Wednesday 25 February 2009

Sir Edward Dyer's Love is Love

LOVE IS LOVE

The lowest trees have tops, the ant her gall,
The fly her spleen, the little spark his heat:
The slender hairs cast shadows, though but small,
And bees have stings, although they be not great;
Seas have their source, and so have shallow springs;
And love is love, in beggars and in kings.

Where waters smoothest run, there deepest are the fords,
The dial stirs, yet none perceives it move;
The firmest faith is found in fewest words,
The turtles do not sing, and yet they love;
True hearts have ears and eyes, no tongues to speak;
They hear and see, and sigh, and then they break.
____________________________
Sir Edward Dyer (c1543-1607)
Diplomat, poet and friend to Sir Philip Sidney (see next post below),
Sir Edward Dyer was one of John Betjeman's favourite poets.

My Muse, after Sir Philip Sidney

MY MUSE, an Elizabethan Sonnet

My Muse may well begrudge my heavenly joy,
If I still force her in sad rhymes to creep:
She often drank my tears, now hopes to enjoy
Nectar of mirth, since I Jove's cup do keep.
Sonnets are not bound apprenticed to annoy:
Trebles sing high, as well as bases deep:
Grief is but love's winter livery; the boy
Has cheeks to smile as well as eyes to weep.
Come then my Muse, show your height of delight
In well raised notes; my pen as best it may
Shall paint out joy, though but in black and white.
Cease, eager Muse; peace pen, for my sake stay;
I give you here my hand for truth of this,
Wise silence is best music unto bliss.
_____________________________________________________
Adapted from Sir Philip Sidney's Astrophel and Stella

Our house divides the dead, by Thomas Bernhard

In a rural setting Thomas Bernhard spent many a grim winter in his sickbed listening to the howling wind or to the silence of the snow. In his poems sound is important. We may imagine him, between fits of coughing, listening to the suspicious creaks and groans of the old house; and to the birds he feared, the crows cawing in the trees; or maybe to the footsteps of a passer-by.
The following is a Poet-in-Residence translation of Thomas Bernhard's poem Unser Haus trennt die Toten.

OUR HOUSE DIVIDES THE DEAD
from sun and moon
and lets the grey flutes
spring apart along cold walls
and the lost summer's eyelids
freeze under the copper roof.
With the blackbird
the river groans, divides green from red
and snow from tears.
In midnight crows'-foot crushing wind
the flowers slumber
and under cobwebs
the laughter of the fattened pig.
Our house sends forth poisonous clouds
and fear to the forbidden towns.
Lying slaughtered
under the mouldy door
the poverty of my winter message.

____________________
25 Feb 2009 gw

Tuesday 24 February 2009

Cut to the chase, Officer Delaney

Here's a dum-dum for these down-at-heel days,-

Cut to the chase, Officer Delaney

Officer Delaney
swings the baton
stands legs astride
and gazes
at the broken door

off the hinge
and open wide.

What have we here?
Delaney muses
and peers at Charlie
by the open gate.

Another break, Charlie says,
but good that you're here
to invest-
igate.

Delaney checks
the broken door,
- it's a serious crime
to be quite frank...

It's not my place
by the way, Charlie whispers,
It belongs to Buster
- or likely the bank.

Where's Buster now?
- Delaney's next question.

Upstairs on the bed,
- sleeping it off?

I'll knock him up,
says the dedicated cop
- arrest the felon
and make him cough.

Good luck to you
but I must dash,
- I got to find me
an eightball cue

and he pats the chalk
in his inside pocket
- strolls downtown,-

full of holes
are the soles
of his broken-down shoes.

-----------
24 Feb 2009

Monday 23 February 2009

Georg Friedrich Handel's Partenope

Yesterday saw the premier of Partenope, Georg Friedrich Handel and Silvio Stampiglia's dramma per musica, in Vienna's Theater an der Wien.

