How the Wealthy Grieve

"Horses for courses" is the pithy phrase the Brits use to underline the need to choose certain animals for certain races and not for others, and by extension, certain people for certain jobs etc. There are things that fit particular situations and circumstances and things that don't. It is accompanied by a sage nod and an acknowledgment that choosing the wrong contender can doom your chances of success.

The upcoming 10th anniversary of the 2001 September 11th attacks opens up a field of commemorative options, from a dry religious observation to a novelty clog dance invitational. From the Spartan to the flagrantly bizarre, here in multi-cultural anything-goes America who is to say what the course is and which horse is the most appropriate?

The San Francisco Opera has chosen as its stallion in the race to cash in on the event's audience-generating potential an opera based on James B. Stewart's book Heart of a Soldier. This raises at least three fundamental questions:

• is opera an appropriate medium for the tenth anniversary of this national day of mourning? 
• is San Francisco Opera the best company for that opera?
• is this particular novel appropriate subject matter?

In the 18th century Dr. Johnson called the opera of his day, largely spectacular affairs sung in Italian to a wealthy crowd who paid scant attention to what was going on onstage, an 'irrational and exotic entertainment', and conditions have hardly changed. Coverage of the San Francisco Opera 2010 Season opening gala left little doubt that it was the participants and their largesse that were being celebrated - 

" I wanted to feel like a princess," Dede Wilsey said in the box lounge, showing off her silvery Oscar de la Renta ball gown, and a scarab-size diamond pendant around her neck. The evenings offered meaningful escapes, from the lingering downturn, and patrons were ready to celebrate their contribution to the arts. (The San Francisco Chronicle.)

The opera itself is mentioned only as a footnote in the article's final sentence; by the way, all these bejeweled revelers sat through Aida. By Verdi.  This criticism, however, is to answer the second question first, that San Francisco's is not likely to be the audience to take the project the most seriously. We can only hope that the gravity of the occasion's subject matter will trump the patrons' thirst for recognition, otherwise a Twin Towers bustier may be the talk of the town in the traditional annual San Francisco Chronicle reader poll of the best opening night gown.

How does turning a national day of mourning into a secular fee-paying event ($35 to >$150 per seat) avoid becoming a public relations nightmare? The medium of opera apparently has the credentials to carry it off because it has an unassailable social cachet among the wealthy for expressing the profoundest of human emotions while spending a lot of money doing it.

Perhaps it is opera's expense that excuses or obscures its absurdity, as if the spectacle of a singing/dying firefighter is legitimized by the amount of cash it took to get him on to the stage. Imagine the outraged response to a substituted Twin Towers oboe recital, or a newly commissioned string quartet; these are insubstantial, unspectacular, and do not spend enough money expressing our grief. A smaller-scale musical item, such as Barber's Adagio for Strings, may have the emotional depth and hit the nail squarely on the head, but there is nothing like the tacky and wasteful opulence of grand opera to help the wealthy feel like they are participating in something truly artistically worthwhile.

Heart of a Soldier is a typical profile-in-courage beloved by the US Messiah industry. It stands in the mainstream of American mythology that venerates the testosterone Jesus, the cowboy, the pioneer, the soldier, the pilot, the president, who willingly and lovingly lays down his life for those in his care. This particular story's hero sacrifices himself to save 2,700 people at the World Trade Center on the morning of the attacks, and would make a great movie role for John Wayne, or any latter-day All-American swaggerista. Good luck with the stage role, Thomas Hampson, and mind you don't trip over any cliches on your way to the moral high ground.

According to the Baltimore Sun, the book '...has all the ingredients of an Indiana Jones movie.' Well, what it lacks in solemnity perhaps the opera will make up for in good ole rock 'em, sock 'em entertainment, with the good guys and the bad guys clearly and comfortingly identified. Who says life isn't like the movies? At least it will give me a chance to wear that new frock.

Boxed In

In 1840, so many boys at Eton wanted to play Fives that to accommodate the craze for the sport a new block of four courts was built, replicating the conditions at the foot of the chapel steps where the game was best played. Here, the ball would bounce mischievously around the angles of the pleasingly cramped nook to confound the sprightly players (a wider bay would ruin the game), who needed deft hand-eye coordination to stay ahead of the competition. 

Other schools and private houses followed suit with purpose-built courts, and by 1900 the game was at its peak of popularity, fed by a network of organized competitions and active alumni. However, two world wars killed off interest, and nothing could generate enthusiasm for a sport whose associations were so negatively rooted in the Upper Class.

Eton Fives still exists as a minority interest among certain ex-pupils, who organize league tables and evangelize on the game’s behalf, but many more courts exist than are needed and the question of their future stands sphinx-like at the intersection of architectural preservation and cultural progress. The sport's remains now litter the landscape often unrecognized, unused and unusable, consigned to obsolescence and waiting for demolition.

When the march of history and class circumstance renders buildings obsolete, what options do we have for their rescue?

