184px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNgLmApL_vAMPEzsDWb-WGtqqjONtiZdqYGzpACSbmphSRDaCXIu6tZpWuvZQX_kmb58dypuhgWj3FUPuzbaf07-QaIDYexl6ddc-rRBa1tw23ClMu6laxug5XhfG0OXbXKwP8PGbrpSlR/s400/Dante_Gabriel_Rossetti_-_Proserpine%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5608509117885840994" /></a><br /><br />Proserpina (1873-1877)<br />Tate Gallery, Londres.<br /><br />"Está representada en un oscuro pasillo del palacio, con el fruto fatal en la mano...<br />Tiene el incensario al lado, como un atributo de divinidad. La rama de hiedra del fondo...puede ser entendida como símbolo de memoria que conquista"<br /><br />De una carta de D.G. Rossetti a W.A. TurnerMar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-90268271715794091922011-04-17T05:09:00.001+02:002011-04-17T05:12:17.697+02:00Pre Raphaelites (2)<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zmNNE4aAGQQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-20968749427934873052011-03-30T16:30:00.000+02:002011-03-30T16:32:01.956+02:00Pre Raphaelites (1)<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GWgSNOqZ3Wc" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-15737200070251252772011-03-10T00:29:00.009+01:002011-03-10T01:02:44.795+01:00Los prerrafaelitas en Roma<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimD5HsGqkPTN0k3MvQJUlqpyZPPX_m5S4HquO0_ItYZ6P3GDpWxQCs_glfU2wxmMfu4e-c02p6vlsYhBxjnONo9ItxdUZmUEeCRHQn0VEzR1pzQ5BlCkFmdQY1FuSWSTTtTa5G12OL7zhH/s1600/HPIM1522%255B1%255D.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimD5HsGqkPTN0k3MvQJUlqpyZPPX_m5S4HquO0_ItYZ6P3GDpWxQCs_glfU2wxmMfu4e-c02p6vlsYhBxjnONo9ItxdUZmUEeCRHQn0VEzR1pzQ5BlCkFmdQY1FuSWSTTtTa5G12OL7zhH/s400/HPIM1522%255B1%255D.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582226583717420178" /></a><br /><br />Desde el pasado día 24 de febrero y hasta el 12 de junio del 2011 en la Galeria Nacional de Arte Moderno de Roma se ha presentado la excposición <br />dedicada a la relación entre el siglo XIX británico y el arte y la cultura italiana, de "el sabor de lo primitivo" hasta el siglo XVI, comenzando por los inspirados paisajes de Italia de William Turner, a través del estudio de John Ruskin en la pintura italiana, monumentos y la arquitectura.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoxySqOYfGL4vvWk0WOQS5Syq5DOIeW2OS4lj_XlkaJXVEDXq2eAFYDsr5UUMnM-AIDUTxd8du6KTzUvjzLYfmaxxUlUWzdsdIh4Iv5f3ViqHZXAQjqpw0WJGvMMNKvbK7Dux6YZtz7odb/s1600/edward-burne-jones-sized%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoxySqOYfGL4vvWk0WOQS5Syq5DOIeW2OS4lj_XlkaJXVEDXq2eAFYDsr5UUMnM-AIDUTxd8du6KTzUvjzLYfmaxxUlUWzdsdIh4Iv5f3ViqHZXAQjqpw0WJGvMMNKvbK7Dux6YZtz7odb/s400/edward-burne-jones-sized%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582228504722319138" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwsR7puUhS5-KXKJrGHOqbOMmuihzVjg0XhY-KWpKYa6BYcfylvLGNSum_Snva1FJ3mhXTdX9uAotwxS0NeWMkXYraTfPcyMdxv_YleLkpS9yObKXihNU60d7cLjX0PZ0J_I8Vwd7YyjV/s1600/cupid_450%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 279px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEwsR7puUhS5-KXKJrGHOqbOMmuihzVjg0XhY-KWpKYa6BYcfylvLGNSum_Snva1FJ3mhXTdX9uAotwxS0NeWMkXYraTfPcyMdxv_YleLkpS9yObKXihNU60d7cLjX0PZ0J_I8Vwd7YyjV/s400/cupid_450%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582228762400189858" /></a><br /><br />El núcleo de la exposición en Roma incluye los prerrafaelistas Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Edward Burne-Jones y William Morris. Explora la particular versión del clasicismo operado por artistas como Frederic Leighton y representantes de la cultura estética simbolista o como Albert Moore, George F. Watts y John William Waterhouse.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Uj2kdiYrjfbd4r438c8pho0AX6AHuBd9KP-rbdoUmLX3YSiCDUwQRnPGaQmquWp2qGix1OCASNUua_AkVO9SGdYR3n4oNdcCGHZmYohyB9h2OuY5RpXmVJ4et0F2V65rsD3kgcEYPcHp/s1600/Rssetti%2525201%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 228px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1Uj2kdiYrjfbd4r438c8pho0AX6AHuBd9KP-rbdoUmLX3YSiCDUwQRnPGaQmquWp2qGix1OCASNUua_AkVO9SGdYR3n4oNdcCGHZmYohyB9h2OuY5RpXmVJ4et0F2V65rsD3kgcEYPcHp/s400/Rssetti%2525201%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582229770256846274" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCnnyyh4OdHhPs_owX4rX2-cbT9W8EjuVKCPKJtl0tUIHu2a9Lwgv6DHFUYeB2wL3LVvf-SyT85DCuK2SUx-pypFUCV0RNg7P7Bn3_wCImAVEpWz7eT1x0e7nfF5jXn5xbYI4qdfQqio-/s1600/Beatrice_Rossetti%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 335px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCnnyyh4OdHhPs_owX4rX2-cbT9W8EjuVKCPKJtl0tUIHu2a9Lwgv6DHFUYeB2wL3LVvf-SyT85DCuK2SUx-pypFUCV0RNg7P7Bn3_wCImAVEpWz7eT1x0e7nfF5jXn5xbYI4qdfQqio-/s400/Beatrice_Rossetti%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582230022549938210" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjpRRRTNLarDzYHDaM5gASvlIjgF5qh80_tXVkHGzjwIe-4qLCYJns19Z8QfszrsSRbOFxTCytlt0B6t78zZsAqLWKb-5dZhmz5KClzmmeU971EqqiiKwJCm8ZypNJmoWCi9JRmxnZ_hP/s1600/WilliamMorris%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 335px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIjpRRRTNLarDzYHDaM5gASvlIjgF5qh80_tXVkHGzjwIe-4qLCYJns19Z8QfszrsSRbOFxTCytlt0B6t78zZsAqLWKb-5dZhmz5KClzmmeU971EqqiiKwJCm8ZypNJmoWCi9JRmxnZ_hP/s400/WilliamMorris%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582230683265810978" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXrIFB0VTYr8YnsK5yfm76gn2U1TV7MYXbP8_LnhfiBYGBH74pIEtS3JMn0ehEL3qOOcxxfiKkojL00YX0v_RQZOBAYRdolou0GGkYMn7eh8NB_a4mBy8DNpp7yeyTjiTz82y16cOPjph/s1600/William_Morris_Flora_Jacquard_Woven_Tapestry%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSXrIFB0VTYr8YnsK5yfm76gn2U1TV7MYXbP8_LnhfiBYGBH74pIEtS3JMn0ehEL3qOOcxxfiKkojL00YX0v_RQZOBAYRdolou0GGkYMn7eh8NB_a4mBy8DNpp7yeyTjiTz82y16cOPjph/s400/William_Morris_Flora_Jacquard_Woven_Tapestry%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582230880585166354" /></a><br /><br />Una gran ocasión para ver a Burne-Jones, Dante G. Rossetti, William Morris y otros pintores muy interesantes.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNSyYHCvvZ2CVjXnrSyKhQYDB1rhmHXSNH_ynupm9vXRfO-alfHN96XFYCnwvwR_7nQTzZyuwMAuckPC0AsGuileULK-O3lFzGrkRjp6pRJerVk4yZ9GIuhqCJvg5xcqprMnEX3dltyrr/s1600/John_William_Waterhouse_Windflower%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNSyYHCvvZ2CVjXnrSyKhQYDB1rhmHXSNH_ynupm9vXRfO-alfHN96XFYCnwvwR_7nQTzZyuwMAuckPC0AsGuileULK-O3lFzGrkRjp6pRJerVk4yZ9GIuhqCJvg5xcqprMnEX3dltyrr/s400/John_William_Waterhouse_Windflower%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582233058671390370" /></a><br />John William Waterhouse<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE9m1O2gjU8V5mi2Pi-09A5ziPUuhu20Ls34FkTUiCToK6Ek9vfHpVSCcNGHE0pigyQhYbE14PPraNh9aSYvjpOX24Ik6wr9MKhAmrSjkm6od0nxxZ3m40R9mI8_YLZbUeYMADj69z6tv/s1600/253523_Solardientedejunio.FredericLeighton%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqE9m1O2gjU8V5mi2Pi-09A5ziPUuhu20Ls34FkTUiCToK6Ek9vfHpVSCcNGHE0pigyQhYbE14PPraNh9aSYvjpOX24Ik6wr9MKhAmrSjkm6od0nxxZ3m40R9mI8_YLZbUeYMADj69z6tv/s400/253523_Solardientedejunio.FredericLeighton%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582233520226933330" /></a><br /><br />Lord Frederic Leighton<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tIWSRZOan14EDhXBZKxvzVc8UeqaLq-HmCoReAyJk50kyJrRIfleIYjNYbFI4-bhBriQ9YIz08fxjaG2H6DJwTcdDUxDJorEcwYq1WB4bcQNnohkE4e1wnYJIYiSe_q7nOWy-yn27X-G/s1600/untitled.bmp"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tIWSRZOan14EDhXBZKxvzVc8UeqaLq-HmCoReAyJk50kyJrRIfleIYjNYbFI4-bhBriQ9YIz08fxjaG2H6DJwTcdDUxDJorEcwYq1WB4bcQNnohkE4e1wnYJIYiSe_q7nOWy-yn27X-G/s400/untitled.bmp" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582234225611662146" /></a><br />George Frederick Watts<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9D1AWYQ6t-CpTen-fWZEr2ykixI9VhP28Q2GeFiAmzok9-cWIDOnuIuElUjELLmOF3I0ixWvN6dYOrAnh_IqM4hhGWDu1bx92_7BLyxkyhfjMKoRARgFEALYmJuWeTvFqMwSN_RIO7Nr/s1600/Albert-Moore-Midsummer-7315%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 385px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-9D1AWYQ6t-CpTen-fWZEr2ykixI9VhP28Q2GeFiAmzok9-cWIDOnuIuElUjELLmOF3I0ixWvN6dYOrAnh_IqM4hhGWDu1bx92_7BLyxkyhfjMKoRARgFEALYmJuWeTvFqMwSN_RIO7Nr/s400/Albert-Moore-Midsummer-7315%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5582234558167154354" /></a><br /><br />Albert MooreMar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-2421127547301065542011-03-07T23:54:00.002+01:002011-03-07T23:58:03.819+01:00Walter Howell Deverell- Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood<iframe title="YouTube video player" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/1_spB5H1EJg" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br />Video propioMar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-51918952714384699762011-02-19T20:01:00.004+01:002011-02-19T20:31:06.265+01:00William Holman HuntA converted british family sheltering a christian priest from the persecution of the druids(1850)<br /><br />"Familia inglesa de conversos protegiendo de los druidas a un sacerdote cristiano" pertenece a la primera época del grupo Prerrafaelita, a cuyos objetivos originales William Holman Hunt siempre se mantuvo fiel, tiempos en que era criticado con inquina por la prensa. Las obras de Holman Hunt de una marcada finalidad moral, se caracterizaban por su escrupulosa atención al detalle. Este cuadro surgió de un concurso de la Royal Academy sobre el tema "Actos de misericordia". La limitación de tamaño impuesta por la Royal Academy resultó excesiva y acabo comprando la obra Thomas Combe, uno de los principales clientes de los Prerrafaelitas.