The action takes place in and around the five-star Hollywood-style villa belonging to the unchaste but chaseable Partenope who is suitably armed with her playful whip. It's a kind of get-together party in which various sexual tastes appear to be subtly catered for. A couple of gate crashers turn up as is normal with these sorts of festivities. One, Rosmira, is disguised as a young man. She intends to spy on her lover Arsace. The other is Emilio from down the road. He thinks he fancies the lissom Partenope. Christophe Rousett and his baroque orchestra Les Talens Lyriques will more than ably supply the almost 4 hours of music to go along with all the fun and games.

In the sunny morning-after-the-night-before the guests wander around in beach robes and flipflops, toss plastic dolphins and beach balls into the sunshine. Partenope's personal lithe but well-muscled fitness trainer is on hand to provide gentle massage and stretching exercise. Loves arrows are pointing in several directions. Ormonde, Portenope's gay secretary, flits through the whole business with wonderful limp-wristed humour.

The plot quickly becomes a classic bedroom farce with lovers and potential lovers appearing and disappearing through the usual doors: Tell me dear heaven which of my lovers shall I leave?, I follow the ways of wild animals and know not the ways of love, and Terrible Cupid attacks us with lies! are the messages emerging from the degenerating party which rapidly degenerates into nothing less than a realistic War Games scenario; complete with fog of war, modern weaponry, camouflage gear, hooded and chained prisoners, and a final victory scene reminiscent of the raising of the American standard on Iwo Jima. The Partenope victory flag is a sheet of brown and black military camouflage material and is accompanied by the singing of Beloved walls we celebrate my victory!

In the third and final scene the local stud Emilio confidently rides off into the sunset on his silver and chrome deep-throated Harley motorcyle, not with Portenope as he had at first intended, but now with his new love Rosmira. Her manly disguise was uncovered during a boxing contest. The fate of the other lovers is left in the balance.

David Daniels counter-tenor, as the blundering hopeless torn-apart lover Arsace brings the house to a roar with his rendition of I go but without my heart. It's all a stark contrast to the computer controlled hydraulics of the bare concrete, brushed aluminium and polished teak of the playgirl's seaside villa.

Enthusiastic applause and seven or eight curtain calls. A marvellous and magical evening and a great way to mark Georg Friedrich Handel's birthday. The composer was born in Halle, Germany, 324 years ago today. By Georg, it was some party!

Sunday 22 February 2009

Christine Busta's Fragments of Origin

It is time in this series of translations to bring into English another side of Christine Busta. This poem Fragmente der Herkunft, is a poem in which she recalls her humble origins.

FRAGMENTS OF ORIGIN

I
My grandmother couldn't read or write
but she could sing lullabies
and tell stories to her nine children.
She laboured with pride between the urns
and the crowns of the poppies. Fog clad
she brought the crop in.

II
My mother was beautiful and vulnerable,
as a schoolgirl and a maid she was quick to learn.
She burned-up and went out like a poppy
in the meagre wistful land of her childhood
and became as bitter as the juniper.

III
From the silent forest my grandfather
brought granite, the firstborn stone.
I broke with the noisy city*,
silence, the firstborn word.

IV
My father is a silhouette:
blacksmith, metalworker, assiduous, mannish.
Fled from wedlock for the solitary life.
Last heard-of living in a hunting lodge.
His son, his half-sister's secret,
was for the inheritance first recorded.

-
*Busta suffered a nervous breakdown and broke with Vienna University after less than a year. The line probably recalls that experience.
_______________
Gwilym Williams
February 2009

Saturday 21 February 2009

Three winter haiku

This morning's almost daily run in the woods and the park brought forth the following haiku; no linking keyword this time but nevertheless worth recording.

a snowman
and a boy
two-up on a sledge

ski-tracks
enter the river
exit the other side

running home
through snowy landscape
oasis on the walkman

______________
Today on
Ink Sweat & Tears some new Christine Busta translations
>>> A-Z sidebar LINK >>>

Friday 20 February 2009

Georg Heym's Fever Hospital

In January 1912 the young German poet Georg Heym met his untimely death whilst ice-skating. At the time he was trying to rescue his friend, Ernst Balcke, who had disappeared through the ice of the frozen River Havel near Berlin when he also fell into the water and was drowned. There follows a Poet-in-Residence translation of Georg Heym's poem Das Fieberspital.