·         Should we step in and save them, used or unused, just to preserve the historical record?

·         Should we revive the practice that made them useful, to give the architecture a purpose again?

·         Should we find a new use for them?

·         Should we remove them to make way for the more relevant and useful?

On a smaller scale, architectural details also retain a unique place in cultural anthropological history. 

Family pews in churches, for example, paid for by subscription and allotted and occupied according to social position, were eventually abandoned as unbefitting the egalitarian vision of heaven as conceived by late 19^th Century Christianity. These intimate and cozy compounds provided all-round privacy and comfort, with padded seats and heating, the forward facing banquettes providing ample view of the liturgical action and access to distribution of communion elements, and the backward facing banquettes accommodating the servants; it was the closest thing to having the convenience of one’s own home chapel.

To design a building that includes this anachronistic feature today would be unthinkable because it would reinstate a class-based theology that the church has long outgrown. Likewise, no municipality would build a Fives court, for not only would it be underutilized, it would only be used by a very small minority of the educationally privileged.

Yet opera house designers routinely replicate historicist design features that reinforce a class-based architecture long since meaningless. It has been two centuries since tenure of a box at the opera had any fact-based cachet. Today, opera house architecture trades on design elements that would make other building types the objects of scorn and ridicule because they introduce class-based historicism that condemns the art form imprisoned within to an anti-American system of patronage based on snobbery and elitism.  

The first public opera house opened in Venice in 1637 to accommodate the merchant city’s passion for the new art form. Invented in 1600 in Florence with the support of a group of wealthy intellectuals concerned with reestablishing the supremacy of Greek dramatic models, opera had established itself among the super-wealthy as a supremely grand and self-congratulatory entertainment that combined drama, music and all the elements of elaborate and costly stagecraft. Not to be outdone by those with a personal fortune, the merchant city was able to sustain its own building by selling subscriptions to ‘boxes’ on a seasonal basis to its wealthiest citizens. Sales of individual seats on a nightly basis down in the flat section by the orchestra were a more risky proposition, but the box income guaranteed the building’s financial success. The ‘box’ itself was the visible balcony section of an elaborate apartment, each one complete with fireplace and drawing room for dining and entertaining. From this ‘box’ the family members could view the opera, or draw the curtains to maintain perfect privacy.

To emulate the grandeur of Venetian opera society, (for it was here that the city’s merchant families entertained one another during the opera season, arranging business deals and keeping abreast of the latest scandal,) other cities copied the building’s design, cementing the design relationship of opera with the box until the ‘opera box’ became a de rigueur feature. However, the boxes of many opera houses did not give access onto rented apartments, and were just elaborate enclosures of movable seats to create the illusion of wealth and exclusivity. Maintaining ‘a box at the opera’ became a symbol of societal position, inferring that one had either inherited it or had enough money to purchase it, even though it might only mean a seat or two in a certain position, and not the whole seating area. Opera and the illusion of wealth also became inseparable twins.

Boxes are today not sold as groups of seats, but as individual seats, and no architect in any opera house has ever dared take away the box design, even though they serve no purpose other than to remind other audience members that the occupants are direct descendants of the Patricians of old.

Bei der Uebersetzung Verloren

Everyday speech is full of poetry -
There's no-one here to take your call right now; please leave a message when you hear the tone.

Few people would recognize this as perfect Iambic Pentameter (di-DUM five times over) that would fit easily into a contemporary Shakespearean sit-com -



"There's no-one here to take your call right now; 
Please leave a message when you hear the tone."
"Hello? Hello? Girl, please pick up the phone.
I really need to hear your voice right now.
Can you believe she's going out with him?
Text me as soon you know what's going on."

What passes for Everyday Speech is often full of poetry and we are only sometimes aware of it. Poetry on the other hand is never full of Prose, unless it is a deliberate gesture. Poetry contains the element of sculpture and design that Prose has only by accident. Poetry is literary sculpture, and although its medium is the word, its message is made more sophisticated by the form that has been imposed upon those words -  These are the times that try men's souls expresses with gravitas what Soulwise, these are trying times trips over in clumsiness. Artful architecture confers more than the words alone.

Connecting with poetry from a foreign language is therefore extremely difficult, because to reproduce the elements beyond simply the meaning with any accuracy makes the translator's job an almost impossible one. Here are some sample renderings of Hamlet's existential musing To be, or not to be: that is the question -

Être, ou ne pas être, telle est la question
Sein oder Nichtsein; das ist hier die Frage
Essere o non essere, questo è il problema 
¿Ser o no Ser esa es la cuestión?

Each may convey the meaning to each new audience, but the rhythm of the poet's monosyllables has been destroyed, and their profound semantic simplicity has of necessity been sacrificed. As Robert Frost observed, Poetry is what gets lost in translation.  

To set a poem to music is to do it further damage; compositional treatment is itself a form of translation, since it forces spoken or thought text into the language of music, solidifying an interpretation of the text that remained ambiguous while it was still unspoken. 