<br />El cuadro de Hunt muestra muchas referencias simbólicas, la postura del misionero recuerda la de Cristo descendiendo de la cruz y las jóvenes que lo cuidan llevan una rama de espino y una esponja, que igualmente salen en la Pasión. El cuenco de agua de la izquierda simboliza el rito del bautismo. Detrás dos niños exprimen uvas en un vaso, referencia a la Eucaristía. Al fondo de la choza hay un altar compuesto por una cruz pintada y una lámpara colgante.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFOR4XZw92sxwiRxDFJ4lIDZkZPMGf1YFZGRURcah7Q_5VJF3CFirOK5GiuM93HnqVKHHmZg0hK4-4hbbXyGJE6w3vgaa0AT6asW2aXiH57Y9geQI-SxrsOOxC26P-RsgMUU-32RoViOH/s1600/william+hunt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFOR4XZw92sxwiRxDFJ4lIDZkZPMGf1YFZGRURcah7Q_5VJF3CFirOK5GiuM93HnqVKHHmZg0hK4-4hbbXyGJE6w3vgaa0AT6asW2aXiH57Y9geQI-SxrsOOxC26P-RsgMUU-32RoViOH/s400/william+hunt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5575478538294929698" /></a>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-11994991159584075242011-02-10T23:29:00.003+01:002011-02-10T23:58:56.399+01:00William Lindsay Windus (1822-1907)Esta tela representa una escena al aire libre. La estética es prerrafaelista. Los personajes van elegantemente vestidos. Enseguida se ve que algún asunto misterioso se cierne en el ambiente. Lindsay Windus pone a sus personajes en un jardín silvestre de un amigo suyo, al fondo se divisan las colinas de Gales. La gran profundidad que ofrece la composición no resta protagonismo a la escena representada en primer plano. Está inspirada en un poema de Aldred Tennyson titulado “No vengas cuando muera”. La obra muestra a una mujer de aspecto moribundo y frágil, destrozada por el amor, el regreso tardío del amante que cubre su rostro con el brazo como señal de lástima y quizá de remordimientos por su tardanza y engaño. Los deseos insatisfechos de la mujer de compartir tiempo con su amante se han desvanecido, ya tan solo le queda la enfermedad y la liberación por medio de la muerte.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhsEka1T5soMIQsB_MNjU0iK_OW4YajT-KoD2mfvMh_bOUEQzU1iii5AWtqmwFJfpX3gCiXuDlLvHH_91oOYeOFQ8VKDT2NESOMqMD4WDe94P4J4qhoAkhg_7TleCvv0Sr6y5Ll6UkV-c/s1600/William_Lindsay_Windus-Too_Late-1858%255B1%255D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 317px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZhsEka1T5soMIQsB_MNjU0iK_OW4YajT-KoD2mfvMh_bOUEQzU1iii5AWtqmwFJfpX3gCiXuDlLvHH_91oOYeOFQ8VKDT2NESOMqMD4WDe94P4J4qhoAkhg_7TleCvv0Sr6y5Ll6UkV-c/s400/William_Lindsay_Windus-Too_Late-1858%255B1%255D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572192049279987714" /></a><br />Demasiado tarde (Too late) 1858<br /><br /><strong>No vengas cuando cuando muera<br />Come not when I am dead, Lord Alfred Tennyson.</strong><br /><br />No vengas cuando esté muerto<br />a derramar inocentes lágrimas sobre mi tumba,<br />a pisotear alrededor de mi cabeza caída.<br /><br />Atormentar el infame polvo no nos salvará;<br />deja que el viento me acaricie y que las aves me lloren,<br />Pero tú, aléjate.<br /><br />Niña, si esto fuera un error o un crímen,<br />poco me importa, siendo mi existencia maldita:<br />Enlaza tu mano con quien desees,<br />pues cansado estoy del Tiempo,<br />y mi único anhelo es descansar.<br /><br />Pasa, corazón débil,<br />y abandona este lecho de tierra.<br />Aléjate, no retornes jamás.Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-62249070998725507252011-01-28T22:18:00.002+01:002011-01-28T22:24:35.291+01:00The Lady of Shalott<iframe title="YouTube video player" class="youtube-player" type="text/html" width="480" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/i-uIjUr9ADI" frameborder="0" allowFullScreen></iframe><br />Video propio.<br /> <br />I<br /><br />A ambos lados del río se despliegan<br />sembrados de cebada y de centeno<br />que visten la meseta y el cielo tocan;<br />y corre junto al campo la calzada<br />que va hasta Camelot la de las torres;<br />y va la gente en idas y venidas,<br />donde los lirios crecen contemplando,<br />en torno de la isla de allí abajo,<br /> la isla de Shalott.<br /><br />El sauce palidece, tiembla el álamo,<br />cae en sombras la brisa, y se estremece<br />en esa ola que corre sin cesar<br />a orillas de la isla por el río<br />que fluye descendiendo a Camelot.<br />Cuatro muros y cuatro torres grises<br />dominan un lugar lleno de flores,<br />y en la isla silenciosa vive oculta<br /> la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />Junto al margen velado por los sauces<br />deslízanse tiradas las gabarras<br />por morosos caballos. Sin saludos,<br />pasa como volando la falúa,<br />con su vela de seda a Camelot:<br />mas, ¿ quién la ha visto hacer un ademán<br />o la ha visto asomada a la ventana?<br />¿O es que es conocida en todo el reino,<br />la Dama de Shalott?<br /><br />Sólo al amanecer, los segadores<br />que siegan las espigas de cebada<br />escuchan la canción que trae el eco<br />del río que serpea, transparente,<br />y que va a Camelot la de las torres.<br />Y con la luna, el segador cansado,<br />que apila las gavillas en la tierra,<br />susurra al escucharla: «Ésa es el hada,<br />la Dama de Shalott».<br /><br /><br />II<br /><br />Allí está ella, que teje noche y día<br />una mágica tela de colores.<br />Ha escuchado un susurro que le anuncia<br />que alguna horrible maldición le aguarda<br />si mira en dirección a Camelot.<br />No sabe qué será el encantamiento,<br />y así sigue tejiendo sin parar,<br />y ya sólo de eso se preocupa<br />la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />Y moviéndose en un límpido espejo<br />que está delante de ella todo el año,<br />se aparecen del mundo las tinieblas.<br />Allí ve la cercana carretera<br />que abajo serpea hasta Camelot:<br />allí gira del río el remolino,<br />y allí los más cerriles aldeanos<br />y las capas encarnadas de las mozas<br />pasan junto a Shalott.<br /><br />A veces, un tropel de damiselas,<br />un abad tendido en almohadones,<br />un zagal con el pelo ensortijado,<br />o un paje con vestido carmesí<br />van hacia Camelot la de las torres.<br />Y alguna vez, en el azul espejo,<br />cabalgan dos a dos los caballeros:<br />no tiene caballero que la sirva<br />la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />Pero aún ella goza cuando teje<br />las mágicas visiones del espejo:<br />a menudo en las noches silenciosas<br />un funeral con velas y penachos<br />con su música iba a Camelot;<br />o cuando estaba la luna en el cielo<br />venían dos amantes ya casados.<br />«Harta estoy de tinieblas», se decía<br />la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br /><br />III<br /><br />A un tiro de flecha de su alero<br />cabalgaba él en medio de las mieses:<br />venía el sol brillando entre las hojas,<br />llameando en las broncíneas grebas<br />del audaz y valiente Lanzarote.<br />Un cruzado por siempre de rodillas<br />ante una dama fulgía en su escudo<br />por los remotos campos amarillos<br />cercanos a Shalott.<br /><br />Lucía libre la enjoyada brida<br />como un ramal de estrellas que se ve<br />prendido de la áurea galaxia.<br />Sonaban los alegres cascabeles<br />mientras él cabalgaba a Camelot:<br />y de su heráldica trena colgaba<br />un potente clarín todo de plata;<br />tintineaba, al trote, su armadura<br />muy cerca de Shalott.<br /><br />Bajo el azul del cielo despejado<br />su silla tan lujosa refulgía<br />el yelmo y la alta pluma sobre el yelmo<br />como una sola llama ardían juntos<br />mientras él cabalgaba a Camelot.<br />Tal sucede en la noche purpúrea<br />bajo constelaciones luminosas,<br />un barbado meteoro se aproxima<br />a la quieta Shalott.<br /><br />Su clara frente al sol resplandecía,<br />montado en su corcel de hermosos cascos;<br />pendían de debajo de su yelmo<br />sus bucles que eran negros cual tizones<br />mientras él cabalgaba a Camelot.<br />Al pasar por la orilla y junto al río<br />brillaba en el espejo de cristal.<br />«Tiroliro», por la margen del río<br />cantaba Lanzarote.<br /><br />Ella dejó el paño, dejó el telar,<br />a través de la estancia dio tres pasos,<br />vio que su lirio de agua florecía,<br />contempló el yelmo y contempló la pluma,<br />dirigió su mirada a Camelot.<br />Salió volando el hilo por los aires,<br />de lado a lado se quebró el espejo.<br />«Es ésta ya la maldición», gritó<br />la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br /><br />IV<br /><br />Al soplo huracanado del levante,<br />los bosques sin color languidecían;<br />las aguas lamentábanse en la orilla;<br />con un cielo plomizo y bajo, estaba<br />lloviendo en Camelot la de las torres.<br />Ella descendió y encontró una barca<br />bajo un sauce flotando entre las aguas,<br />y en torno de la proa dejó escrito<br />La Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />Y a través de la niebla, río abajo,<br />cual temerario vidente en un trance<br />que ve todos sus propios infortunios,<br />vidriada la expresión de su semblante,<br />dirigió su mirada a Camelot.<br />Y luego, a la caída de la tarde,<br />retiró la cadena y se tendió;<br />muy lejos la arrastró el ancho caudal,<br />la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />Echada, toda de un níveo blanco<br />que flotaba a los lados libremente<br />—leves hojas cayendo sobre ella—,<br />a través de los ruidos de la noche<br />fue deslizándose hasta Camelot.