FEVER HOSPITAL

The pale screen on which the many beds
blur is a bare wall in the hospital ward.
The patients, thin marionettes, walk
in the aisles. One of their number

has all the illnesses. And with white chalk
his suffering is cleanly noted.
The fever thunders. Their innards
are burning mountains. Their eyes stare

at the ceiling and two enormous spiders
pull long threads from their stomachs.
They sit up in their cold linen sheets
and their sweats with pulled-up knees.

They bite on the nails of their hands.
Their brows glow red lights
in grey and furrowed fields
on which death's early sunrise blooms.

They extend their white arms, tremble
from cold and are dumb with horror.
Black from ear to ear their brains whirl
their fast and monstrous spinning waltzes.

The black space yawns behind their backs
and from the whitewashed walls
there reaches out the arm to clench the throat
and slowly close its hard and bony hand.

______________________
Georg Heym (1887-1912)and
Gwilym Williams (Feb 2009)

Thursday 19 February 2009

Haiku: Tales from the Vienna Woods

A Poet-in-Residence speciality is the haikutrio. Three haiku can be stand-alone haiku and a haikutrio at the same time. Today's keyword is jogger: somebody who jogs to keep fit.


restless trees
pepper the lone jogger
with soft snowballs

snow
on the jogger's eyelids
slowly melts

a lone crow
carrying a wishbone
hops across the jogger's path

____________________
Gwilym Williams 2009

Tuesday 17 February 2009

ink sweat & years The Ink Sweat & Tears 2008 Anthology

Editor Charles Christian in compiling this newly released anthology has the advantage over many of his rivals in that the contents, like a famous Irish whiskey, are three times distilled. This means that what goes into the bottle, the finished product, is absolute top quality. It deserves a seal of approval. And Poet-in-Residence is pleased to be able to approve because what is in this chapbook of contemporary poetry is the best that can be gleaned from all points of the bardic compass; it's quite simply the best way forward. Unlike Georg Trekl's drunken men who stagger from woodland taverns and are found dewclad in the morning mists there is here a clear path and a sober judgement by the editor. There is indeed much ink and sweat. Any tears shed will be tears of joy; joy that there is today a source of top-shelf poetry to be found in the world of the small press poets.
The first part of the 3-stage distillation process is that the ink sweat & tears website is designed to attract modern poets who have discovered a way, and often a new way, through the poetic wilderness. This it does. The second stage distilliation, is that the best of their works are selected on a daily basis, and the third, yet another distillation, is that from the 360 or so annual website selections the very best are chosen for the anthology. The end result is something quite special. If this anthology is not at or near the top of the 2009 Small Press Awards for Best Anthology Poet-in-Residence, who has several boxes full of dubious publications masquerading as so-called antholgies, will be most surprised. You can confidently buy this one. It's the real whiskey.

ink sweat & years
ISBN 978-1-907043-00-0
UK price 3.50p (+ 50p p&p)
published and printed by Ink Sweat & Tears
Oak Lodge, Darrow Green Road, Denton
Harleston, Norfolk IP20 0AY, UK
www.ink-sweat-and-tears.com
- alphabetical sidebar LINK....>>>

Sunday 15 February 2009

Mysterious Disappearance of my front page

As you may or may not be able to see, my front page has suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. Does anybody know how to get it back?

Winter poems from Christine Busta

Here are two more Poet-in-Residence translations of Christine Busta's wonderful poems. Almost like a magician this insightful Austrian poet delights in revealing the unexpected, even when the subject is one we all take for granted.

WHITE BALLAD

Push me under the pack-ice
at the North Pole.

In hundreds of years the Eskimos
will say to their grand-children:

In the centre of the white desert
there's a hollow; it hasn't frozen
for hundreds of years.


WITH CROWS' TWIGS

The whiteness of winter was as dark as death.
Trees before the windows of the sick room
bloomed morning and evening black with crying.

At night I collected the crows' twigs,
a full bouquet of the silent heart of spring.
Who shall accept it?

