#muratore

[opera-ghosts]

The exquisite French tenor Lucien Muratore (1878-1954). 

Lucien Muratore (1876-1954) was a French dramatic tenor whose impressive career spanned some three decades. Born in Marseille, Muratore began studies there as a saxophone and oboe player before switching his focus to voice several months later. Initially pursuing a career as a dramatic actor, the young performer made his debut at the Variétés in Paris at the age of 20. Muratore spent several seasons there, as well as at the Casino in Monte Carlo and the Odéon Theatre in Paris, playing juvenile leads. During this period, he enrolled at the Paris Conservatory, where he continued his vocal studies. Muratore’s operatic debut took place at the Opéra-Comique on December 16, 1902 when he created the role of King Louis XIV in the world premiere of Renaldo Hahn’s La Carmélite. Although Hahn’s new opera was a failure, Muratore’s memorable performance helped launch him to an international career. In 1904, Muratore made his first appearance outside of his homeland, when he sang Werther at La Monnaie in Brussels. During the next decade, the tenor spent most of his time in the major theaters of the French speaking world, building his reputation as an artist of the first rank. Not only was Muratore quite skilled in his interpretations of the leads in such standard repertoire as Faust, Roméo et Juliette, Manon, Carmen, Mignon, Pagliacci, Cavalleria Rusticana and Die Meistersinger, he also sang numerous world premieres of such works as Février’s Monna Vanna, Fauré’s Pénélope, Saint-Saëns’ Déjanire and Massenet’s operas Bacchus, Roma and Ariane. In 1913, Muratore came to the U.S. for much heralded appearances in Boston, Chicago and New York. A North American tour followed, the vehicle for which was Bizet’s Carmen. Performances in Fort Worth, Milwaukee, Omaha, Kansas City, St. Louis, Tulsa and other major cities kept the tenor quite busy, but it was Chicago that would remain his artistic home from 1913 to 1922. 1919 saw the tenor in South America for performances with the Teatro Solis in Montevideo and the Teatro Colón in Buenos Aires. A series of concert appearances with his wife, soprano Lina Cavalieri, were also well received. However, the strain of professional life took its toll and Muratore and Cavalieri separated in 1919. By the early 1920s, Muratore was back in Paris where he remained until his retirement from the stage in 1932. The tenor also made his mark on the big screen, with a starring role in 1931’s “Le Chanteur Inconnu”. Interestingly, Muratore had made previous film appearances during the silent era, including the role of des Grieux in 1914’s Manon Lescaut (opposite Cavalieri in the title role). Although he continued to appear in films well into the 1930s, Muratore primarily focused on teaching. He was briefly the director of the Opéra-Comique in 1944 but was relieved of his duties following the liberation of Paris. Muratore passed away in Paris on July 16, 1954, a few weeks shy of his 78th birthday. Lucien Muratore was the possessor of a sturdy spinto-dramatic tenor instrument which he used to great effect in over 30 diverse roles. He was also one of the finest operatic actors of his generation. His recordings, made for G&T, Odeon, Pathé, Zonophone, Edison, A.G.P.A. and other labels, show a singing actor who used his voice to great effect.

[fuckthevar]

stasera una menzione la merita #Muratore, uno dei primi a uscire dalla Next Gen, uno che avrebbe tutto il diritto di essere incazzato: la lezione di vita che ci regala è pregevolissima, sia mai che capiscano qualcosa anche quei fortunati che possono ancora vestire la nobil maglia

[primepaginequotidiani]

PRIMA PAGINA Tirreno di Oggi martedì, 08 ottobre 2024

[muratoretorino]

Costruzioni, ristrutturazioni ed edilizia di qualità dal gruppo di muratori a Torino più professionale che ci sia!