<br />Y en tanto que la barca serpeaba<br />entre cerros de sauces y sembrados,<br />cantar la oyeron su canción postrera,<br />la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />Oyeron un himno doliente y sacro<br />cantado en alto, cantado quedamente,<br />hasta que se heló su sangre despacio<br />y sus ojos se nublaron del todo<br />vueltos a Camelot la de las torres.<br />Cuando llegaba ya con la corriente<br />a la primera casa junto al agua,<br />cantando su canción, ella murió,<br />la Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />Por debajo de torres y balcones,<br />junto a muros de calles y jardines,<br />su forma resplandeciente flotaba,<br />su mortal palidez entre las casas,<br />ya silenciosamente en Camelot.<br />Viniendo de los muelles se acercaron<br />caballero y burgués, señor y dama,<br />y su nombre leyeron en la proa,<br />La Dama de Shalott.<br /><br />¿Quién es ésta? ¿Y qué es lo que hace aquí?<br />Y en el cercano palacio encendido<br />se extinguió la alegría cortesana,<br />y llenos de temor se santiguaron<br />en Camelot los caballeros todos.<br />Pero quedó pensativo Lanzarote;<br />luego dijo: «Tiene un hermoso rostro;<br />que Dios se apiade de ella, en su clemencia,<br />la Dama de Shalott».<br /><br />Alfred TennysonMar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-26638324509180527162011-01-25T18:48:00.004+01:002011-01-25T19:36:00.338+01:00Dante Gabriel Rossetti como modeloVarios cuadros de los que formaron la Hermandad Prerrafaelita pueden apreciarse compñaeros haciendo de modelos. En esta ocasión son tres en los que se puede ver a Rossetti posando, para William Holman Hunt, Walter Howell Deverell y Ford Madox Brown. En la obra de Dewerell también está Elizabeth Siddal.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcGGUPvpIkRm7U7puPu01MH72WgyqWgxTr4aps7OJPvjdNMZKj8sywZ0jOiWzf_I7AmZ7JGEPNzbPlUM5hRhUeQSdgIYo7L-WX1kIy1XDknuOBIZVJ2ro5nL37mJ9LswqsdTz3JI858SE/s1600/Animazione16.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhcGGUPvpIkRm7U7puPu01MH72WgyqWgxTr4aps7OJPvjdNMZKj8sywZ0jOiWzf_I7AmZ7JGEPNzbPlUM5hRhUeQSdgIYo7L-WX1kIy1XDknuOBIZVJ2ro5nL37mJ9LswqsdTz3JI858SE/s400/Animazione16.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566188958766413714" /></a><br /><br />William Holman Hunt<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvUluNpahaw_8FCQHNcRKYX-VJLIxg1e5HFF15uzqW_b-cLzS-jHXmJTeCV-PRrVPm4IbPd1560PeeFtux7wDLIl5iwSFxWTA-vMFCDQ9H5Y-GH9E_VTPznjut9USbvRr-psKabern70zI/s1600/Animazione15.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvUluNpahaw_8FCQHNcRKYX-VJLIxg1e5HFF15uzqW_b-cLzS-jHXmJTeCV-PRrVPm4IbPd1560PeeFtux7wDLIl5iwSFxWTA-vMFCDQ9H5Y-GH9E_VTPznjut9USbvRr-psKabern70zI/s400/Animazione15.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566188831361450226" /></a><br /><br />Walter Howell Deverell <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaMqY5et0DF86X7tt8zP8cAh1IDMBTQBlak7KHYASP7Nq3BgulxTQFoUmWXgAp9qEim9jqrtONpXpiRHLa-qKl2BrMQWMkjRIxqo3xmOnOso3l4gDAqzvBItxCPChQcLcdxS22p3a4IDA/s1600/Animazione13.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 281px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicaMqY5et0DF86X7tt8zP8cAh1IDMBTQBlak7KHYASP7Nq3BgulxTQFoUmWXgAp9qEim9jqrtONpXpiRHLa-qKl2BrMQWMkjRIxqo3xmOnOso3l4gDAqzvBItxCPChQcLcdxS22p3a4IDA/s400/Animazione13.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566188681792877298" /></a><br /><br />Ford Madox BrownMar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-56419649874291582962010-12-10T18:46:00.002+01:002010-12-10T19:00:36.828+01:00Dante Gabriel Rossetti -Ecce Ancilla Domini!-(La Anunciación) 1849/1850<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjnpzIOUQ6n8MLjW4gorY5xVY8rH9xhpHLHq1GOIRXSkCl6mXFzbK_LKAUJfX7P7pCpqv57UhOZ5I9635ZArMINjW2XR8JBhqQx7aYdDD56vZEy4nDYESxXAYdFMPQdvcKK3EFP7Kpj2P/s1600/anunciacionroseti.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 223px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxjnpzIOUQ6n8MLjW4gorY5xVY8rH9xhpHLHq1GOIRXSkCl6mXFzbK_LKAUJfX7P7pCpqv57UhOZ5I9635ZArMINjW2XR8JBhqQx7aYdDD56vZEy4nDYESxXAYdFMPQdvcKK3EFP7Kpj2P/s400/anunciacionroseti.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5549114989452184562" /></a><br />Rossetti aquí enseña su particular forma de plasmar la Anunciación, mucho más realista. En ella casi siemre solemos ver a una Virgen contemplativa, mientras que Rossetti nos la enseña de muy diferente manera, como recién levantada. El blanco virginal es el color que domina la escena. En esta ocasión los modelos fueron su hermano William y su hermana Christina. Rossetti tuvo problemas para plasmar en el oleo las llamas que salen de los pies del ángel anunciador.<br />Como tantas otras, esta obra fue muy criticada en su momento, decían que era un ejemplo de perversión del talento, algo que en auqel tiempo había progresado muchoMar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-13848224992249668442010-08-31T17:21:00.007+02:002010-08-31T18:25:32.399+02:00Evelyn de Morgan y Jane Burden Morris<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQR5XSc7ZnufBpLeFIIquXw_L5wbw8-NxEpHPqL-55ndp783p2hht-HV521SR1hK5UH4zSkkDlBrJgqB5p5c4FMF5eVpX7RRLMumm4vAckYBrDL24X1YCMroFAI1D5nQX6ltJOAKKu36w/s1600/435px-The_Hour-Glass.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzQR5XSc7ZnufBpLeFIIquXw_L5wbw8-NxEpHPqL-55ndp783p2hht-HV521SR1hK5UH4zSkkDlBrJgqB5p5c4FMF5eVpX7RRLMumm4vAckYBrDL24X1YCMroFAI1D5nQX6ltJOAKKu36w/s400/435px-The_Hour-Glass.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511607656767023618" /></a><br /><br />The hour glass (1904-1905)<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUOtZRPOqCrkgcnjm6ArG-wHs1bTLUyuycNZepLhGMfBktMJYQEH84_WHBo3WtGXDycGCH2_WDHZS546_mVFBEAp22MuIQAOa-9iK-SFmvUJe3MkxPGOJylpx_EUzdGwrZIT-r4WYL4no/s1600/Jane%2520Morris_photo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 372px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoUOtZRPOqCrkgcnjm6ArG-wHs1bTLUyuycNZepLhGMfBktMJYQEH84_WHBo3WtGXDycGCH2_WDHZS546_mVFBEAp22MuIQAOa-9iK-SFmvUJe3MkxPGOJylpx_EUzdGwrZIT-r4WYL4no/s400/Jane%2520Morris_photo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511601156237867970" /></a><br /><br />Jane Burden Morris fotografiada en su juventud<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDrl_2vwNRjQvpBYZIGFBumbytm8GOCCulV24FZ18uZiyXF6heRS5VgdTDmaefwDrCBVGILm_a-qyExpeaSmBRtktlk0QN3RVW7bRVnJnLhVvN9jsnftFaQLNQcVjaOc8U_UpZojZLL7sx/s1600/morgan.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDrl_2vwNRjQvpBYZIGFBumbytm8GOCCulV24FZ18uZiyXF6heRS5VgdTDmaefwDrCBVGILm_a-qyExpeaSmBRtktlk0QN3RVW7bRVnJnLhVvN9jsnftFaQLNQcVjaOc8U_UpZojZLL7sx/s400/morgan.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511599182449763266" /></a><br /><br />Retrato de Jane Morris (1904)<br /><br /><br />En 1904 Evelyn de Morgan hizo un retrato de Jane Burden Morris, una de las musas prerrafaelitas, esposa de William Morris y amante de Dante Gabriel Rossetti. El retrato está hecho sobre papel marrón, diez años antes de que falleciera Jane Morris. En aquel momento tenía 65 y aún guardaba una serena belleza. En estos momentos el cuadro no se puede visitar, pues la Foundation De Morgan está cerrada en espera de abrir en otro edificio.<br />De Morgan, poco después (1904-1905) volvió a elegir a Jane Morris, la obra se llamaba "The Hour Glass". En él se ve a una mayor Jane Morris en el papel de una reina sombría sentada en un trono, con las manos descansando sobre un reloj de arena. La imagen es una alegoría del paso del tiempo, y en muchos sentidos marca el final de siglo, y el final de la época prerrafaelita. Esta obra también está en la De Morgan Foundation.<br /><br />En especial para Amalia:-)Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-16781433637394779202010-06-11T00:32:00.004+02:002010-06-11T00:54:05.841+02:00Frederick Sandys -Vivien-Este cuadro se puede admirar en la Manchester Art Gallery. Data del año 1863. En las obras de Sandys se ve reflejada la obra de Edgar Allan Poe, Alfred Tennyson y Burne-Jones. "Vivien" está plagada de simbolismo. La rosa marchita en su mano izquierda (que no se puede ver en la imagen) significa el amor perdido, las plumas de pavo real simbolizan la lujuria y la manzana la tentación. El cuadro puede recordar a algunas obras de Rosssetti. <br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmePhr1bQ3s8Njfr7anSSy7dIVSUSxoYgwPFFgAsG5q76Rw6oFz1nxTDgJZMhh8fUQ6Ng2-mx9LHxbWJDeD5Ujfik6j0CoHok5DszN1P6ltHoSIu1XEmQ_0tKPXWD4KzHrKi4gLRoi__U/s1600/10435_138019527347_29023962347_2452468_4986304_n.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 356px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBmePhr1bQ3s8Njfr7anSSy7dIVSUSxoYgwPFFgAsG5q76Rw6oFz1nxTDgJZMhh8fUQ6Ng2-mx9LHxbWJDeD5Ujfik6j0CoHok5DszN1P6ltHoSIu1XEmQ_0tKPXWD4KzHrKi4gLRoi__U/s400/10435_138019527347_29023962347_2452468_4986304_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481280004798900722" /></a>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-16321273634747223762010-05-06T21:33:00.004+02:002010-05-07T07:17:40.354+02:00Anne François Louis JanmotAnne-François-Louis Janmot nació en Lyon el 21 mayo 1814 de padres muy religiosos. Le marcaron mucho las muertes de sus hermanos fallecidos en 1823 y 1829 respectivamente.