_______________
Gwilym Williams
15th February 2009

Friday 13 February 2009

Thomas Bernhard's Der Schein Trügt at the Burg

Yesterday evening to mark the 20th year of the passing of the playwright sometimes called the Austrian Beckett, Vienna's Burgtheater presented Thomas Bernhard's play Der Schein Trügt. In English it would be The Shine Deceives; meaning appearances can be deceptive.
Two elderly half-brothers Karl (Martin Schwab) and Robert (Michael König) meet each Tuesday and Thursday. They are obsessed with proving to each other and to themselves that they are still alive.
The only other player in this dark comedy is a blind-in-one-eye canary. Maggi belongs to Karl. Karl inherited Maggi from his life-companion Mathilde. Robert, who knew Mathilde before Karl knew her, and who once took her to Rome, inherhited her small house in the country. And so the spoils were unfairly divided. Mathilde's funeral service, we were informed, had required less than 12 minutes.

Martin Schwab, faultlessly convincing as a one-time artist and juggler, opens the first scene alone, except for the bird. He is to be seen crawling around on the floor of his bedroom dressed only in his long underwear. He is looking for something. It turns out that he is looking for his lost nail-clippers. Today he must look his best for it's Tuesday and brother Robert, the retired actor, is due to visit.
During this simple act of crawling around the room, peering under the bed and so on, there begins a unending Martin Schwab monologue; it must be more than an hour long. How Schwab recalls the text, never mind about the top quality acting, is nothing short of a wonder. The only listener is the canary. Schwab badgers the caged bird with a series of senseless questions and observations; the musings and rantings of a lonely old man: How do actors remember unending monlogues? and The glasses I once read Voltaire with I now need to see my toe nails.

Half-brother Robert arrives, late as always. The brothers have nothing to say to each other, for what they say to each other is what they said last week, what they will say next week and all the following weeks. Each brother is in reality speaking to himself, to his inner personality, chewing over the same old cud. It's rather like Beckett's classic Waiting for Godot in which nothing happens. Time goes by. We wait only to die. And death, as Bernhard points out, is the ultimate comedy. It's the last laugh.

Two days later Karl, dressed in his charcoal grey funeral suit, the suit which the tailor delivered 8 days too late for Mathilde's funeral, visits Robert. The basic scene repeats itself. Nothing is achieved. There is the usual airing of opinion. It ends as always in disharmony. But we know that Robert will be back at Karl's on Tuesday. Maybe the play is still going on, for it is a play almost without an end. Go back to the first scene and start again. We know it can only end when one of the characters dies or they become too frail to visit each other.

Like characters in a French novel we should raise our hats to Martin Schwab whenever we see him in a Thomas Bernhard play. The late Bernhard would be proud of Schwab's long years of dedication to the cause. Indeed, there was much warm and heartfelt applause and even an outburst of bravo-ing from the Burg audience; but on this special Thomas Bernhard 20th anniversary evening one has to ask: Where was the man's bouquet?

Thursday 12 February 2009

Christine Busta remembers the thistle

Thistles, those spiked warrior plants, are a nuisance, are only good for cows to munch, if we are to believe the poet Ted Hughes. But is that really the case? Let's look at thistles again. This time through the eyes of the Austrian poet Christine Busta.

WHEN YOU PAINT THE ARMS OF LOVE,
do not forget the thistle!

The gentle friend of the bumblebee and butterfly,
the comforter of the donkey's patience,
the avenger of the defenceless, the weak,
the valiant one who rips the skin of the executioner
and him with his soul prepared
already flown to a future summer
safe from the axe that felled him.

Paint the purple of the courageous
and the dusty grey of the invincible.
Paint it tenderly and imperturbably:
this annoyance from the creator's hand -
all you, who only live from bread.

-----
translated by Gwilym Williams
12th February 2009

Christine Busta's Exodus

The Poet-in-Residence translations of the poetry of Christine Busta are proving extremely popular. Here is another of her poems. It's called Exodus. The title needs no translation. It's sadly an all too familiar situation.
We must know and appreciate that each one is an unique individual. Some, as Robert Musil pointed out are men without qualities. Others, like Charles Darwin and Abraham Lincoln, both born exactly 200 years ago today, are men with qualities. The trick is to know the difference.

