Ladislav Starewicz (1882-1965): Le rat des villes et le rat des champs (el ratón de ciudad y el ratón de campo) (1926)

Starevich, franco-ruso, fue uno de los maestros -o el maestro- de la técnica cinematográfica del "stop motion", y utilizaba a menudo animales (insectos sobre todo), vivos o muertos, junto a muñecos, en sus películas, habitualmente basadas en fábulas populares.

They Might Be Giants: Istanbul (not Constantinople) ( 1990, versión de un tema de 1953, basado en una conocida melodía de Irvin Berlin, de 1929))

They Might Be Giants - Istanbul (Not Constantinople) from They Might Be Giants on Vimeo.

Rin Tarô (Hayashi Shigeyuki, 1941): Metoroporisu (Metrópolis) (2001)

Watch City in Entertainment  |  View More Free Videos Online at Veoh.com

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): The Palace of Arts (1832)

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, The Palace of the Arts, 1857



I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, // Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. // I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,// Dear soul, for all is well."



A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass, // I chose. The ranged ramparts bright // From level meadow-bases of deep grass// Suddenly scaled the light.



Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf // The rock rose clear, or winding stair. // My soul would live alone unto herself// In her high palace there.



And "while the world runs round and round," I said, // "Reign thou apart, a quiet king, // Still as, while Saturn whirls his stedfast shade // Sleeps on his luminous ring."



To which my soul made answer readily: // "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide // In this great mansion, that is built for me, // So royal-rich and wide."



Four courts I made, East, West and South and North, // In each a squared lawn, wherefrom // The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth// A flood of fountain-foam.



And round the cool green courts there ran a row // Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods, // Echoing all night to that sonorous flow // Of spouted fountain-floods.



And round the roofs a gilded gallery // That lent broad verge to distant lands, // Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky // Dipt down to sea and sands.



From those four jets four currents in one swell // Across the mountain stream'd below // In misty folds, that floating as they fell // Lit up a torrent-bow.



And high on every peak a statue seem'd // To hang on tiptoe, tossing up // A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd // From out a golden cup.



So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon // My palace with unblinded eyes, // While this great bow will waver in the sun, // And that sweet incense rise?"



For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd, // And, while day sank or mounted higher, // The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd, // Burnt like a fringe of fire.



Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced, // Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires // From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced, // And tipt with frost-like spires.



Full of long-sounding corridors it was, // over-vaulted grateful gloom, // Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,// Well-pleased, from room to room.



Full of great rooms and small the palace stood, // All various, each a perfect whole // From living Nature, fit for every mood // And change of my still soul.



For some were hung with arras green and blue, // Showing a gaudy summer-morn, // Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew // His wreathed bugle-horn.



One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand, // And some one pacing there alone, // Who paced for ever in a glimmering land, // Lit with a low large moon.



One show'd an iron coast and angry waves // You seem'd to hear them climb and fall // And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves, // Beneath the windy wall.



And one, a full-fed river winding slow // By herds upon an endless plain, // The ragged rims of thunder brooding low, // With shadow-streaks of rain.



And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. // In front they bound the sheaves. Behind // Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil, // And hoary to the wind.



And one a foreground black with stones and slags, // beyond, a line of heights, and higher // All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, // And highest, snow and fire.



And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd // On dewy pastures, dewy trees, // Softer than sleep — all things in order stored, // A haunt of ancient Peace.



Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, // As fit for every mood of mind, // Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, // Not less than truth design'd.



Or the maid-mother by a crucifix. // In tracts of pasture sunny-warm. // Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx // Sat smiling, babe in arm.



Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, // Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair // with white roses, slept Saint Cecily;// An angel look'd at her.



Or thronging all one porch of Paradise // A group of Houris bow'd to see // The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes // That said, We wait for thee.



Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son // In some fair space of sloping greens // Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, // And watch'd by weeping queens.



Or hollowing one hand against his ear, // To list a foot-fall, ere he saw // The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear // Of wisdom and of law.




Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, // And many a tract of palm and rice, // The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd // A summer fann'd with spice.



Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, // From off her shoulder backward borne: // From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd // The mild bull's golden horn.



Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh // Half-buried in the Eagle's down, // Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky // Above the pillar'd town.


Nor these alone: but every legend fair // Which the supreme Caucasian mind // Carved out of Nature for itself was there' // Not less than life design'd.



Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, // Moved of themselves, with silver sound; // And with choice paintings of wise men I hung // The royal dais round.



For there was Milton like a seraph strong, // Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild; // And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, // And somewhat grimly smiled.



And there the Ionian father of the rest; // A million wrinkles carved his skin; // A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast, // From cheek and throat and chin.



Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set // Many an arch high- up did lift, // And angels rising and descending met // With interchange of gift.



Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd // With cycles of the human tale // Of this wide world, the times of every land // So wrought they will not fail.



The people here, a beast of burden slow, // Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings; // Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro // The heads and crowns of kings;



Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind // All force in bonds that might endure, // And here once more like some sick man declined, // And trusted any cure.



But over these she trod: and those great bells // Began to chime. She took her throne: // She sat betwixt the shining Oriels. // To sing her songs alone.



And thro' the topmost Oriels, coloured flame // Two godlike faces gazed below; // Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam, // The first of those who know.



And all those names that in their motion were // Full-welling fountain-heads of change, // Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair // In diverse raiment strange:



Thro' which the lights' rose, amber, emerald, blue // Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, // And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew // Rivers of melodies.



No nightingale delighteth to prolong // Her low preamble all alone, // More than my soul to hear her echo'd song // Throb thro' the ribbed stone;



Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, // Joying to feel herself alive, // Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, // Lord of the senses five;



Communing with herself: "All these are mine, // And let the world have peace or wars, //'T is one to me." She — when young night divine // Crown'd dying day with stars,



Making sweet close of his delicious toils — // Lit light in wreaths and anadems, // And pure quintessences of precious oils // In hollow'd moons of gems,



To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, // I marvel if my still delight //In this great house so  // royal-rich, and wide,


Be flatter'd to the height. // "O all things fair to sate my various eyes! // O shapes and hues that please me well! // O silent faces of the Great and Wise,


My Gods, with whom I dwell! // "O God-like isolation which art mine, // I can but count thee perfect gain, // What time I watch the darkening droves of swine


That range on yonder plain.// "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, // They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; // And oft some brainless devil enters in,


And drives them to the deep." // Then of the moral instinct would she prate // And of the rising from the dead, // As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate;


And at the last she said: // "I take possession of man's mind and deed. // I care not what the sects may brawl. // I sit as God holding no form of creed,


But contemplating all." // Full oft the riddle of the painful earth // Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone, //Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth,


And intellectual throne. // And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years // She prosper'd; on the fourth she fell, // Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,


Struck thro' with pangs of hell. // Lest she should fail and perish utterly, // God, before whom ever lie bare // The abysmal deeps of Personality,


Plagued her with sore despair. // When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight // The airy hand confusion wrought, // Wrote, "Mene, mene," and divided quite


The kingdom of her thought. // Deep dread and loathing of her solitude // Fell on her, from which mood was born // Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood


Laughter at her self-scorn. //  "What! is not this my place of strength," she said, // "My spacious mansion built for me, // Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid


Since my first memory." // But in dark corners of her palace stood // uncertain shapes; and unawares // On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,


And horrible nightmares, // And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, // And, with dim fretted foreheads all, // On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,


That stood against the wall. // A spot of dull stagnation, without light // Or power of movement, seem'd my soul, // 'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite


Making for one sure goal. //  A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand, // Left on the shore; that hears all night // The plunging seas draw backward from the land


Their moon-led waters white. //  A star that with the choral starry dance // Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw // The hollow orb of moving Circumstance


Roll'd round by one fix'd law. // Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd // "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, // "No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:


One deep, deep silence all!" // She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, //Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, // Lay there exiled from eternal God,


Lost to her place and name; // And death and life she hated equally, // And nothing saw, for her despair, // But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,


No comfort anywhere; // Remaining utterly confused with fears, // And ever worse with growing time, // And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,


And all alone in crime:// Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round // With blackness as a solid wall, // Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound


Of human footsteps fall. // As in strange lands a traveller walking slow, // In doubt and great perplexity, // A little before moon-rise hears the low


Moan of an unknown sea;// And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound // Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry // Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found


A new land, but I die." // She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within. // There comes no murmur of reply. // What is it that will take away my sin,


And save me lest I die?" //  So when four years were wholly finished,// She threw her royal robes away. // "Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,


"Where I may mourn and pray.// "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are // So lightly, beautifully built. //
Perchance I may return with others there //

 When I have purged my guilt." //

Casas

La monarquía tiene ventajas. Se mantienen nombres célebres, a los que solo cabe cambiar una cifra (Luis XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, en Francia), y se supone que el saber se transmite. La transición es menos costosa y dolorosa. No implica ni siquiera un cambio de domicilio. En algunos casos, la monarquía no es hereditaria, como n el Imperio Romano (Augusto insistió en nombrar al mejor gobernante y no necesariamente a un descendiente suyo), pero, en general, la sucesión se simplifica si se estipula que es el hijo mayor es más capaz de ejercer las tareas para las que se le ha intentado preparar.