<br />Estudió en la universidad de Lyon. En 1831 fue admitido en la École des Beaux-Arts de Lyon. En 1833, llegó a París para tomar clases de pintura de Víctor Orsel y Auguste-Dominique Ingres. En 1835, fue a Roma y allí conoció a Hippolyte Flandrin.<br />Volvió a Lyon en 1836. Llamó la atención de los críticos del Salón de París. Con su pintura “Flores de los campos” le permitió el acceso al Salón. Los críticos también quedaron impresionados por su “Retrato de Lacordaire “ en 1846, Pero el fracaso de su” Poema del alma” en la Exposición Universal de 1855 le decepcionó. En diciembre de ese año se casó con Leonie Saint-Paulet,, con la que tuvo siete hijos.<br />En el año 1861 volvió a trasladarse a París para hacer un encargo en la iglesia de San Agustín, pero este proyecto se abandonó tres años después.<br />Teniendo muchos problemas económicos aceptó una cátedra en la Escuela Dominicana de Arcueil. en su casa de Bagneux hizo muchos cuadros a familiares de los cuales en la actualidad solo quedan fotografías.<br />Después del nacimiento de su séptimo hijo en agosto de 1870, su esposa murió en Bagneux. Mientras las tropas prusianas se acercó y ocupó su casa, huyó a Argel con su padrastro e hizo pinturas de paisajes. Volvió en junio del año siguiente a París y llevó una vida solitaria. Su casa en Bagneux había sido saqueada. Frente a la familia y los crecientes problemas financieros, Janmot llegó a Toulon , y pese a algunos encargos (nuevo retrato de Lacordaire (1878, Museo de Versalles), Rosaire ( Saint-Germain-en-Laye , 1880), El martirio de Santa Cristina ( Solliès -Pont , 1882), vivió una vida retirada.<br />En 1885, se casó con una antigua alumno<br />a, Antoinette Currat, y regresó en Lyon. Hizo dibujos en carboncillo sobre el tema del bajo mundo.<br />Su estilo se ve como la transición entre el romanticismo y el simbolismo. Su pintura tiene paralelismo con obra de sus contemporáneos los Nazarenos y los Prerrafaelistas.<br />Murió a los 78 años el 1 junio 1892.<br /><br /><br />Video propio.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9B5xErMYfHE&hl=es_ES&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9B5xErMYfHE&hl=es_ES&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-59299690809425375912010-01-03T23:20:00.003+01:002010-01-03T23:52:02.590+01:00John Everett Millais -Cristo en casa de sus padres-Obra ejecutada entre 1849 y 1850. El intento de ambientar de manera realista a la Sagrada Familia en el taller de un carpintero suscitó un gran escándalo. Charles Dickens asoció la imagen de la virgen con la de un ser monstruoso. Pero la opinión pública no pudo evitar apreciar la maestría del artista a la hora de pintar cada detalle.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsFSpf-_43G8THEG-Z9deCgqf2r61kVPPDNKJ2ZdpMEhcXIo1M428JD_bCYJRjCLXeCHgAcwhfN77FOEqp7_FiWziV6hZIUITYT4GhSPvJJ__8z-w6bWPrkNywH4U4HV6l43gq-Wei4_Z/s1600-h/millais-christus_im_hause_seiner_eltern.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOsFSpf-_43G8THEG-Z9deCgqf2r61kVPPDNKJ2ZdpMEhcXIo1M428JD_bCYJRjCLXeCHgAcwhfN77FOEqp7_FiWziV6hZIUITYT4GhSPvJJ__8z-w6bWPrkNywH4U4HV6l43gq-Wei4_Z/s400/millais-christus_im_hause_seiner_eltern.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422650022771624514" /></a>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-75320238809499611792009-12-10T22:45:00.003+01:002009-12-10T22:54:11.391+01:00Dante Gabriel Rossetti: La adolescencia de MaríaSe realizó entre 1848 y 1849. Fue la primera obra en que además de la firma de Rossetti aparecen las siglas PRB.Las dos mujeres que sirvieron para modelos fueron la hermana y la madre del pintor. Para San Jaoquin posó un empleado de la familia llamado "Old Williams"<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2wtJ7cl6Tx_AOy2ppGwUIz6V7mKXnGGqvhzMKap8e1qsHyJcxPWUivLwSUMheG1i7zD6z-qFAqENsUtpoyNejFcB1PNWRn-_yjxz6jA1Apo5qrmdqOoW03sMG1UXcOyPXaEIwkBDxWao/s1600-h/dante+gabriele+rossetti+la+adolescencia+de+mar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 290px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL2wtJ7cl6Tx_AOy2ppGwUIz6V7mKXnGGqvhzMKap8e1qsHyJcxPWUivLwSUMheG1i7zD6z-qFAqENsUtpoyNejFcB1PNWRn-_yjxz6jA1Apo5qrmdqOoW03sMG1UXcOyPXaEIwkBDxWao/s400/dante+gabriele+rossetti+la+adolescencia+de+mar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413729073571872994" /></a>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-29495486598858460972009-11-29T23:31:00.002+01:002009-11-29T23:35:40.458+01:00Evelyn de Morgan<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/olbF4DCujrs&hl=es_ES&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/olbF4DCujrs&hl=es_ES&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-36637733503991913862009-11-14T16:08:00.007+01:002009-11-14T16:20:19.069+01:00Desperate romanticsDesperate Romantics se estrenó el pasado 21 de Julio en la BBC y cuenta con 6 episodios inspirados en la obra " Desperate Romantics: The Private Lives of the Pre-Raphaelites " de Franny Moyle. En ella se nos describen las andanzas de tres jovencísimos Rossetti, Hunt y Millais en su etapa más genuina y antiacademicista.<br /><br />Para bajarse la serie: http://ineedfile.com/romantics<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRifnrLxs964tRH4YzI934FIPFJkaxavZ0YBoH96RnQzwRqL3MbD3Guc8oi59XLzqeB3Au2s0fOhFCxQY_bwGBlMkqUn9t3QR7QfutLDwXo3nI4gMp9bSaqwkI1N0IKb_zX75tRPjGEeOH/s1600-h/kinopoisk_ru-Desperate-Romantics-996368.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRifnrLxs964tRH4YzI934FIPFJkaxavZ0YBoH96RnQzwRqL3MbD3Guc8oi59XLzqeB3Au2s0fOhFCxQY_bwGBlMkqUn9t3QR7QfutLDwXo3nI4gMp9bSaqwkI1N0IKb_zX75tRPjGEeOH/s400/kinopoisk_ru-Desperate-Romantics-996368.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403979170018005954" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz7Jh-fqxrzMutsUkhirkJyoimdp7GGkkYxFShm0q2nan5t1srP4BjLO7T-YYMyHBorB7RSKzOUD25uDXEXHbJdAHAywFF1Uyw384QKYr6HspnvdEneihI9rt7RbqJa8DAf083lzntERk/s1600-h/kinopoisk_ru-Desperate-Romantics-996348.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUz7Jh-fqxrzMutsUkhirkJyoimdp7GGkkYxFShm0q2nan5t1srP4BjLO7T-YYMyHBorB7RSKzOUD25uDXEXHbJdAHAywFF1Uyw384QKYr6HspnvdEneihI9rt7RbqJa8DAf083lzntERk/s400/kinopoisk_ru-Desperate-Romantics-996348.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403978972154345570" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3rOkwQHk7FzLwVNX-QouFDRSv9FPQunJwQMjsjcO7kAhuIVvNiVdjpZlC4cUHduAQx4ejrUUrMkQxWbIdy1u0p8xlym9jtWIf4WVTaHB8068RCV-OB1jVlZIXFzcDuk0ADXugiiujFd_/s1600-h/kinopoisk_ru-Desperate-Romantics-996327.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 357px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV3rOkwQHk7FzLwVNX-QouFDRSv9FPQunJwQMjsjcO7kAhuIVvNiVdjpZlC4cUHduAQx4ejrUUrMkQxWbIdy1u0p8xlym9jtWIf4WVTaHB8068RCV-OB1jVlZIXFzcDuk0ADXugiiujFd_/s400/kinopoisk_ru-Desperate-Romantics-996327.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403978812036869570" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrq0camGAzrG4KZ50qEJrP6wMX1KzOwoJPWLBAWdEZY1aPZ2qlV_fuzj17CvZPh67th3_kmZwOCds52Dc0u4dr_yPrxHq2zDUhriZf4jXv0mucgEuT0W1Z-am9YAsI7MRuwH2S73cyMAA/s1600-h/47165864_kinopoisk.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqrq0camGAzrG4KZ50qEJrP6wMX1KzOwoJPWLBAWdEZY1aPZ2qlV_fuzj17CvZPh67th3_kmZwOCds52Dc0u4dr_yPrxHq2zDUhriZf4jXv0mucgEuT0W1Z-am9YAsI7MRuwH2S73cyMAA/s400/47165864_kinopoisk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403978278199120274" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUiDavYxU08pepFpzTP7aLkxbq_K-djOEckn2OtJZfAYcdPWStEz5UcyKiFxNm2qvMEQdI_j3RL-QhLOlf525Pg_pBZc3fbEGhG_L-6Tw-Atf0yClLI0OdhgZgsZ0V1IUsNuAWOMJYCTm/s1600-h/47165840_kinopoisk.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUiDavYxU08pepFpzTP7aLkxbq_K-djOEckn2OtJZfAYcdPWStEz5UcyKiFxNm2qvMEQdI_j3RL-QhLOlf525Pg_pBZc3fbEGhG_L-6Tw-Atf0yClLI0OdhgZgsZ0V1IUsNuAWOMJYCTm/s400/47165840_kinopoisk.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403978176924975954" /></a>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-78661385691397758852009-10-21T23:09:00.004+02:002009-10-21T23:22:41.529+02:00John Everett Millais "The rescue" (El rescate) 1855A Millais le vino la inspiración viendo un incendio en Ponchester Terrace, por otro lado, él decía que "los soldados y los marinos ya habían sdo enzalcados mil veces, así que en su próximo cuadro habría bomberos. Millais hablaba de la moda que en aquellos momentos imperaba<br />Quemó madera en su estudio y halló el efecto colcocando un cristal entre la ventana y los modelos.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvasgf1igmjjOSJCasFwLoKMVfmPpe8PIDCtcIQwojK5yxabKW4tq3zxhPnnjdgfoSfEGwQpSYIW0GZjJc2LkRTPRrPqXR43VFUZhJEOrZYFXfdNeQrD4TG1lVJPXOIc3q0oweKJHgSRa/s1600-h/Millais_Rescue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMvasgf1igmjjOSJCasFwLoKMVfmPpe8PIDCtcIQwojK5yxabKW4tq3zxhPnnjdgfoSfEGwQpSYIW0GZjJc2LkRTPRrPqXR43VFUZhJEOrZYFXfdNeQrD4TG1lVJPXOIc3q0oweKJHgSRa/s400/Millais_Rescue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395163986649849042" /></a>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-34211877272134448122009-09-02T00:31:00.004+02:002009-09-02T00:42:12.768+02:00William Hunt "Valentine Rescuing Sylvia from Proteus" (Valentino rescata a Silvia de Proteo)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFf0uQkh8b8o7ZMihHq9E_FdeEj7CwXiuITh9D3qRLOQ7m1HAJv3RBJc21ZHAOGOeLpRbhNf2219FTFCQHGBVVZFzdIO7zBhq-U6g47Tf5IwhMADXoKeMxOUOj2NIYFm0CfUSp7HEaKMu7/s1600-h/800px-William_Holman_Hunt_-_Valentine_Rescuing_Sylvia_from_Proteus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFf0uQkh8b8o7ZMihHq9E_FdeEj7CwXiuITh9D3qRLOQ7m1HAJv3RBJc21ZHAOGOeLpRbhNf2219FTFCQHGBVVZFzdIO7zBhq-U6g47Tf5IwhMADXoKeMxOUOj2NIYFm0CfUSp7HEaKMu7/s400/800px-William_Holman_Hunt_-_Valentine_Rescuing_Sylvia_from_Proteus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376632534114106018" /></a><br />Este cuadro se pintó entre 1850-1851. La modelo que inmortaliza a Silvia es Elizabeth Siddal. El modelo para Valentino fue James Lennox Hannay. La obra representa la cuarta escena del quinto acto de la obra de William Shakespeare "Los dos gentilhombres de Verona"Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-43417185192409701022009-06-14T20:18:00.009+02:002009-06-14T20:22:58.490+02:00Elizabeth Siddal, sus obrasEleanor Elizabeth Siddal nació en Londres el 25 de Julio de 1829.