Consider the following -
Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day? 
I can imply at least six different meanings in the musical phrases I use to set the text -

1. Shall I (and not someone else) compare thee to a Summer's day? 
2. Shall I (or shan't I?) compare thee to a Summer's day? 
3. Shall I compare thee (or shall I contrast thee?) to a Summer's day?
4. Shall I compare thee (or shall I compare thy sister?) to a Summer's day? 
5. Shall I compare thee to a Summer's (or a Winter's) day?
6. Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day (or a Summer's morning)?

Some of these are clearly incorrect, and some are more incorrect than others, and some should get me laughed off the stage. Then there is the issue of sensitivity to tempo, tone, volume, etc. Yell any one of them at speed and you will get my meaning.


A composer who ignores the rhythm of the language, misunderstands the text, or is not interested in the 'whole truth' of the poem does great violence to the original.
If someone ground your homemade gingerbread cookies into the crust for a cheesecake and presented that entirely new dish as 'the dessert you had brought to share' you too would be as horrified, because you have clearly lost control of your brand; the 'meaning' of those cookies has been hijacked. You had intended their shape and dryness to be a comment on the bland aridity of the guests, but the host felt they needed tarting up lest dinner end in disaster.  

Pity the poor poets whose work is hijacked, repackaged and sold as their own. Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day? SHALL I?

Dr. Johnson's Dog is Alive and Well and Living in California.

If members of the general public applaud the antics of an animal being paraded on its hind legs, any indulgence on their part is an acknowledgment of effort rather than quality, and is also tinged with sympathy for the poor brute who has been reduced to such circumstances. In the 18th Century, Dr.Samuel Johnson misogynistically likened such a circus act to female preaching, expressing surprise not that either could do it well but that they could do it at all.

Consider, then, Rufus Wainwright, songsmith royalty of the Wainwright-McGarrigle bloodline, commissioned by the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra to write and perform settings of Five Shakespeare Sonnets. Mr. Wainwright is a popular musician with substantial sexual magnetism but of little orchestral savvy; his celebrity alone is the hindquarters upon which he is expected to balance.

Happily the San Francisco Chronicle reviewer did not mistake Mr. Wainwright's staggerings for Art. His natural gift for melody and the pianism of the singer-songwriter do not of necessity translate to the orchestral medium. The makings of a good sandwich are different from the ingredients of a great souffle; a novel doesn't always make a great movie, and although the material was of a certain quality, the orchestra's presence was wasted.

But with California's vacuous love of celebrity, perhaps the greater San Francisco public might not have been so discerning. In Arnold Schwarzenegger California mistook a body-builder for a Governor.In Ronald Reagan they and indeed the nation as a whole mistook an actor for a President. Yesterday, Bristol Palin's celebrity allowed her to be mistaken for a dancer in Dancing with the Stars, and so the preposterous celebritocracy is in its full ascendant.

Hearteningly, the recent mid-term elections proved that inexperience can be a handicap in CA politics, if not in Art.The virgin billionairess Meg Whitman failed in her bid for the Governorship, and the similarly  outrageously under-qualified Carly Fiorina was unsuccessful in her attempt to unseat Senator Barbara Boxer. Had these two lamentable pretenders had higher-octane glamor star-power behind them and not mere chutzpah and the contemptible likes of John McCain, the outcome might have been very different.

Celebrity has become the new Education. A degree in political science is trumped by an appearance on the Today show. Being qualified to talk about your subject because you have studied it for nigh on a decade matters less than the hastily-formed opinion of someone more photogenic than you. The hiring team at San Diego opera told one of the candidates at a recent round of auditions, "We love your voice, but we won't hire you until you are more of a star." Clearly, it's not about Quality.

Humpty Dumpty famously described a world in which the meanings of words were not fixed by dictionary definition. 'When I use a word,' Humpty Dumpty said in rather a scornful tone, 'it means just what I choose it to mean—neither more nor less.' He would be comfortable with someone who makes up words like 'refudiate', or who fires someone for using the word 'niggardly' correctly. We are in a time when semantic territories need to be defended; daughters of political pundits are not professional dancers, billionairesses are not governors, actors are not presidents, architects are not set designers, singer-songwriters are not the next Mahler. They are entitled to try, but their celebrity alone does not entitle them to succeed.

Celebrity has become the dominant word of the American landscape, consuming all other words in its path. It makes a mockery of education and tramples on the knowledge-establishment with its empty but trump card braggadocio. In 21st Century America fear of the Pinheads has morphed into adulation of the Airheads; we have handed over the microphone to the people least able to speak in complete sentences, which is the one thing that a spokesperson is expected to be able to do. It is scandalous in an enlightened democracy that celebrity should be encouraged to wield such power.

Before you know it, Sarah Palin will be running for office and the sun will be orbiting the earth again.

'The question is,' said Alice, 'whether you CAN make words mean so many different things.'