Este interesante sistema se ha extendido a gobiernos republicanos. Se conocen monarquías presidenciales (Siria, Corea del Norte, por ejemplo), en las que los hijos han sido designados por el padre, y no elegidos (como en los Estados Unidos), con resultados curiosos.

En el mundo de las artes plásticas y arquitectónicas, la delegación del taller en un hijo es o era moneda común desde la antigüedad. La existencia y exigencias del secreto profesional (aplicado a fórmulas de fabricación de tintes, pinturas, etc., utilizados en talleres de tallistas, pintores, etc.) conllevaba la prudencia. El hijo, formado por o en contacto con el padre, era el mejor preparado, el que estaba en posesión de todos los trucos y secretos requeridos, para que el taller siguiera funcionando. Éste podía o no cambiar de estilo o de temas. Habitualmente la línea se mantenía. Los clientes quedaban satisfechos. Los temas de más éxito se seguían tratando. Se crearon verdaderas sagas, que implicaban no solo a hijos, sino a nietos, hermanos, cuñados, suegros, etc.) Toda la familia vivía del taller, transmitido de generación en generación. De algo había que comer. El talento, empero, no necesariamente se transmitía. Hoy, no cuesta demasiado, pese a la pervivencia de unos mismos temas y de un modo de pintar muy parecido, distinguir entre las obras de El Greco padre e hijo (Doménico, y Jorge), como tampoco entre las de Zurbarán padre e hijo (Francisco, Juan), o entre las de "los Goya (Francisco, Javier), por no mencionar las diferencias entre las pinturas de Velázquez y de su suegro Pacheco. Pero, si no uno no presta demasiada atención, lo importante es el apellido, y museos y exposiciones -ocurre hoy en Barcelona- pueden lucir a "un" Zurbarán -aunque, de cerca, sin leer la cartela, se descubre que se trata de un Zurbarán diríamos que menor: su hijo ya lo intentaba, pero...

En arquitectura, el nuevo edificio de la facultad de arquitectura de Barcelona, construido hace unos veinticinco años, es un ejemplo modélico: se encargó a un prestigioso arquitecto ya mayor, fallecido antes de que el proyecto y las obras se llevaran a cabo. Pero éstas se construyeron. El edifico consta como la última obra del arquitecto. La Escuela puede contar un origen prestigioso. Obtuvo incluso un premio.

Desconozco si este trabajo familiar ha ocurrido en las artes literarias, aunque se sabe de hijos o familiares que han concluido obras inacabadas del padre. Nadie puede dejar pasar alguna buena ocasión.

Desde hace unos pocos años, ha aparecido una nueva e interesante modalidad de saga familiar: la monarquía profesoral. Así, en algunos departamentos universitarios, los hijos -incluso sus parejas- son contratados como profesores junto a, o en sustitución de, sus padres. Los beneficios son enormes. Si una escuela es conocida por el prestigio de determinados apelllidos, éstos perviven. Hay que ser ruin para leer la letra pequeña o fijarse en el nombre y no solo en el apellido. Por otra parte, ¿quién está mejor dispuesto para seguir las brillantes enseñanzas del padre que un hijo? Los alumnos no se despistan. Conocen los mejores apellidos. Inspiran confianza, seguridad, constancia. Aquéllos pueden confiar en las enseñanzas que se les van a impartir.  Finalmente, dichos nombramientos son un ejemplo: en un momento en que los jóvenes tienen tantas dificultades para entrar en la Universidad como enseñantes - lo que cortaría de inmediato la inevitable fosilización y "gerontocratización" del cuerpo de profesores-, admira que los hijos consigan que se abran las puertas: no todo está perdido. Y a confiar en los nietos 

Morton Feldman: Rothko Chapel (1971)

Lykke Li: I Know Places (2011)

¿La canción del año?
Del álbum Wounded Rhymes