<br />Era una mujer muy hermosa lo que la llevó muy pronto a ser modelo para los artistas. Pasó a la historia como Lizzy, nombre cariñoso, junto con el nombre Guggums, que le dieron los artistas de la Hermandad de los Prerrafaelistas.<br />La introdujo en la Hermandad Prerrafaelista Walter H. Deverell en 1850 para su cuadro Twelfth Night retratada como Viola. La conoció en la sombrerería Cranbourne Alley en Leicester Square donde ella trabajaba, se quedó muy impresionado por su aspecto y, cuando ella aceptó a posar para su cuadro, la vida de todos ellos cambió. Poseía una belleza "gótica", según el ideal de la Hermandad Prerrafaelista: una pura frente centrada por la raya del peinado, una nariz recta, una boca pequeña y firme, una barbilla voluptuosa y un precioso y largo cabellorojizo. <br />Elizabeth no tenía formación artística alguna y comenzó a realizar dibujos y a pintar bajo la atenta mirada de su maestro y amante Rossetti. Fue la musa de la Hermandad y durante mucho tiempo el centro de atención de aquellos artistas. Encarnaba los valores formales que ellos intentaban plasmar en sus cuadros con su pálida piel y su cabello cobrizo. Con el tiempo, Rossetti pasó a ejercer total posesión sobre ella. La custodiaba celosamente, y la trataba con exquisitez. Por mediación de Rossetti, Siddal llegó a conocer a Ford Madox Brown y a Ruskin, y éste último se convirtió en su patrón en 1855 comprando todos los dibujos que ella hacía a la vez que la ayudaba a comprar los medicamentos que necesitaba para su precaria salud. Pero el año 1858 enfermó muy gravemente y tuvo que dejar de pintar. Era de constitución débil y su estado de salud se resintió mucho al posar durante muchas horas dentro de una bañera de agua fría completamente vestida en el número 83 de Gower Street en Londres en el invierno de 1852 para el cuadro Ophelia, del pintor prerrafaelista Millais. Enfermiza desde entonces pasó largas temporadas en los balnearios y junto a ella, Rossetti. <br />A pesar de las infidelidades que ya sufría por parte de Dante Gabriel Rossetti se casó con él el día 23 de mayo de 1860 en la iglesia de St. Clement y se fueron a París y a Boulogne de luna de miel. Fue una época agridulce pues comenzó a ser adicta al láudano (se cree que sufría anorexia y que le fue recetado el láudano para curarse) y, además, su marido, aunque la amaba profundamente, siguió manteniendo relaciones extramatrimoniales. Para hundirla más aún, el 2 de mayo de 1861 su única hija nació muerta. Para entonces su mente estaba muy torturaday el 11 de febrero de 1862 se suicidó tomando una sobredosis de láudano a la edad de 32 años. Se cree que su marido estaba con una de sus amantes, Fanny Cornforth, la noche que ella tomó la sobredosis. Su marido, en un acto romántico sepultó junto a su cadáver los manuscritos de todos los poemas que él había escrito, en el cementerio de Highgate de Londres. <br />Siete años más tarde su cuerpo fue exhumado para poder recuperar los manuscritos que habían enterrado junto a ella. La carrera de Rosetti se hundía y viéndole desesperado su agente le convenció para que recuperara los poemas. Fue dado el permiso de exhumación con la condición de que fuera realizada por la noche para no perturbar a los visitantes. A la luz de las antorchas se excavó la tumba y se abrió el ataúd. <br />El cuñado de Elizabeth, William Michael Rossetti, consiguió imprimir los quince poemas que ella había escrito en su corta vida pero de manera poco sistemática en 1906. No fue hasta 1978 que Roger C. Lewis y Mark Samuels Lasner los recogieron y publicaron, después de una gran época ignorados.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO4O_UjkTgVhx9I5sUU89iAdrvlaZBoGw-ht2l0Z2xT-sUL01HrQymd_tdZrXvi0259EepxAieu8YQ17pOdEl2RR5smmdicloXF0DDcq9KBnlVreH1YfiNlytMzokjrK6CjjtXX90WbQr/s1600-h/siddal15.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigO4O_UjkTgVhx9I5sUU89iAdrvlaZBoGw-ht2l0Z2xT-sUL01HrQymd_tdZrXvi0259EepxAieu8YQ17pOdEl2RR5smmdicloXF0DDcq9KBnlVreH1YfiNlytMzokjrK6CjjtXX90WbQr/s400/siddal15.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347249964433280674" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC56bfVDcFXvzZX9YAlHuQgIMULQJTa8I9Lp80ekJd6rB4sDhU-NbTyJgWEKFm8_XQH5FIRnslEWtPBEt1WTfni82Yk_WQeNCabZogz2-E7TZAwjJChQlPz2IJo-HTuURcHn54sG9GLvwI/s1600-h/siddal11.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 382px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC56bfVDcFXvzZX9YAlHuQgIMULQJTa8I9Lp80ekJd6rB4sDhU-NbTyJgWEKFm8_XQH5FIRnslEWtPBEt1WTfni82Yk_WQeNCabZogz2-E7TZAwjJChQlPz2IJo-HTuURcHn54sG9GLvwI/s400/siddal11.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347249895034766978" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2meyTELHRH8ZMQdkJiFIlU-O2IYfGWxFeHsLmO-oyW_vE-qJCF0IzfZDIxgPeDOLdaCc6Zg2SLiFopn3l5mr5eSNnYTWVwLkqf6-1LJpiHRyUoJ0XXAtogH1_6ZH7uWtB53q70RZjeiF/s1600-h/siddal10.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2meyTELHRH8ZMQdkJiFIlU-O2IYfGWxFeHsLmO-oyW_vE-qJCF0IzfZDIxgPeDOLdaCc6Zg2SLiFopn3l5mr5eSNnYTWVwLkqf6-1LJpiHRyUoJ0XXAtogH1_6ZH7uWtB53q70RZjeiF/s400/siddal10.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347249798734688082" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAV4gf2KN58au_14e5zqPEAbAC8T7Qs0zeDlz6YXJgwbfPilkJ1zRz_x8LD7Ue_RHY7iUSyf-Jgc-xb7RxwCUStFkhQ35ZHaCm7J8egNtB_KkEyCU9a-5RtS-SL8b7UNH6FxB2lzzTxHm/s1600-h/siddal8.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 384px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAV4gf2KN58au_14e5zqPEAbAC8T7Qs0zeDlz6YXJgwbfPilkJ1zRz_x8LD7Ue_RHY7iUSyf-Jgc-xb7RxwCUStFkhQ35ZHaCm7J8egNtB_KkEyCU9a-5RtS-SL8b7UNH6FxB2lzzTxHm/s400/siddal8.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347249679573032418" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitr-eZEs9jOh-J4oDuan0-NvfaG5aZqEyNWGuLvie6Dv1FZLkE5XBAX38VYyXoZJmkXCXqSofVMy__vkNiU-RzH7I_r40pvA13WTva0uitydzttrQAX5ekvizasZS-rdwb82bOqwNV6Fhq/s1600-h/siddal5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitr-eZEs9jOh-J4oDuan0-NvfaG5aZqEyNWGuLvie6Dv1FZLkE5XBAX38VYyXoZJmkXCXqSofVMy__vkNiU-RzH7I_r40pvA13WTva0uitydzttrQAX5ekvizasZS-rdwb82bOqwNV6Fhq/s400/siddal5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347249578464898466" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFkqlYV5aq9cLW71nHrApvhuUu17aLMKmISInCuNZbZJgpRGvAW8mP_CLSSV0KfhS8VHflP-bXm9TVclRiAcKqBAGFFQj0NnuctUFRAer0CkVDVX0HKE4lWNJOMmbw49Lk796P8MYc7MY/s1600-h/siddal2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 260px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFkqlYV5aq9cLW71nHrApvhuUu17aLMKmISInCuNZbZJgpRGvAW8mP_CLSSV0KfhS8VHflP-bXm9TVclRiAcKqBAGFFQj0NnuctUFRAer0CkVDVX0HKE4lWNJOMmbw49Lk796P8MYc7MY/s400/siddal2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347249490400393074" /></a>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-46665089612004825612009-05-27T19:47:00.000+02:002009-05-27T21:19:19.499+02:00John Everett Millais -Isabella- (1848/1849)Esta es la primera obra que Millais expuso en la Royal Academy, así mismo fue la primera firmada con las sigls de la hermandad "PRB" (Se puede apreciar en el taburete donde está sentada Isabella, en la parte inferior)<br />La pintura está inspirada en un poema de John Keats fechado en 1820 "The Pot of Basil" este, a su vez se inspiró en una obra de Boccaccio.<br />El cuadro explica la violenta oposición de los hermanos de Isabella respecto al amor que le une a Lorenzo (el que será causa de su muerte)Un hermano lo expresa pegando un puntapie al perro que Isabella acaricia dulcemente. En la obra se reconocen las caras de los hermanos Rossetti, F.G. Stephens (amigo de Millais) y Walter Deverell.<br /> <br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHhH1MvhoVSs1pP7ET65jvLlJS_fY_jRJADSweSF6qKaoDMTCJm7bRA7gtETIZrBjA3kd106Ha_Hx6OT9ipWSh_NcQ_iSxN3zSuDvDS_V1wIQaoEMe5NNYWyplbU7sR2q_I31rY3DjQN9/s1600-h/John+Everett+Millais+Isabella.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsHhH1MvhoVSs1pP7ET65jvLlJS_fY_jRJADSweSF6qKaoDMTCJm7bRA7gtETIZrBjA3kd106Ha_Hx6OT9ipWSh_NcQ_iSxN3zSuDvDS_V1wIQaoEMe5NNYWyplbU7sR2q_I31rY3DjQN9/s400/John+Everett+Millais+Isabella.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340583299436417010" /></a><br /><br />The Pot of Basil <br /><br />Fair Isabella, poor simple Isabella! <br />Lorenzo, a young palmer in Love’s eye! <br />They could not in the self-same mansion dwell <br />Without some stir of heart, some malady; <br />They could not sit at meals but feel how well <br />It soothed each to be the other by; <br />They could not, sure, beneath the same roof sleep <br />But to each other dream, and nightly weep. <br /><br /><br />II.