[rockshrimp1989]

From the Cannibal scrapbook!😁

[deathshallbenomore]

wow stai a vedere che camminare più giorni che no per un numero di chilometri compreso tra 7 e 11 serve a qualcosa a livello di benessere psicofisico e cardiocircolatorio, nonché di tonicità muscolare. pazzesco chi l’avrebbe mai detto

[hotelbooking]

Dimora Storica Muratore Luxury rooms Welcome to Dimora Storica Muratore Luxury rooms, a magnificent 5-star hotel nestled in the heart of Lecce, Italy. With its exquisite architecture, impeccable service, and attention to detail, this hotel offers a truly unforgettable experience for discerning travelers. As you step into Dimora Storica Muratore, you will be greeted by a sense of grandeur and sophistication. The hotel boasts three luxurious rooms, each meticulously designed to provide the utmost comfort and style. Whether you are traveling for business or pleasure, you will find everything you need to relax and rejuvenate in these opulent accommodations. Check-in at Dimora Storica Muratore begins at 12:30 PM, allowing you to start your stay at your own pace. The hotel's dedicated staff will be there to assist you, ensuring a seamless and hassle-free arrival. With only three rooms available, you can expect personalized attention and a tranquil atmosphere throughout your stay. Indulge...

[bigarella]

Anche Elio frequentava il locale

Dolceacqua (IM): uno scorcio del paese Adriana abita a Costa d’Oneglia e ci ha ricevuto offrendo caffè e biscotti. Per me era tutto nuovo: non avevo mai fatto un’intervista. E, del resto, non posso neanche dire che questa sia un’intervista, ma una conversazione con lei. Parlare di Elio e Adriana, non di Elio scrittore ma di Elio uomo: compagno di vita, amico. E vi pare facile? Ricordo che Marino…

[adrianomaini]

Anche Elio frequentava il locale

Dolceacqua (IM): uno scorcio del paese Adriana abita a Costa d’Oneglia e ci ha ricevuto offrendo caffè e biscotti. Per me era tutto nuovo: non avevo mai fatto un’intervista. E, del resto, non posso neanche dire che questa sia un’intervista, ma una conversazione con lei. Parlare di Elio e Adriana, non di Elio scrittore ma di Elio uomo: compagno di vita, amico. E vi pare facile? Ricordo che Marino…

[bagnabraghe]

Anche Elio frequentava il locale

Dolceacqua (IM): uno scorcio del paese Adriana abita a Costa d’Oneglia e ci ha ricevuto offrendo caffè e biscotti. Per me era tutto nuovo: non avevo mai fatto un’intervista. E, del resto, non posso neanche dire che questa sia un’intervista, ma una conversazione con lei. Parlare di Elio e Adriana, non di Elio scrittore ma di Elio uomo: compagno di vita, amico. E vi pare facile? Ricordo che Marino…

[collasgarba]

Anche Elio frequentava il locale

Dolceacqua (IM): uno scorcio del paese Adriana abita a Costa d’Oneglia e ci ha ricevuto offrendo caffè e biscotti. Per me era tutto nuovo: non avevo mai fatto un’intervista. E, del resto, non posso neanche dire che questa sia un’intervista, ma una conversazione con lei. Parlare di Elio e Adriana, non di Elio scrittore ma di Elio uomo: compagno di vita, amico. E vi pare facile? Ricordo che Marino…

[opera-ghosts]

The Romance of Cavalieri and Muratore

How Lina of the Porta Salaria became a distinguished artiste, the wife of a celebrated tenor,and a renowned motion picture actress.

By Jerome Shorey

STRANGE, is it not, that while Romance is the very life of the theater, it is rarely indeed that actual romances find in the theater itself that happy climate wherein they can endure from year to year. It is one of the paradoxes of life that to a great de-gree the very men and women who bring the pictured romance to the world, are them-selves denied the emotions they por-tray. Nor is it diffi-cult to understand, for the emotions of the player, always keyed to such high pitch in his art, are too turbulent for permanence. Grop-ing for the reality they counterfeit in their profession they either demand too much, or are willing to give too little in return. The great lovers are few. The enduring romance is the exception—the attach-ment that stands the test of years. But there are exceptions, the more notable because of their rarity. Out near New London, Connecticut, there is a beautiful summer home, the grounds of which slope gently down under splendid old elms, to the shimmering Sound. Here, almost any summer’s day, you can find a man and a woman en-gaged in some light frolic. They are Lucien Muratore and his beautiful wife, Lina Cavalieri, whose romance has endured, and for this reason: that they have not forgotten how to play. And just as they have not permitted their adult years to banish the joys of childhood, they have not permitted eight years of marriage to keep them from being lovers.