The answer is they can, if YOU let them.

Art, Place, Identity.

Sometimes it is a simple case of cash that lies at the heart of an ownership contest. A recent row between the town of Florence and the Tuscan State, in which both the city and the state each contends that the sculpture is uniquely its own, highlights what is at stake when you go up against a beloved artifact in its home environment to challenge to whom the work actually belongs. This tussle is about the division of the spoils generated by the millions of international tourists and their wallets, and there is no push to relocate the actual artifact itself, just its residuals. When Art generates significant income through tourism, Nationalism and Capitalism are its twin shadows, but it is an uneasy brotherhood of mutual distrust.

At other times the circumstances of ownership are layered with more than just cash value. Did Adele Bloch-Bauer ever expect one of her portraits to be the most expensive painting in the history of the world? After a protracted legal battle between her niece Maria Altmann and the Republic of Austria. five pictures that had been relinquished to the Belvedere Museum in Vienna after their illegal seizure by the Nazis were in 2006 put into the hands of their rightful owners. The surviving niece, who had fled to Los Angeles to escape the oncoming Holocaust, exhibited the pictures briefly at the LA County Museum, and then sold them by auction at Christie's, where the most famous among them (above) fetched an astonishing $135 Million. It now hangs in the Neue Galerie on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.

What was a jewel in Austria's multi-faceted crown - a portrait by a Viennese artist of one of the city's beguiling patronesses voluptuously enveloped in her spectacular wealth like an Egyptian queen - has recently and vulgarly been called the American Mona Lisa. It is, of course, only American insofar as America was where coincidence or fate led it; it was American lawyers that wrestled the paintings from the Republic of Austria, it was American Dollars that purchased them and it is America that will give them permanent residence. Although some Austrians think the wounds of the loss particularly egregious, having been inflicted by a legal team headed up by their native son Arnold Schoenberg's grandson, they should not quibble over whose treachery is the greatest; Schoenberg's for leaving Austria for the safety of the Capitalist West Coast, his grandson for outsmarting the Austrian authorities, those authorities for lying about the ownership of the pictures, or the Nazis for looting the art in the first place.

The money from the sale of the pictures has yet to surface. (Presumably Maria got the new kitchen she had promised herself in Adele's Wish, one of the movies covering the story.) There is no Altmann or Bloch-Bauer or Klimt Foundation in any of the databases, and no major bequests yet by any of the families involved. At 94, Maria must at least have made plans for its charitable dispersal to avoid or to reduce the current 55% Estate Tax that will fall due at her death, otherwise one of the greatest beneficiaries of the Rape of Europe will be the American government.

Rendered simplistically, Austria abandoned the Bloch-Bauers and so the Bloch-Bauers abandoned Austria. Despite their wounded pride, Austria was unable to depict Adele as an impoverished hostage sold obscenely into American slavery because Austrian reserves of moral authority had been emptied; the Nazis had confiscated the chattels of the Jewish Bloch-Bauer household and the authorities did not intervene. They then accepted the looted art and appropriated it as their own. Ex-private citizen Maria Altmann delivered a blow of devastating impact to the State by attacking its patrimonial identity. Taking away the nation's art made a fundamental mythology disappear along with it, and the blow to the nation's pride was immense.

Happily, Ronald Lauder's Mona Lisa is surrounded exclusively by other Austrian artifacts in the Neue Galerie on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, in a typically American home-from-home recreation of The Old Country. But the plundering begins again; her image is now available as a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle, a 2,000 piece jigsaw puzzle, a mug, a vase, a bangle, a t-shirt, and a waste-paper basket.

Pope Joan

Driving home a nail into the door of the Schlosskirche in Wittenberg in 1517 on which to hang a list of 95 clerical abuses was Martin Luther's act of whistle-blowing, unequivocally calling the Catholic Church to account for its intermingling of theology and capitalism that he found so reprehensible. This was the primary catalyst of the movement that we call The Reformation, officially blowing the whistle on the church's immoral tactics and practices, and legitimizing the opposing forces that had been amassing on its flanks.

Chief on his list of grievances had become the selling of indulgences, by which, for a price, the hapless could purchase future heavenly release from the consequence of their misdeeds on earth. This would not sound quite so benighted to our 21st century ears if the church had not recently reintroduced the practice. Of all the barriers that the church had erected for its own financial gain between God and the believer, Luther considered this the most egregious.

Chaucer satirizes the Pardoning profession in The Canterbury Tales, deriding the man who shamelessly ble$$es the gullible with his bag of 'holy relic' meat bones to support his bawdy alcoholism. His appearance and demeanor are of a piece with his insalubrious attitude to the rest of the party, and the tale that he contributes to the set of stories, of three louts keen to out-swindle each other, is humorlessly nihilistic.  