<br /><br /><br />With every morn their love grew tenderer, <br />With every eve deeper and tenderer still; <br />He might not in house, field, or garden stir, <br />But her full shape would all his seeing fill; <br />And his continual voice was pleasanter <br />To her, than noise of trees or hidden rill; <br />Her lute-string gave an echo of his name, <br />She spoilt her half-done broidery with the same. <br /><br /><br />III.<br /><br /><br />He knew whose gentle hand was at the latch, <br />Before the door had given her to his eyes; <br />And from her chamber-window he would catch <br />Her beauty farther than the falcon spies; <br />And constant as her vespers would he watch, <br />Because her face was turn’d to the same skies; <br />And with sick longing all the night outwear, <br />To hear her morning-step upon the stair. <br /><br /><br />IV.<br /><br /><br />A whole long month of May in this sad plight <br />Made their cheeks paler by the break of June: <br />«To morrow will I bow to my delight, <br />«To morrow will I ask my lady’s boon.» - <br />«O may I never see another night, <br />«Lorenzo, if thy lips breathe not love’s tune.» - <br />So spake they to their pillows; but, alas, <br />Honeyless days and days did he let pass; <br /><br /><br />V.<br /><br /><br />Until sweet Isabella’s untouch’d cheek <br />Fell sick within the rose’s just domain, <br />Fell thin as a young mother’s, who doth seek <br />By every lull to cool her infant’s pain: <br />«How ill she is,» said he, «I may not speak, <br />«And yet I will, and tell my love all plain: <br />«If looks speak love-laws, I will drink her tears, <br />«And at the least ’twill startle off her cares.» <br /><br /><br />VI.<br /><br /><br />So said he one fair morning, and all day <br />His heart beat awfully against his side; <br />And to his heart he inwardly did pray <br />For power to speak; but still the ruddy tide <br />Stifled his voice, and puls’d resolve away - <br />Fever’d his high conceit of such a bride, <br />Yet brought him to the meekness of a child: <br />Alas! when passion is both meek and wild! <br /><br /><br />VII.<br /><br /><br />So once more he had wak’d and anguished <br />A dreary night of love and misery, <br />If Isabel’s quick eye had not been wed <br />To every symbol on his forehead high; <br />She saw it waxing very pale and dead, <br />And straight all flush’d; so, lisped tenderly, <br />«Lorenzo!» - here she ceas’d her timid quest, <br />But in her tone and look he read the rest. <br /><br /><br />VIII.<br /><br /><br />«O Isabella, I can half perceive <br />«That I may speak my grief into thine ear; <br />«If thou didst ever any thing believe, <br />«Believe how I love thee, believe how near <br />«My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve <br />«Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear <br />«Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live <br />«Another night, and not my passion shrive. <br /><br /><br />IX.<br /><br /><br />«Love! thou art leading me from wintry cold, <br />«Lady! thou leadest me to summer clime, <br />«And I must taste the blossoms that unfold <br />«In its ripe warmth this gracious morning time.» <br />So said, his erewhile timid lips grew bold, <br />And poesied with hers in dewy rhyme: <br />Great bliss was with them, and great happiness <br />Grew, like a lusty flower in June’s caress. <br /><br /><br />X.<br /><br /><br />Parting they seem’d to tread upon the air, <br />Twin roses by the zephyr blown apart <br />Only to meet again more close, and share <br />The inward fragrance of each other’s heart. <br />She, to her chamber gone, a ditty fair <br />Sang, of delicious love and honey’d dart; <br />He with light steps went up a western hill, <br />And bade the sun farewell, and joy’d his fill. <br /><br /><br />XI.<br /><br /><br />All close they met again, before the dusk <br />Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, <br />All close they met, all eves, before the dusk <br />Had taken from the stars its pleasant veil, <br />Close in a bower of hyacinth and musk, <br />Unknown of any, free from whispering tale. <br />Ah! better had it been for ever so, <br />Than idle ears should pleasure in their woe. <br /><br /><br />XII.<br /><br /><br />Were they unhappy then? - It cannot be - <br />Too many tears for lovers have been shed, <br />Too many sighs give we to them in fee, <br />Too much of pity after they are dead, <br />Too many doleful stories do we see, <br />Whose matter in bright gold were best be read; <br />Except in such a page where Theseus’ spouse <br />Over the pathless waves towards him bows. <br /><br /><br />XIII.<br /><br /><br />But, for the general award of love, <br />The little sweet doth kill much bitterness; <br />Though Dido silent is in under-grove, <br />And Isabella’s was a great distress, <br />Though young Lorenzo in warm Indian clove <br />Was not embalm’d, this truth is not the less - <br />Even bees, the little almsmen of spring-bowers, <br />Know there is richest juice in poison-flowers. <br /><br /><br />XIV.<br /><br /><br />With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt, <br />Enriched from ancestral merchandize, <br />And for them many a weary hand did swelt <br />In torched mines and noisy factories, <br />And many once proud-quiver’d loins did melt <br />In blood from stinging whip; - with hollow eyes <br />Many all day in dazzling river stood, <br />To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood. <br /><br /><br />XV.<br /><br /><br />For them the Ceylon diver held his breath, <br />And went all naked to the hungry shark; <br />For them his ears gush’d blood; for them in death <br />The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark <br />Lay full of darts; for them alone did seethe <br />A thousand men in troubles wide and dark: <br />Half-ignorant, they turn’d an easy wheel, <br />That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel. <br /><br /><br />XVI.<br /><br /><br />Why were they proud? Because their marble founts <br />Gush’d with more pride than do a wretch’s tears? - <br />Why were they proud? Because fair orange-mounts <br />Were of more soft ascent than lazar stairs? - <br />Why were they proud? Because red-lin’d accounts <br />Were richer than the songs of Grecian years? - <br />Why were they proud? again we ask aloud, <br />Why in the name of Glory were they proud? <br /><br /><br />XVII.<br /><br /><br />Yet were these Florentines as self-retired <br />In hungry pride and gainful cowardice, 130 <br />As two close Hebrews in that land inspired, <br />Paled in and vineyarded from beggar-spies, <br />The hawks of ship-mast forests - the untired <br />And pannier’d mules for ducats and old lies - <br />Quick cat’s-paws on the generous stray-away, - <br />Great wits in Spanish, Tuscan, and Malay. <br /><br /><br />XVIII.<br /><br /><br />How was it these same ledger-men could spy <br />Fair Isabella in her downy nest? <br />How could they find out in Lorenzo’s eye <br />A straying from his toil? Hot Egypt’s pest <br />Into their vision covetous and sly! <br />How could these money-bags see east and west? - <br />Yet so they did - and every dealer fair <br />Must see behind, as doth the hunted hare. <br /><br /><br />XIX.<br /><br /><br />O eloquent and famed Boccaccio! <br />Of thee we now should ask forgiving boon, <br />And of thy spicy myrtles as they blow, <br />And of thy roses amorous of the moon, <br />And of thy lilies, that do paler grow <br />Now they can no more hear thy ghittern’s tune, <br />For venturing syllables that ill beseem <br />The quiet glooms of such a piteous theme. <br /><br /><br />XX.<br /><br /><br />Grant thou a pardon here, and then the tale <br />Shall move on soberly, as it is meet; <br />There is no other crime, no mad assail <br />To make old prose in modern rhyme more sweet: <br />But it is done - succeed the verse or fail - <br />To honour thee, and thy gone spirit greet; <br />To stead thee as a verse in English tongue, <br />An echo of thee in the north-wind sung. <br /><br /><br />XXI.<br /><br /><br />These brethren having found by many signs <br />What love Lorenzo for their sister had, <br />And how she lov’d him too, each unconfines <br />His bitter thoughts to other, well nigh mad <br />That he, the servant of their trade designs, <br />Should in their sister’s love be blithe and glad, <br />When ’twas their plan to coax her by degrees <br />To some high noble and his olive-trees. <br /><br /><br />XXII.<br /><br /><br />And many a jealous conference had they, <br />And many times they bit their lips alone, <br />Before they fix’d upon a surest way <br />To make the youngster for his crime atone; <br />And at the last, these men of cruel clay <br />Cut Mercy with a sharp knife to the bone; <br />For they resolved in some forest dim <br />To kill Lorenzo, and there bury him. <br /><br /><br />XXIII.<br /><br /><br />So on a pleasant morning, as he leant <br />Into the sun-rise, o’er the balustrade <br />Of the garden-terrace, towards him they bent <br />Their footing through the dews; and to him said, <br />«You seem there in the quiet of content, <br />«Lorenzo, and we are most loth to invade <br />«Calm speculation; but if you are wise, <br />«Bestride your steed while cold is in the skies. <br /><br /><br />XXIV.<br /><br /><br />«To-day we purpose, ay, this hour we mount <br />«To spur three leagues towards the Apennine; <br />«Come down, we pray thee, ere the hot sun count <br />«His dewy rosary on the eglantine.» <br />Lorenzo, courteously as he was wont, <br />Bow’d a fair greeting to these serpents’ whine; <br />And went in haste, to get in readiness, <br />With belt, and spur, and bracing huntsman’s dress. <br /><br /><br />XXV.