EXODUS

I have cleared out my quarters under the roof.
Removed the bed, the table,
the chair, the shelf with the books.
I have taken the pictures off the walls,
also yours. The guest performance, the house concert
the pans, plates, spoons, glasses
is ended. In a corner
I've left behind a tiny heap of salt
and a piece of hard bread
which I've sprinkled with the last of the schnapps.

Now hope may possibly re-enter here!
In the emptiness I stupidly close behind
it could be that you'll find your true place in this house
as a grey, courageous, drunken mouse.

-----
translated by Gwilym Williams
12 February 2009

Wednesday 11 February 2009

W E Henley's Invictus

The poet W E Henley lived with a torture almost beyond bearing. From childhood he suffered from tubercular arthritis. Every day for the last years of his life he woke to more physical pain than the years before said J M Barrie.
Henley described his amputated foot as: a passion for itching, a mass of blisters.
Burly, boisterous and piratic W E Henley was R L Stevenson's inspiration for the character Long John Silver in Treasure Island. The poem that follows was written in 1875 after a two year stay in hospital. A man of true courage he remained unconquered.

INVICTUS°

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


°unconquered
__________
W E Henley (1849-1903)

Tuesday 10 February 2009

Christine Busta looks at nature

The sensitive and insightful Austrian poet Christine Busta, who died in 1987, is known for her appreciation of the natural world. The following poems are translated here to illustrate her philospohy.


THE CROWS WRITE IN BLACK
and in white - the seagulls,
in the grey winter sky.

Never will I decipher the messages
that fill me from year to year
with the austere secrets of life.


THE BOOK

Open
lying on the path.
The lightest book on earth,
it has only two pages.

Astonished I read the magic signs.
It leaps into the air.
No apocalypse.

Three words only from the secret
revelation of summer:
The Peacock Butterfly.

Saturday 7 February 2009

Kerouac haiku, amazingly illustrated

kerouac5.jpg (image)

A wonderful piece of work from see haiku here. Please take a look. You may also visit the frequently changing pages A-Z LINKS (in PiR's alphabetical sidebar).

Friday 6 February 2009

Gibbous Moon

This night my gibbous moon
hangs in the mist
his bone bare skull
with silent scream

his gaze peers down
to me from hollow eyes
and with his open mouth agape
as if in fright
of me
or haloed Venus
bright upon my shoulder
he screams and screams and screams
his lonely silence
loud,
and for the present lonely stays
except for human wreckage in
his dusty eyes
and giant bootprints
printed on his silent face.

----
Gwilym Williams
2009

From Thomas Bernhard's Under the Iron Moon (part 3)

As we approach the 20th day of the passing of Thomas Bernhard, one of the best writers never to have won the Nobel Prize for Literature, or for that matter never to have won the *Großer Austrian State Prize for Literature, Poet-in-Residence is pleased to publish another newly translated poem from Under the Iron Moon.

Thomas Bernhard won the °Kleinen Austrian State Prize for Literature; a prize supposedly awarded to encourage young and up-and-coming talent. Bernhard was over 40 years of age when he was awarded the prize. He was already an established writer. To add insult to injury the prize was given for his first novel Frost left at the porter's lodge on the closing date for entries, presumably as a joke, by his brother Peter Fabian.

Once again it must be pointed out that these Poet-in-Residence translations are not word-for-exact-word but rather that they are intended to capture the spirit and essence of Bernhard's poetry.

*great
°small

The recent rain

The recent rain reached
only to the rusty heart of the night
and the dark gangways of the dead

who hang from the beams with the bats
and whose creaky fingers
draw angels in the dark between the stars

and who dance over the pigs and haunt the cows
in their restless slumber
with groans and murmurs of milk between white limbs.

One often stretches an abandoned leg out of the bed
and lets chin and world dream
on the dusty planks of the trailer

where the moon trembles before the canvas
to the tiresome talk of unprotected sisters
who praise God in sweetmeats and long sides of speck

till wine overfills their brains with a heaven
rolled-up from the ash and the grass
under their wayward feet

and they swim on yellow breasts
through the transcience of sad springtimes
girls in black cloaks full of apple aroma

and from their marvellous mouths the poverty
of their mad lamentations flows
over my face of stone and tears.