Luther's goal was twofold; to attack the corruption within the clergy that was taking advantage of the general populace, and to attack the church's gaudy trappings that had become such a lucrative sideline even though they littered and impeded the believer's path to the divine. The regalia of the church had actually become a barrier to the thing to which the organization was claiming to provide access, and instead of making God more approachable, the path to God had become strewn with more and greater obstacles that were removable only by the application of cash, or by the exchange of some useful worldly influence.

Which brings us to the world of grand opera. The death last week at the age of 83 of Joan Sutherland, La Superba, unofficial pope of the church of bel canto opera, rings the knell on an age of interest in the specifically grand operas of Donizetti, Bellini and Verdi, similarly high artifacts on the scale of the Gaudy Trappings Quotient. They too draw attention to their own tawdry magnificence by introducing yet more layers between the worshiper and the deity. The church has thuribles, thurifers and reredoses, grand opera has cavatinas, recitatives and turbe dramatice. The church is presided over by the pontiff, the opera is presided over by the prima donna.   

Credibility in grand opera is not of prime concern; you can hardly throw a brick in a work by Donizetti without hitting a beautiful village maiden who is in love with a penniless painter who turns out to be a Viscount, and who later goes insane. Verdi's Il Trovatore is so famously opaque that "to have an chance at all of understanding it, you first have to learn a background story that's even more complex and unlikely. Then, when it all shakes out in the end, it's hard to know who betrayed whom, who threw which baby into the fire — and whether we've just seen a bitter old man unwittingly execute his own brother or a vengeful old woman plotting to get her beloved son beheaded. Or both." (NPR)

Rather than a road to the divine, which I take to be the amplification of drama by music even to the point of danger, the road itself has become a diversion from the divine, and the objects along the road have assumed falsely divine significance. The magnificence of the display, the costume drama dress-up of it all has replaced the initial relationship of the seeker to the goal, the very thing that Luther was wishing to reestablish. When the audience forgives the dramatic ludicrousness of a corpse singing from inside a sack because she sings so beautifully and the high notes are so stratospherically gorgeous, there may as well be pig bones in that sack because the mission of sustaining and intensifying a narrative by musical means has been derailed, it has indeed been undermined, and who cares any more if the relics are real or not.

Operatic reality is when the actors on stage are so full of their characters that it comes out of them in the form of song; they are not singing about being angry, they are so full of angry that the only way to express it is to sing it out. Try to say, "Let there be Light!" as if you were ordering lunch and you'll understand; things take on their own natural weight and intensity. Intensity of emotion is the root of song.

However, what what is important is not the altarcloth, the crozier or the chasuble. Sung drama is by definition drama that is sung. Take away the narrative, and all you have is pompous singers playing with make-up. Take away God from the church and all you have is an old man in purple Prada slippers and a hat like a tea-cozy. And why would you want to take that away?

Strike Tactics

When the cabin crew of British Airways announced a twelve-day strike to impact its customers flying around the world in late December 2009, thousands of vacations were disrupted, weddings were ruined, and the currency of the airline plummeted from the unreliable to the worthless. Who would buy a ticket for a plane that might not fly? Who would want to be served by a bunch of surly and (according to the newspaper reports) overpaid and (according to them) under-appreciated space waitrons?

Calling a strike is an adult tantrum of limited worth whose success is far from guaranteed. If your service is essential and your cause a good one, then the public might be on your side, eventually. But throwing a wobbler in public is a risky and often humiliating tactic that can easily backfire; I for one have torn up my British Airways credit card, I will never fly on British Airways again, and I will never miss an opportunity to steer away from them any business that I can by sharing my story of the European family reunion vacation that almost never was.

For an American symphony orchestra like Detroit's to go on strike in 2010 presumes that the members consider their services vital to the smooth running of city services, which is of course as quaintly misguided as it is chronically out of date. Whether the majority of citizens will notice this ceasing of operations is anyone's guess, but I would hazard that with the median house price in Detroit currently at about $7,500 (seven thousand five hundred dollars) I doubt that the survival of the local symphony is at the top of most people's list of essentials; that list would more likely comprise utility bills and groceries and less a weekly helping of live Mendelssohn.

The striking musicians are trying to raise awareness of the necessity of art to the community, but their argument is incomplete. The issue they are focusing on here is the usefulness of live art, and whether a city of Detroit's miserable economic predicament can afford the luxury (for luxury it is, without a doubt) of a band of professional musicians trotting out the classics of yesteryear for the benefit of fewer than 1% of the population. How about everyone assemble as usual, and they listen to the music as planned, but what would be lost if instead of a live orchestra, the evenings' concerts were given over to playback of recordings, available on CD and much more inexpensively licensable for public broadcast?

Sure, the pageantry and thrill of the concert experience would be lost, but the product would be the same. The audience would still get its piano concerto, the hall would still get its box office receipts. You live within your budget; you eat frozen pizza when you can't get to Naples, you drive yourself when you can't afford a chauffeur, you cut your coat to suit your cloth. Nobody died from recorded Mendelssohn. (Anyone?.....) Cities benefit from the pat on the back that they get from displaying their wealth, and a concert by a symphony orchestra is a significant method for communicating to the city's occupants that all is well in Musicville. But all is not well in Detroit, as any casual tour around the city will reveal; these players must really not get out much.