<br /><br /><br />And as he to the court-yard pass’d along, <br />Each third step did he pause, and listen’d oft <br />If he could hear his lady’s matin-song, <br />Or the light whisper of her footstep soft; <br />And as he thus over his passion hung, <br />He heard a laugh full musical aloft; <br />When, looking up, he saw her features bright <br />Smile through an in-door lattice, all delight. <br /><br /><br />XXVI.<br /><br /><br />«Love, Isabel!» said he, «I was in pain <br />«Lest I should miss to bid thee a good morrow: <br />«Ah! what if I should lose thee, when so fain <br />«I am to stifle all the heavy sorrow <br />«Of a poor three hours’ absence? but we’ll gain <br />«Out of the amorous dark what day doth borrow. <br />«Good bye! I’ll soon be back.» - «Good bye!» said she: - <br />And as he went she chanted merrily. <br /><br /><br />XXVII.<br /><br /><br />So the two brothers and their murder’d man <br />Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream <br />Gurgles through straiten’d banks, and still doth fan <br />Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream <br />Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan <br />The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem, <br />Lorenzo’s flush with love. - They pass’d the water <br />Into a forest quiet for the slaughter. <br /><br /><br />XXVIII.<br /><br /><br />There was Lorenzo slain and buried in, <br />There in that forest did his great love cease; <br />Ah! when a soul doth thus its freedom win, <br />It aches in loneliness - is ill at peace <br />As the break-covert blood-hounds of such sin: <br />They dipp’d their swords in the water, and did tease <br />Their horses homeward, with convulsed spur, <br />Each richer by his being a murderer. <br /><br /><br />XXIX.<br /><br /><br />They told their sister how, with sudden speed, <br />Lorenzo had ta’en ship for foreign lands, <br />Because of some great urgency and need <br />In their affairs, requiring trusty hands. <br />Poor Girl! put on thy stifling widow’s weed, <br />And ’scape at once from Hope’s accursed bands; <br />To-day thou wilt not see him, nor to-morrow, <br />And the next day will be a day of sorrow. <br /><br /><br />XXX.<br /><br /><br />She weeps alone for pleasures not to be; <br />Sorely she wept until the night came on, <br />And then, instead of love, O misery! <br />She brooded o’er the luxury alone: <br />His image in the dusk she seem’d to see, <br />And to the silence made a gentle moan, <br />Spreading her perfect arms upon the air, <br />And on her couch low murmuring, «Where? O where?» <br /><br /><br />XXXI.<br /><br /><br />But Selfishness, Love’s cousin, held not long <br />Its fiery vigil in her single breast; <br />She fretted for the golden hour, and hung <br />Upon the time with feverish unrest - <br />Not long - for soon into her heart a throng <br />Of higher occupants, a richer zest, <br />Came tragic; passion not to be subdued, <br />And sorrow for her love in travels rude. <br /><br /><br />XXXII.<br /><br /><br />In the mid days of autumn, on their eves <br />The breath of Winter comes from far away, <br />And the sick west continually bereaves <br />Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay <br />Of death among the bushes and the leaves, <br />To make all bare before he dares to stray <br />From his north cavern. So sweet Isabel <br />By gradual decay from beauty fell, <br /><br /><br />XXXIII.<br /><br /><br />Because Lorenzo came not. Oftentimes <br />She ask’d her brothers, with an eye all pale, <br />Striving to be itself, what dungeon climes <br />Could keep him off so long? They spake a tale <br />Time after time, to quiet her. Their crimes <br />Came on them, like a smoke from Hinnom’s vale; <br />And every night in dreams they groan’d aloud, <br />To see their sister in her snowy shroud. <br /><br /><br />XXXIV.<br /><br /><br />And she had died in drowsy ignorance, <br />But for a thing more deadly dark than all; <br />It came like a fierce potion, drunk by chance, <br />Which saves a sick man from the feather’d pall <br />For some few gasping moments; like a lance, <br />Waking an Indian from his cloudy hall <br />With cruel pierce, and bringing him again <br />Sense of the gnawing fire at heart and brain. <br /><br /><br />XXXV.<br /><br /><br />It was a vision. - In the drowsy gloom, <br />The dull of midnight, at her couch’s foot <br />Lorenzo stood, and wept: the forest tomb <br />Had marr’d his glossy hair which once could shoot <br />Lustre into the sun, and put cold doom <br />Upon his lips, and taken the soft lute <br />From his lorn voice, and past his loamed ears <br />Had made a miry channel for his tears. <br /><br /><br />XXXVI.<br /><br /><br />Strange sound it was, when the pale shadow spake; <br />For there was striving, in its piteous tongue, <br />To speak as when on earth it was awake, <br />And Isabella on its music hung: <br />Languor there was in it, and tremulous shake, <br />As in a palsied Druid’s harp unstrung; <br />And through it moan’d a ghostly under-song, <br />Like hoarse night-gusts sepulchral briars among. <br /><br /><br />XXXVII.<br /><br /><br />Its eyes, though wild, were still all dewy bright <br />With love, and kept all phantom fear aloof <br />From the poor girl by magic of their light, <br />The while it did unthread the horrid woof <br />Of the late darken’d time, - the murderous spite <br />Of pride and avarice, - the dark pine roof <br />In the forest, - and the sodden turfed dell, <br />Where, without any word, from stabs he fell. <br /><br /><br />XXXVIII.<br /><br /><br />Saying moreover, «Isabel, my sweet! <br />«Red whortle-berries droop above my head, <br />«And a large flint-stone weighs upon my feet; <br />«Around me beeches and high chestnuts shed <br />«Their leaves and prickly nuts; a sheep-fold bleat <br />«Comes from beyond the river to my bed: <br />«Go, shed one tear upon my heather-bloom, <br />«And it shall comfort me within the tomb. <br /><br /><br />XXXIX.<br /><br /><br />«I am a shadow now, alas! alas! <br />«Upon the skirts of human-nature dwelling <br />«Alone: I chant alone the holy mass, <br />«While little sounds of life are round me knelling, <br />«And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass, <br />«And many a chapel bell the hour is telling, <br />«Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me, <br />«And thou art distant in Humanity. <br /><br /><br />XL.<br /><br /><br />«I know what was, I feel full well what is, <br />«And I should rage, if spirits could go mad; <br />«Though I forget the taste of earthly bliss, <br />«That paleness warms my grave, as though I had <br />«A Seraph chosen from the bright abyss <br />«To be my spouse: thy paleness makes me glad; <br />«Thy beauty grows upon me, and I feel <br />«A greater love through all my essence steal.» <br /><br /><br />XLI.<br /><br /><br />The Spirit mourn’d «Adieu!» - dissolv’d, and left <br />The atom darkness in a slow turmoil; <br />As when of healthful midnight sleep bereft, <br />Thinking on rugged hours and fruitless toil, <br />We put our eyes into a pillowy cleft, <br />And see the spangly gloom froth up and boil: <br />It made sad Isabella’s eyelids ache, <br />And in the dawn she started up awake; <br /><br /><br />XLII.<br /><br /><br />«Ha! ha!» said she, «I knew not this hard life, <br />«I thought the worst was simple misery; <br />«I thought some Fate with pleasure or with strife <br />«Portion’d us - happy days, or else to die; <br />«But there is crime - a brother’s bloody knife! <br />«Sweet Spirit, thou hast school’d my infancy: <br />«I’ll visit thee for this, and kiss thine eyes, <br />«And greet thee morn and even in the skies.» <br /><br /><br />XLIII.<br /><br /><br />When the full morning came, she had devised <br />How she might secret to the forest hie; <br />How she might find the clay, so dearly prized, <br />And sing to it one latest lullaby; <br />How her short absence might be unsurmised, <br />While she the inmost of the dream would try. <br />Resolv’d, she took with her an aged nurse, <br />And went into that dismal forest-hearse. <br /><br /><br />XLIV.<br /><br /><br />See, as they creep along the river side, <br />How she doth whisper to that aged Dame, <br />And, after looking round the champaign wide, <br />Shows her a knife. - «What feverous hectic flame <br />«Burns in thee, child? - What good can thee betide, <br />«That thou should’st smile again?» - The evening came, <br />And they had found Lorenzo’s earthy bed; <br />The flint was there, the berries at his head. <br /><br /><br />XLV.<br /><br /><br />Who hath not loiter’d in a green church-yard, <br />And let his spirit, like a demon-mole, <br />Work through the clayey soil and gravel hard, <br />To see skull, coffin’d bones, and funeral stole; <br />Pitying each form that hungry Death hath marr’d, <br />And filling it once more with human soul? <br />Ah! this is holiday to what was felt <br />When Isabella by Lorenzo knelt. <br /><br /><br />XLVI.