In pic-turesque costumes from their operatic wardrobes they play at masquerades among the elms and beside the shore, and the chance spectator might well take it for a faery vision Of some gay creatures of the element, That in the colors of the rainbow live, And play in the plighted clouds. Eight years ago they met, Cavalieri and Muratore, at the Grand Opera in Paris, where a new opera by Giordano, “Si-beria,” was being produced. They met at rehearsal, they loved, they married. And that is all there is to tell. Happy indeed are the people whose annals are vacant. Muratore sings at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York—Cava-lieri plays in pictures for Paramount. And between times they proceed with the real business of life, which is the pursuit of happiness. For they are both of the land of eternal youth where Rome, granddam of nations, from her seven hills defies the passing years, the passing centuries—Rome, an ancient city when Christ was born, yet to-day younger than the latest upstart town of the Middle West. It was a long road, but seldom a dreary one, which Cavalieri traveled to reach this delectable destination. Glance at this picture of her earliest youth: In the poorest part of the city of Rome, near the Porta Salaria, almost under the very shadow of the great Villa Bor-ghese, in a few almost bare rooms, the family of a laborer. Nor even an unusual laborer—just a good, honest, hard-working toiler. And the family—six of them, lively, always more or less hungry. Yet not unhappy— for after all, some-how one lives, and papa is kind, and mamma is beautiful, and in the soft twi-light Lina, who is twelve, sings to the accompaniment of a cheap guitar. For this is Italy, where even the babes in their cradles are dra-matic, and when sor-row comes one looks upon it always a little with the eye of the artist, so that even suffering becomes picturesque by being somewhat self-conscious. To those who are not versed in the ro-mance of art, it may seem a remarkable career, this of Lina Cavalieri’s, from the poor quarter of Rome to the luxury of an operatic and moving picture star.

Yet it is not so remarkable after all. Did you ever hear of a great singer coming from a wealthy family? And besides, just as every soldier in the armies of Napoleon always carried the baten of a field marshal in his knapsack, so as not to be taken unawares by the great honor that he was sure would come to him eventually, so every Italian child is provided at birth with a blank contract for the Metro-politan Opera House: In Rome, where even the little children speak Italian fluently, Verdi and Donizetti are as popular as Irving Berlin and Jerome Kern are in New York, and as familiar to the whistling street boys. If, with such a background, La Cavalieri had become a disciple of Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst, or had made a name for herself as a missionary to the heathen in the Malay Penin- ' sula, it would have been remarkable. That she has succeeded on the stage and in the cinemas, after all, is not so astonish-ing after you have glanced at her beautiful face and have heard her sing. For while Cavalieri is not among the greatest singers in the world, she has the sort of voice you like to hear. She herself takes her success as simply and unaffectedly as a child accepts a toy which, while it evokes real gratitude, is not entirely unexpected. And she tells about it just as simply—that is if you can describe as simple a torrent of words,in half a dozen languages, bubbling over each other, in a musical jargon as sprightly as a dewtime argument between a bluebird and a bobolink. In speech, Italian is her birthright. French her adoption, Russian her experience, and English her. antipathy. She simply will not learn to speak English, and the world is the gainer in just so much music, for while it demands the service of an agile-eared interpreter for the average uni-lingual American to un-derstand milady’s flood of conversation, it is pleasant to hear whether you understand or not. And so the story was told: Little Lina of the Ponta Salaria had reached thirteen, and her voice was beginning to round out into promises of some-thing unusual. Yet they took it as a matter of course in the buzzing family, until one evening, as Lina was warbling to the twanging of the guitar, a very great man heard her. Very great indeed was the man to Lina and her parents—though if the fact must be set down truthfully, he was merely the conductor of the orchestra at a cheap music hall—something like the ten-twent’-thirt’ of American vaudeville, only that Italian audiences, even in these cheapest resorts, demand real music. NowW every maestro is always on the lookout for a genius to discover, and the maestro of the little music hall, stopping in front of Lina’s home, murmured, or perhaps ex-claimed, “Dio mio, quel bella voce!’ and Lina’s fortune was made.