Demanding to be seen as essential is its own irony. Placards like "HELP US SAVE YOUR ORCHESTRA" scream disingenuous propaganda (suddenly it's 'my' orchestra?) at an uninterested public who have better and more worthwhile things to do than encourage adolescent hissy fits about cutbacks at the office. We all have to pack a lunch sometimes, so get used to it. Not every family can afford a European vacation every year, not every city can afford a professional symphony orchestra, and parading in public your scorn for other people's hardships brings the industry into disrepute. Shame on the musicians of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra for giving in to their sense of entitlement and yelling at their fellow citizens that they owe them a living, because they don't.

My Heart is What?

"My heart is inditing of a good matter; I speak of the things which I have made unto the King. Kings' daughters were among the honourable women. Upon thy right hand did stand the Queen in vesture of gold, and the King shall have pleasure in thy beauty. Kings shall be thy nursing fathers and Queens thy nursing mothers."

Certainly the text of Handel's Third Coronation Anthem is as offensive to some people as Andres Serrano's Piss Christ, (a photograph of a plastic crucifix submerged in urine) is to many committed Catholics, and yet the piece is trotted out and performed by venerable early and late music ensembles around the country without a protest banner in sight.

George II

Handel wrote four large choral/orchestral anthems for performance at the coronation of George II and his wife Caroline in 1727. The first, Zadok the Priest, has been performed at every coronation in England since then. All four are often performed in concert, which is an interesting anthropological study in cognitive dissonance.

It is shocking that a 21st century American audience should be interested in four pieces of music celebrating the handing over of power to an unelected foreigner, unless that interest be to ridicule them as hopelessly out of touch. Grandeur and pomp is one thing; we have plenty of that of our own, but when the text of the third announces "Upon thy right hand did stand the Queen in vesture of gold, and the King shall have pleasure in thy beauty" all but the religious right wing must surely recoil at the antiquated sentiment of male dominance/female servility; one might go so far as to accuse Handel of being in bed with the cosmetics industry. This is a historical artifact that is interesting to peruse, to examine for its successful elements and then to discard.

What exactly is the meaning of performing this piece? Is it an equal question to ask what is the meaning of regarding a painting of the same coronation, or reading an account of the occasion? I would answer no, because a modern performance is only tangentially mindful of the original circumstances; the historical details are probably listed in the program notes for the bored or the lonely to peruse at their leisure. The focus is not on a historical reenactment, and in fact I would argue that the audience's ignorance of the original context is at least in part key to the performance's success.

Do we treat this Coronation Anthem the same way that we treat literature or pictorial art from the same period? Gulliver's Travels was first published in 1726, the year before the coronation, and is more likely to have been experienced by anyone alive today not as a book but as a live-action TV drama, radio show or animated cartoon. The original is more likely to be compulsory reading on courses covering the early history of the novel, along with Moll Flanders, Pamela and Clarissa.

Cpt Thomas Coram by Hogarth

William Hogarth (1697 - 1764) is an artist who stands apart from his contemporaries because of the moralizing tone of his output. His work as a portrait painter is overshadowed by the groups of paintings, etchings and engravings that ridicule the mores of his day. For example, the series of engravings called The Rake's Progress and the print series called Industry and Idleness and The Four Stages of Cruelty are examples of witty commentary to which modern cartoonists aspire. What we remember most about his output is the daring critique of society that he took on beyond his day job.

So what element of the Handel are we celebrating? While Swift is satirizing human nature by remonstrating against the extent of human gullibility, and Hogarth is warning of society's moral decay, what is Handel doing besides providing lubricant Muzak for the aristocracy? If so, what is the meaning of the piece to a 21st century American audience?


 

Playing with the Big Boys

Reports are coming in that the Metropolitan Opera's new tech-heavy production of The Ring has ambitions beyond its ability to deliver; the rainbow bridge that should afford the gods entry victoriously but callously to their new castle across the river fails to materialize, and the poor bedraggled band is left to seek out a Donner Party-like solution to its predicament while the orchestra blazes with triumph and the curtain slowly falls.

In an economic downturn that is the worst since the Great Depression, even the big boys are setting their sights too high. In his recent op-ed piece in the New York Times Wagner for a Song, Alex Ross tries to argue that spending multi-millions of dollars on the new Met production is worth the investment, and yet he lets on in the last line that only a handful of people might benefit from the endeavor. A scandalous admission such as that is worthy of Wotan himself, supremely out of touch with the reality of the lives in the parallel universes his stage buddies occupy.

Is there no place in opera for the imagination? Are audiences so meager in their capacity to suspend their disbelief that the rainbow bridge must appear in fact and not in suggestion? Must millions of dollars be spent to mount this opera? The waste of the Met's production is the effort to produce (or on Monday night, fail to produce) for $16M what the imagination will produce for free.

