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In 1743 the Capo-di-Monte porcelain factory was founded by king Carlos VII of Napoli (the future Carlos III of Spain) in direct emulation of Meissen porcelain. His third son, Ferdinand IV established a new factory in 1780. During the second half of the 19th century, the first handicraft factories were created, all family-managed. In 1867, Alfonso Majello, cavaliere del Lavoro, founded the Majello factory, which continues to produce Capo-di-Monte porcelain. Since the 1920s other companies have made figurines marketed as Capodimonte or Capo-di-Monte products, and its tradition of fine porcelain led to the founding of the Industria Lombardo Porcellane Artistche in 1925, from which emerged the Industria Porcellane Artistche. Other artists broke away to form numerous studios, including King’s Porcelain, and The Crown Over Neapolitan N Mark was never copyrighted so it is commonly applied to works in the Capodimonte tradition. Bruno Merli was a master sculptor and artist who worked at several porcelain factories, including King’s.Bums, tramps, hobos, and other mendicant travelers have long been reviled and romaticized. In "Travels With Charley: In Search ofAmerica," John Steinbeck wrote, “When the virus of restlessness begins to take possession of a wayward man, and the road away from here seems broad and straight and sweet, the victim must find in himself a good and sufficient reason for going. This to the practical bum is not difficult.” (In the same book he crowed, “I have always lived violently, drunk hugely, eaten too much or not at all, slept around the clock or missed two nights of sleeping, worked too hard and too long in glory, or slobbed for a time in utter laziness. I’ve lifted, pulled, chopped, climbed, made love with joy and taken my hangovers as a consequence, not as a punishment.”) In "On the Road" Jack Kerouck described the psychic lifestyle this way: "I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was -- I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future."
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