But not father died, and the family was in despair. Hunger is not recommended by singing teachers as the best means of developing a young voice, but it was on hunger that Cavatieri trained in those darkest days of ait her lite. And just when it seemed that human endurance could continue no longer, the maestro found a place tor her on the program of the ten-twent’-thirt’ house at three lire—about sixty cents —a periormance. The beginning was all she needed. Soon a better theatre discovered the little song-bird of the Porta Salaria, and ofiered five lire—a dollar a day—as much as her father had ever earned- This was wealth. Within a very tew months, Little Lina, still not sixteen, was one of the favorites at the Eden, one of the best music halls in Reme, and there she was paid a salary that set wagging the tongues of the gossips around the Salaria gate—one hundred lire a week—twenty dollars. This was fame. There is little doubt that Cavalieri would have been a much greater singer if she had not been such a great beauty. The new sensation of the Eden was soon discovered by an impresario from Paris, not for her voice, which was still in the formative stage, but for her high visibility. To the child herself, for Lina was still little more than that, this magical world that opened to her, which meant ease and comfort, not only for herself but for that recently so hungry brood over by the Porta Salaria, was not a thing to be questioned. She had not taken her voice seriously.

She had not taken anything very seriously except hunger, and now there was no more hunger. There was no wise patron to tell her that in her throat was a delicate organ which by careful development and study could be made into a voice that would thrill the world. She could sing well enough for the music-halls, much better than most of her fellow artists, and that was sufficient. But with Paris, and the sensational success at the Folies Bergere, not to mention the salary of $2,000 a month, came the realization that beauty could carry her no farther, that if she was to rise still higher in the world of the theatre, she must be carried up by her voice. She studied intermittently, but was not greatly encouraged either by friends or teachers. She was one of those favored ones of whom her friends cannot understand why they are not satisfied with their tremendous successes and why they insist upon doing something else that seems so unnecessary. But the urge of ambition drove on, and she persisted in her vocal studies. This is the most remark-able thing about the career of Lina Cavalieri—mmuch more remarkable than that she should have risen from poverty and obscurity—that in the height of her triumph in the gayest city in the world, hailed as the greatest beauty in the world, the toast of Grand Dukes and millionaires, she kept her head, insisted that there was something greater in store for her, and went on with her singing.

It was not until she visited Russia and met the tenor Mar-coni, touring with Luisa Tetrazzini, that she received her first word of encouragement. He told her she could succeed in opera if she would really study under the proper sort of teacher. She then went into the business seriously. For nine months she worked, and after an unfortunate but luckily al-most unnoticed debut in Lisbon, she made her real debut in Naples in “La Boheme.” She was a success, only partly, per-haps, through her singing, for with her beauty one could allow other prima donna a considerable handicap and win handily. Her continental triumphs brought her to the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, where she was a sensation but not an operatic success. Curiously enough, while America is not a musical nation, yet in this one operatic institution the high-est standards in the world prevail, and the truth must be admitted—Cavalieri’s voice is not one of the greatest. But she made New York sit up and take notice, just the same. It was inevitable that the moving pictures should claim such a beauty as this. Until she was added to the Paramount list of stars a year ago, she had not appeared in any pictures in America, but had been in numerous Italian productions. One of these, “The Rose of Granada,” served as a joint starring vehicle for herself and her husband, and will be released later in this country by Paramount.

Under the Zukor management she has ap-peared in four features, characterized by re-markable beauty, such as the star’s charm requires for a background. These are “Love’s Conquest,” “The Eternal Tempt-ress,’ “A Woman of Impulse” and “The Two Brides.” So there you have the twin romances of Cavalieri—the romance of her career and the romance of her marriage. Hers is the true birthright of her country—child of Italy, child of laughing skies and lyric seas, child of the land of song, and beauty, and eternal youth.

From Photoplay Magazine 1919-03: Vol 15 Iss 3

[belteppismo]

I was under the sun for like 3 hours and I have ugly tan lines on both arms now😐

[angelap3]

A far star male una persona ci vuole niente, basta una parola mal detta o mai detta, uno sguardo mal dato o mai dato.

A farla stare bene ci vuole molto più tempo.

A tirar giù un edificio basta della dinamite piazzata nei punti giusti, bastano pochi secondi.

Per tirare su una casa, ci vuole l’architetto, il geometra, il muratore, il falegname, il piastrellista, l’idraulico, l’elettricista, il fabbro, ci vogliono mesi se non anni, dipende dalla complessità della casa.