In the 19th century, summoning up a rainbow bridge was guaranteed to get the audience saucer-eyed because there were no other comparable visual experiences. Unused to the wizardry of the movie industry, audiences were easily impressed by stage devices that we today would find quaint or silly.  Now, opera's rival is film, and in a world where anyone can be transported across the universe and back for less than $10 it is an easy bet who is going to come off looking slick and fabulous and who is going to come off looking like a cut-price educational video.

Computer animation has handed Hollywood a first class ticket on the Simulated Reality Express and opera cannot afford to come along. Grand Opera came of age with the steam locomotive; its milieu is the Pullman Car and the leisurely chugging-along tour of the countryside, not a rocket-powered intergalactic fantasy ride, unless it has Hollywood's financial resources to invest, which at the moment it does not, and perhaps never should.

Opera is not a realistic medium. People do not sing when they are stabbed, crowds of onlookers never comment in unison on dramatic events. The world of artifice is the world of the imagination, and appealing to the audience's imagination would be doing them a better service than conjuring up more and more elaborate and expensive engines and costumes. As the prologue to Henry V has it in his appeal to the budgetary constraints of the time, "Think when we talk of horses, that you see them printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; for 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings."

Shakespeare's concerns are both practical and financial; the Globe Theatre couldn't possibly contain the number of actors necessary to do justice to a reenactment of the Battle of Agincourt, but more importantly his troupe simply did not have the cash to invest without making a mockery of the attempt. He commands the audience to "suppose" and "think" to make up the budgetary short-fall.

The chain of rivalry is a long one. The big boy opera houses look to the movies and end up staging budget Indiana Jones remakes, the small time opera companies look to the big boys and end up putting on a show in the barn, and the big loss is the credibility of opera as a medium.

Living within our operatic means would entail understanding the historical and anthropological context in which we live and would transform the world of opera. It would reduce dependence on the latest technical gadgetry, it would energize the audience and engage them with the music, and it would challenge directors to stage the music and not stage a movie of the music. It would encourage composers to write with practicalities in mind, and it might stimulate some talk about what 'get real' means to an opera singer.

Caroline Herschel Confronts the Universe

Galilea

Are there too many stars, you angry sky,
that you should grant me stewardship? Suppose
I do not care to interrupt our world,
give birth with Mary to a larger life
that, cuckoo-like, will hurl me from the nest.
Discovery? You think I long to find
that we are sacrificed to a greater good?
If curiosity's rewarded by
endangerment, let me inquire no more,

and ignorant of things beyond my door

I'll never ask another question.

What if the end is lost? This house’s
bright magnificence replaced?
This garden’s ordered luxury
uprooted? Every plant and tree
disorganized, the roses scuffed,
alignments skewed? What once was soft,
maternal will be critical,
obtuse, unloving, blank, and all
my husbandry dismembered. To
accommodate uncertainty
involves a death, as birds make room
for cuckoo babies in the womby
nest, their mother full believing
all will make it out alive.
Finding a brother in the bed
Pushes the weaker out. Such bad
developments are not undone
by wanting. What is here is gone.

Hold close your objects of desire,
Elsewise they will be blown as air
inflates the thunderclouds to chase
the rain across the heavens. Choose
to grasp what doesn’t change most dear
against your heart, for there’s a door
into a secret garden full
of unimagined flowers. Feel
and smell them, think them in their beds,
design their courts, their ranks, their buds
and blooms in proud display, but keep
them in your head, lest they escape
to overwhelm your ordered rows.
Danger uncovers what your eyes
have overlooked; the fearless search
intoxicates, the finding, such
unusual air, now making way’s
the way, all changes, otherwise
what stays the same will stay the same
beyond its time, and time will seem
distasteful of its charge.

      The air

is still, the night has turned its ear
to listen; lawn and leaf await
the wet and weighted morning. What
relief is working upwards through
its rocky, grassy vigil? Hear;               
the earth is groaning, waiting her
release, like childbirth, agonized
but numbed to pain’s convulsing noisy
grinding spasms. What’s your word?
That everything decays towards
a better future? Dawn renews
my brighter death. How do I know
what is surrendered to the night
will be returned unharmed, and not
released, erased, struck, voided. Hear 
me, you too-patient trumpets. Here
you give your life to sleep in trust
that seeds will waken into trees,
that trees will sacrifice their fruit
for seed to carry on. But frost
may interpose, and circumstance
will freeze the cycle into stones
that disallow your vital breath.
What if another plant is bred
that saps the necessary room;
will you resist? Will you uproot
your enemy and save the wealth
of space for keeping? Heaven is wide;
wider than I am made of. Fear
confronts me that I need room for
expanding, but my time is small
and ordered, and my heart wants still.