<br /><br /><br />She gaz’d into the fresh-thrown mould, as though <br />One glance did fully all its secrets tell; <br />Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know <br />Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well; <br />Upon the murderous spot she seem’d to grow, <br />Like to a native lily of the dell: <br />Then with her knife, all sudden, she began <br />To dig more fervently than misers can. <br /><br /><br />XLVII.<br /><br /><br />Soon she turn’d up a soiled glove, whereon <br />Her silk had play’d in purple phantasies, <br />She kiss’d it with a lip more chill than stone, <br />And put it in her bosom, where it dries <br />And freezes utterly unto the bone <br />Those dainties made to still an infant’s cries: <br />Then ’gan she work again; nor stay’d her care, <br />But to throw back at times her veiling hair. <br /><br /><br />XLVIII.<br /><br /><br />That old nurse stood beside her wondering, <br />Until her heart felt pity to the core <br />At sight of such a dismal labouring, <br />And so she kneeled, with her locks all hoar, <br />And put her lean hands to the horrid thing: <br />Three hours they labour’d at this travail sore; <br />At last they felt the kernel of the grave, <br />And Isabella did not stamp and rave. <br /><br /><br />XLIX.<br /><br /><br />Ah! wherefore all this wormy circumstance? <br />Why linger at the yawning tomb so long? <br />O for the gentleness of old Romance, <br />The simple plaining of a minstrel’s song! <br />Fair reader, at the old tale take a glance, <br />For here, in truth, it doth not well belong <br />To speak: - O turn thee to the very tale, <br />And taste the music of that vision pale. <br /><br /><br />L.<br /><br /><br />With duller steel than the Persèan sword <br />They cut away no formless monster’s head, <br />But one, whose gentleness did well accord <br />With death, as life. The ancient harps have said, <br />Love never dies, but lives, immortal Lord: <br />If Love impersonate was ever dead, <br />Pale Isabella kiss’d it, and low moan’d. <br />’Twas love; cold, - dead indeed, but not dethroned. <br /><br /><br />LI.<br /><br /><br />In anxious secrecy they took it home, <br />And then the prize was all for Isabel: <br />She calm’d its wild hair with a golden comb, <br />And all around each eye’s sepulchral cell <br />Pointed each fringed lash; the smeared loam <br />With tears, as chilly as a dripping well, <br />She drench’d away: - and still she comb’d, and kept <br />Sighing all day - and still she kiss’d, and wept. <br /><br /><br />LII.<br /><br /><br />Then in a silken scarf, - sweet with the dews <br />Of precious flowers pluck’d in Araby, <br />And divine liquids come with odorous ooze <br />Through the cold serpent pipe refreshfully, - <br />She wrapp’d it up; and for its tomb did choose <br />A garden-pot, wherein she laid it by, <br />And cover’d it with mould, and o’er it set <br />Sweet Basil, which her tears kept ever wet. <br /><br /><br />LIII.<br /><br /><br />And she forgot the stars, the moon, and sun, <br />And she forgot the blue above the trees, <br />And she forgot the dells where waters run, <br />And she forgot the chilly autumn breeze; <br />She had no knowledge when the day was done, <br />And the new morn she saw not: but in peace <br />Hung over her sweet Basil evermore, <br />And moisten’d it with tears unto the core. <br /><br /><br />LIV.<br /><br /><br />And so she ever fed it with thin tears, <br />Whence thick, and green, and beautiful it grew, <br />So that it smelt more balmy than its peers <br />Of Basil-tufts in Florence; for it drew <br />Nurture besides, and life, from human fears, <br />From the fast mouldering head there shut from view: <br />So that the jewel, safely casketed, <br />Came forth, and in perfumed leafits spread. <br /><br /><br />LV.<br /><br /><br />O Melancholy, linger here awhile! <br />O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! <br />O Echo, Echo, from some sombre isle, <br />Unknown, Lethean, sigh to us - O sigh! <br />Spirits in grief, lift up your heads, and smile; <br />Lift up your heads, sweet Spirits, heavily, <br />And make a pale light in your cypress glooms, <br />Tinting with silver wan your marble tombs. <br /><br /><br />LVI.<br /><br /><br />Moan hither, all ye syllables of woe, <br />From the deep throat of sad Melpomene! <br />Through bronzed lyre in tragic order go, <br />And touch the strings into a mystery; <br />Sound mournfully upon the winds and low; <br />For simple Isabel is soon to be <br />Among the dead: She withers, like a palm <br />Cut by an Indian for its juicy balm. <br /><br /><br />LVII.<br /><br /><br />O leave the palm to wither by itself; <br />Let not quick Winter chill its dying hour! - <br />It may not be - those Baalites of pelf, <br />Her brethren, noted the continual shower <br />From her dead eyes; and many a curious elf, <br />Among her kindred, wonder’d that such dower <br />Of youth and beauty should be thrown aside <br />By one mark’d out to be a Noble’s bride. <br /><br /><br />LVIII.<br /><br /><br />And, furthermore, her brethren wonder’d much <br />Why she sat drooping by the Basil green, <br />And why it flourish’d, as by magic touch; <br />Greatly they wonder’d what the thing might mean: <br />They could not surely give belief, that such <br />A very nothing would have power to wean <br />Her from her own fair youth, and pleasures gay, <br />And even remembrance of her love’s delay. <br /><br /><br />LIX.<br /><br /><br />Therefore they watch’d a time when they might sift <br />This hidden whim; and long they watch’d in vain; <br />For seldom did she go to chapel-shrift, <br />And seldom felt she any hunger-pain; <br />And when she left, she hurried back, as swift <br />As bird on wing to breast its eggs again; <br />And, patient as a hen-bird, sat her there <br />Beside her Basil, weeping through her hair. <br /><br /><br />LX.<br /><br /><br />Yet they contriv’d to steal the Basil-pot, <br />And to examine it in secret place: <br />The thing was vile with green and livid spot, <br />And yet they knew it was Lorenzo’s face: <br />The guerdon of their murder they had got, <br />And so left Florence in a moment’s space, <br />Never to turn again. - Away they went, <br />With blood upon their heads, to banishment. <br /><br /><br />LXI.<br /><br /><br />O Melancholy, turn thine eyes away! <br />O Music, Music, breathe despondingly! <br />O Echo, Echo, on some other day, <br />From isles Lethean, sigh to us - O sigh! <br />Spirits of grief, sing not your «Well-a-way!» <br />For Isabel, sweet Isabel, will die; <br />Will die a death too lone and incomplete, <br />Now they have ta’en away her Basil sweet. <br /><br /><br />LXII.<br /><br /><br />Piteous she look’d on dead and senseless things, <br />Asking for her lost Basil amorously: <br />And with melodious chuckle in the strings <br />Of her lorn voice, she oftentimes would cry <br />After the Pilgrim in his wanderings, <br />To ask him where her Basil was; and why <br />’Twas hid from her: «For cruel ’tis,» said she, <br />«To steal my Basil-pot away from me.» <br /><br /><br />LXIII.<br /><br /><br />And so she pined, and so she died forlorn, <br />Imploring for her Basil to the last. <br />No heart was there in Florence but did mourn <br />In pity of her love, so overcast. <br />And a sad ditty of this story born <br />From mouth to mouth through all the country pass’d: <br />Still is the burthen sung - «O cruelty, <br />«To steal my Basil-pot away from me!»Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-9977970122653701362009-05-18T22:38:00.000+02:002009-05-18T22:42:20.958+02:00Arthur Hugues<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xMcnEN-ecx0&hl=es&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xMcnEN-ecx0&hl=es&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7481194387695361515.post-75967075954949997932009-05-18T22:21:00.000+02:002009-05-18T22:40:35.918+02:00Edward Burne-Jones -Pan y Psique- (1872-1874)Pan Y Psique (Edward Burne-Jones)<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwnjLJ20iMKUkbbnVDVsjUb4UUcBKBhjJBBfdNRp30NkLibPzXODcvCrcQrIllXkY0WPoZWKJkCfoFmOaAvbgz9wJoA0XqAWY9wJN1XS5HTwvT0HyzhmO3zdTcz_IFKryjt4SxyXlUbQM4/s1600-h/Pan-Psyche-L.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 334px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwnjLJ20iMKUkbbnVDVsjUb4UUcBKBhjJBBfdNRp30NkLibPzXODcvCrcQrIllXkY0WPoZWKJkCfoFmOaAvbgz9wJoA0XqAWY9wJN1XS5HTwvT0HyzhmO3zdTcz_IFKryjt4SxyXlUbQM4/s400/Pan-Psyche-L.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337264348571573714" /></a><br /><br /><br />La muerte de Procis 1490-1500 (Piero si Cosimo)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJaM8dqcqwHGFpdRf74mt-vA7rfclMqwrkh2LMkFXRq1oy48BGpkaT88PBWt05b4QG0jkKTIJeLzEvrcZyZeXU99rztA8RsRFu0QroWoxfc7B_F5M0vUGv3LwNKmJyrN7deUpl9t-UNa7/s1600-h/800px-Piero_di_Cosimo_013.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 138px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEJaM8dqcqwHGFpdRf74mt-vA7rfclMqwrkh2LMkFXRq1oy48BGpkaT88PBWt05b4QG0jkKTIJeLzEvrcZyZeXU99rztA8RsRFu0QroWoxfc7B_F5M0vUGv3LwNKmJyrN7deUpl9t-UNa7/s400/800px-Piero_di_Cosimo_013.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337264277732773826" /></a><br />La mitología dice que Psique víctima de Venus, trató de suicidarse ahogándose, pero la marea la devolvió a la orilla. Pan estaba cerca, la vió y la consoló.<br />Se dice que Burne-Jones se inspiró en una obra del pintor italiano Piero di Cosimo llamado "La muerte de Procis"Mar-Givernyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12615888814263721048noreply@blogger.com0