----
Gwilym Williams
6th February 2009

Tuesday 3 February 2009

From Thomas Bernhard's Under the Iron Moon (part 2)

Here's the second Poet-in-Residence poem newly translated from Thomas Bernhard's collection Unter dem Eisen des Mondes as part of the ongoing Thomas Bernhard (20th anniversary of his death) tribute. Once again, it must be stressed that these Poet-in-Residence translations aim to capture the spirit and finesse of Bernhard rather than word-for-exact-word.
Bernhard was nothing if not dramatic, nothing if not musical, nothing if not theatrical, nothing if not deep-thinking.
Seeking after the truth we must find the subtle and hidden notes and cogitate at length to find the way to bring them out.

Speak grass

Speak grass, yell my words to the sky;
From wooden stake to wooden stake and over roots
The wind's red and yellow brothers leap.

Hear how the brushwood burns and smoke shoots
Through the moist mouths and gaps,
Hear the cry of the dead in the poisonous stems and tops;
Poisoned are the umbels and the laments.

The sickly mother sits in the tree and cries,
And counts the tears as if in paradise,
A thousand strings are stretched over the wood
From my breast to the face of the sun.

----
Translated 3rd Feb 2009
Gwilym Williams

From Thomas Bernhard's Under the Iron Moon

Poet-in-Residence is currently translating several poems from Thomas Bernhard's collection Unter Dem Eisen des Mondes to mark the 20th anniversary of Bernhard's sadly premature death.

Thomas Bernhard was a writer who died too soon, he had much more to give, much more to show. These translations will not claim to be exact literary word-for-word translations, but they will strive to bring out the mood and the poetic quality and the messages of the poems, whilst at the same time preserving as far as possible their integrity.

Death is close to me now

Death is close to me now and so is winter;
A valley's restless dreams keep me awake
As does the wind on the frozen rooftop
That by night and day writes down my name.

And so now to these waving seas of wheat
I return, though tired from strenuous flight,
To listen to the talk of ancient walls
Far from the fury of never-loved towns.

In the old songs and with broken-down eyesight,
As the moon shyly drives its dark harvest,
I will find the deep dead buried sun
On a green hill, under another sky
And in the early summer's dust
On an evening breeze.

-----
Translated 3 Feb 2009
Gwilym Williams

Sunday 1 February 2009

Prohibitorium ad nauseum*

*Poet-in-Residence has posted this literary item on his Bard on the Run blog.
---------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, to be going on with, here's a wonderful poem from Alfred, Lord Tennyson, written at the grand age of 81. It came in a moment, said his Lordship.

Crossing the Bar

Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea.

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And there may be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.

----
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

Titian's Ecce Homo!*

Hunc tu Romane caveto° might well be the words we can imagine escaping from Emperor Charles V's lips as he sits, time-travelled over 1500 years backwards, astride his trusty mount, to the Holy Land. The emperor's noble form is clad in a fine suit of shiny black armour; only his handsome rugged features and his red beard exposed.
A royal Habsburgian arm is outstretched; and the royal index-finger points to Pontius Pilatus and his strange companion; a semi-naked, bloodstained, bedraggled man, exhausted and in pain, supported from behind by the arms of a court official.
Ecce homo! Pontius Pilatus calls out, and the people roar and raise their arms in jubilation and mockery. No, they will not have this dangerous King of the Jews set free. "Crucify him!" the common call goes up.
An unknown Roman soldier, with his back to the viewer, may be about to sink to his knees. He clutches a large Habsburg shield with its double-headed eagle emblem, the logo of Charles V's Imperial Court. Sitting on a low step in the bottom left corner, directly below the figure of Jesus Christ, is the only person shocked by the whole grim and dreadful business, a boy with a pet dog. He cries out, but we know not what he cries; a fearful expression is on his face.

*behold the man
°Roman, beware of that man

My dog wants to kiss
my face
and lick my mouth
for yes he loves me.

But this man above me
this Jewish king
the people love him not
they will not try to kiss him.

Perhaps if they let him
come to me
my dog would kiss him
lick his bloodied face
and show him love.

----
Titian's Ecce Homo is on display in the Kunsth. Mus. Vienna