Such space, such silence. As black caves
of swimmers shimmer when there comes
a guiding candle, or the gloom
of unexperienced time is gleamed
through with light when first espied
with naive hope. What secrecy
is here? What hidden horrors lurk
beyond the scope of where I look,
to smash the maps and tear apart
what’s good, what’s beautiful. 

                                                 My part
is done, I wash my hands of all
its consequences, holy hell
bear witness, here is far enough.
There are no more unknowns, my nerve
will not allow it. Venture on
you foolish souls to fly alone.

So beautiful the sky,
so infinite its reach.
To float, to fly beyond
my earthbound static pull
would free the senses, drain
the mind of gravity,
release all fear, propel
me floating onward, up,
insensate, benumbed bliss.
O carry me along
incorporate, divine,
in freedom, parallel
to all the chains of earth
and let me scour the stars
that oversee our time.  

Come heaviness,
your living mass
must animate
itself. Be mute,
all voices shrieking
shrillness. Strike
out, dumb fear, through
these limbs that they
might swing afresh
and in the rush
regenerate
new life, whose righteousness
will work
a flame to wake
enlightenment.
Come, fill my mind
with stars. My heart
expands with the heat
of birthing joy.
Rejoice! Would you
believe in gods
more solid, goods
more tactile? Now
is all I know
and need. Let fear
unlock what faith
requires. I’ll swim
the sea, and some
will swim behind
that also heed
the heavenly call.
Who dares to follow
follow where
the bright stars are.
If dangerous
the path, what is
another way?
To wonder why
the unbounded void
has dared invade
my dance, extended
its graceful hand
into this life
just so to leave
a challenge. I
pluck up the day
that I am healed
by cherishing, hold
this fragrance close
in my embrace.
There are two paths
and both are possible
but one
of them leads on,
the other fails,
although it feels
the same. Do not
be fooled, the night
is filled with stars
and streams and stairs
that lead you on
or take you in.
Tonight's my time
my chance to turn,
to good what yet
has languished.
You, challenger,
slow voyager
across the sky,
discovery’s
a doorway down
into the dawn
that fades beyond
and comes to an end
in rapturous
white light. Release
me, earth, for flight
and in the flooding
new and good
I’ll turn to gold.

New Nostalgia. Again.

You have to hand it to Placido Domingo, the General Director of the Los Angeles Opera. In June 2010 he loses $6 MILLION on an ill-conceived and ill-executed production of Wagner's Ring Cycle, and yet in September 2010 he is starring in the premiere of an opera that was commissioned to highlight his talents.

Riding the American wave of Actor-Presidents, Movie-Star-Governors and Comedian-Politicians, Domingo is the Tenor-Executive, the Singer who is presumed to know his way around the board room and the donors' dining room as well as the stage. Yet the Ring's staggering financial loss is in part due to his managerial absence, having taken on the role of Verdi's Simon Boccanegra at the Metropolitan Opera in New York during the Los Angeles run; clearly a conflict of interest was at play here.

Domingo, as Neruda, listening to the Postino

And now, the apology for the Ring fiasco is Il Postino, a faithful operatic adaptation of the 1994 film, by Spanish composer Daniel Catan. This sumptuous, old-fashioned romantic opera sets back the clock at least 100 years, labeling opera once again as the expensive playground of the dilettante classes. It is a challenge-free audience pleaser, unabashedly modeled on the most successful and longer-lasting works that Puccini wrote between 1900 and 1910. Rich with cut-price romantic lyricism, it is a surefire cozy hit, a cheeky Mediterranean mea culpa that restores opera to its role of the safe vanilla artform.

• First of all, anyone who loses $6M because he was not minding the store should be fired immediately.
• Secondly, if the only reason to turn a movie into an opera is to provide a singer with an opportunity to show off, you should spend your money on something else, especially if that singer should have been fired in the first place (see 'First of all'.)
• Thirdly, and most importantly, the lesson that audiences will take away from Il Postino is that opera is trivial, that it is a Victorian nostalgic irrelevance, and that it is a harmless divertissement for the upper classes to waste their money and time on.

Historicist art is art that repeats safe and successful models from the past; it appeals to the cowardly because there is no risk. There is no risk of exposure to real emotion because the veneer of nostalgia prevents interaction with anything in the present day.

In the 1960s it was standard practice to keep children away from funerals because it would harm them. Steering audiences away from interaction with the present day by anesthetizing them with nostalgia is a similar, over-protective move, and is certainly not introducing people to art, it is letting them slip into a coma of entertainment that masquerades as art. But do not be fooled; art is at the intersection of the temporal and the eternal, not at the intersection of capitalism and celebrity.

Great singers deliver themselves and their emotions, they don't merely sing about them, great composers deliver themselves and their stories, they don't describe them. Great opera poses a threat to the emotions of the stunted or inexperienced, which is why charlatans have to hide behind petty make-believe rather than risk the exposure of a true encounter with a potentially life-changing medium.

Thankfully time will weed out disingenuousness and all this play-acting will fall away.