Siamo esseri delicati, la struttura esteriore può essere robusta, ma abbiamo bisogno di continua manutenzione interna, la facciata, anche se rifatta, non sempre rispecchia lo stato interno.

Far star bene le persone non è un’opzione, è una scelta precisa che ripaga; è un compito estremamente complesso, presuppone la capacità di leggere le persone e nelle persone, chi sorride non sempre è felice, chi sta in silenzio non sempre non ha nulla da dire.

Non siamo villette a schiera costruite con lo stampo, siamo piuttosto borghi meravigliosi, ognuno con i suoi vicoli e la sua storia.

Le persone si riscrivono in continuazione, e una volta che sei riuscito a leggere il loro libro, devi ricominciare da capo, perché il contenuto è cambiato.

"L'angolo della psicologia" - G. Liberati

[liciscaeziohankprofilodicoppia]

Ha le spalle da muratore" mi dice il fisiatra , sapesse come sta la mia fica, penso io: la troietta che ho tra le gambe infatti è fradicia perché sa che a breve sarà devastata. Dopo una visita in cui il dottore mi diceva "afferri la mia mano" e io pensavo a quando D., afferrandomi per i capelli, mi incula duramente, oppure "spinga con forza" e torno a lui che spinge con forza il suo cazzo nella mia bocca per soffocarmi e farmi sbavare come una Cagna, prendo la filovia per raggiungerlo in studio. Ci siamo già sentiti telefonicamente per un immediato resoconto della visita medica appena fatta e la sua voce squillante preannuncia quello che da lì a poco accadrà. Conto le fermate che mancano all' arrivo a destinazione: sono dieci, troppe, e durante il tragitto mi dico che, anche se potrò stare poco con lui oggi, comunque uscirò da quello studio soddisfatta e provata, molto provata. Lo vedo arrivarmi incontro con un sorriso che mi scioglie, parliamo e ci guardiamo entrambi eccitati e desiderosi di arrivare presto a destinazione. Per le scale mi accompagna con la mano nella fica, attraversiamo il corridoio e, varcata la soglia, ci baciamo a lungo. Gli attenti lettori sapranno ormai che, dopo qualche bacio, la voglia di avere il suo cazzo in bocca mi mette in ginocchio: mi ritrovo nell' ingresso ai suoi piedi e col cazzo che mi scopa la gola. Non facciamo tanta strada, anzi, rimaniamo proprio lì, io a quattro zampe e lui dietro di me mi scopa la fica, la martella a tratti duramente, a tratti infilando anche la mano perché, si sa, la mia fica è ampia e si presta benissimo ad una doppia.

Doppia: in una relazione esclusiva, quale è la nostra, vuol dire che una parte di sé è accompagnata da un Toy nell' esplorazione di ogni mio buco. Stavolta i co-protagonisti sono un dildo di vetro e un grande dildo nero che col suo cazzo sfondano fica e culo. Quando D. arriva al culo, lo confesso, sono tremendamente egoista: difficilmente sono disposta a rinunciarci perché adoro essere inculata da lui, urlare quando i colpi sono molto forti e, al tempo stesso, fare di tutto per averlo dentro fino ai coglioni, guardarlo mentre mi sorride e affonda colpi ancora più duri, e, infine, arrendermi sfinita alla sua forza. Doppia sulla scrivania promossa a pieni voti: sono talmente soddisfatta che gli propongo un incontro fatto esclusivamente di inculate. Sorpreso, il mio amato Porco sorride e con gli occhi, mentre mi bacia, immagina già quella situazione. Continuiamo a baciarci e a darci fino all' ora x. Odio dovermene andare ma devo: in strada parliamo di quanto vissuto e di quanto sarà bello la prossima volta rivedersi. Al momento dei saluti mi assicuro che il mio tinta labbra non sia ancora sulla sua barba, ci lanciamo gli ultimi sguardi compiaciuti e ci salutiamo con un tocco che, obbligatoriamente, sostituisce un bacio. Sono sempre tante le fermate per tornare a casa ma sulla via del ritorno non ho alcuna frenesia. Guardo gli scatti che mi ha inviato e leggo il suo ultimo messaggio in cui accetta formalmente un incontro all anal. Sorrido e vorrei già tornare indietro

[ilpandaconleocchiaie]

Ormai faccio il muratore con i muri che alzo.