The Write Thing

Apoptosis is a form of programmed cell death essential to guaranteeing our existence as healthy human beings. The lack of apoptosis (death, so to speak) or its excess can trigger cancer or ischemic processes that can lead to our physical death. In short, cells must die in a programmed or orderly way so that we can go on living.

These days I have been reading a very interesting book written by an Argentine neuroscientist, Iván Izquierdo. The book is called El Arte de Olvidar and, far from being a romantic novel, it is a very well written essay that illustrates part of the enigma surrounding the human brain and, particularly, the way in which our brain constructs, fabricates and destroys memories. Forgetting or losing our memories is necessary for life. It appears that oblivion is part of the deal because life would be impossible if we were able to remember every single thing that happens to us in a normal day (think of Funes, el memorioso for example). We have what Izquierdo calls a “working memory” that enables us to perform our daily tasks and completely obliterate everything that would be considered superficial, or would obstruct such performance. Short-term and long-term memories, that is, the ones that “stay” are more capriciously retained or forgotten. It is possible that some of them are lost forever on account of the death of brain cells — apoptosis, for example, is responsible for helping us “lose” our crawling abilities as babies so that we can become bipeds — whereas other memories are simply stored somewhere else and sometimes replaced with new acquisitions (I am thinking here of our computer hard drive when we delete something; it soon fills up the space we freed with the new information we feed into it — I wonder what memories will go down the drain for me now that I have taken up Swedish lessons?).

But perhaps the most interesting section of this book is when the author speaks about the memories we fabricate. Indeed, sometimes what we remember is distorted by our own desires, frustrations and emotions into something that may have never happened — at least not as we remember it. However, we then subconsciously proceed to convince ourselves of our “new” memory, and live happily in that conviction. Why would we fabricate memories? Because of our emotionality.

Memories are emotions. What stays with us, the smells, the sounds, the tactile impressions we recall, fabricated or not, have a strong emotional component. Therefore, if a reader retains a line in a book, it is an emotional action. Years ago, when I first read Jeanette Winterson’s Written on the Body I was struck by the first line in that novel…Why is the measure of love loss? I only read the line once, but it stayed with me ever since, without having read the book again. My emotions at that time were possibly linked to what Winterson wrote. I remember the line today, but I could not really speak about the novel at length if you asked me.

Despite our emotional strength, sooner or later some memories fade and vanish, whether their root was emotional or not. It is part of the process. Again, a necessary fact.

At some point, everything dies. Still, we are what we remember, each of us unique in our recollections. We are made of memories, and live the present tense on those. It is here that the idea of apoptosis comes back. Our own apoptotic work with our memories is not arbitrary or fanciful. We must be extra careful not to kill the memories that enable us to keep on living or let live those that would destroy us. However, sometimes we do not succeed and we lose our own functionality. This can be as serious as Alzheimer, but it can also be a psychological limitation, such as dwelling on a past that hurts and does not serve a purpose. Therefore, it is clear that — in as much as it is possible — we must let the right memories go, so that we can keep on living in a good and healthy way.

September 22, 2008. Buenos Aires, Villa Urquiza. The newly remodeled 25 de Mayo theatre, once a cinema, would host one of the live broadcasts from the Met on its opening night for the 2008-2009 season in a few minutes. It would become the first theatre in South America to have signed an agreement with the Met, a historical event.

The HD live broadcast was a little too American for my taste, I must confess. However, I also have to admit that these people know how to make a show. After all, opera is also entertainment, even if more elitist. It seems that the new deal now is to take opera to a broad new audience. That sounds exciting, and interesting if James Levine is behind the idea. Now, does it feel a little weird to be applauding at the end of each act as if the singers were really there? Yes, it does. The screen, High Definition or not, is only showing images of what is going on thousands of miles away. This is a live experience from afar, in a theatre where a bunch of formally dressed strangers smile in ecstasy as if they were at the Colón.

On the other side of the screen, a star-studded event begins. Act II of La Traviata, Act III of Manon and the final scene from Capriccio create the background against which America’s leading soprano of this early century — Renée Fleming — will charm audiences worldwide with her voice, her charisma and her modern diva looks. Personally there is something that I can’t quite capture about Fleming. It could be a question of taste, and then I would be at a loss for words. I saw her years ago live at the Colón, when she was an unknown, in a version of Le Nozze di Figaro. I found her laughter rather disturbing at the time. Later on, the world would prove me wrong, as she would become a leading lady of opera on an international level, and in her own right. Of course, I had never listened to her in the best of her repertoire: French and German opera. It suffices to compare her rendition of a lustful and regretful Manon winning back her Des Grieux (a stunning Ramón Vargas — Gosh, what good bones can do for people’s voices, even if singers don’t really look the part– ) or a meditative Madeleine in Capriccio to realize where her strengths lie. Yes, give me Fleming as Thaïs (coming later this year as part of the Met’s season offerings) any time, and put her on Strauss mode uninterruptedly, and I will see her talent in full bloom. But she can only play a correct Traviata for me. She does not have the Italian excess of emotion the part needs. It is not like her.

The evening slowly draws to a close. I have witnessed a special moment in Opera’s history. In the multimedia world we live in, this kind of event should gradually become the norm. Too sad this is happening simultaneously with a forced deprivation of a real season at the Colón — will the remodeling ever conclude? Anyway, little does it matter what the future brings to this bewitched city in the form of opera intimacy, in a real theatre, with the right acoustics and the history that shapes the circumstances. For now, only for now…we can enjoy live performances at the Met here in Buenos Aires.

It was on September 16, 1996 when I first approached the iron gates that separated the boulevard-like Avenue from the majestic building where she spent her last years, away from crowds, away from the stage, in remembrance, alone. I made it a ritual to go there every year, at least as long as I lived in Paris. Every September 16, the flowers that decorated the railings would be accompanied by a note with moving words of memory. Some of her admirers would probably have memorable evenings to replay in their minds, whereas others, like me, would only have her most famous recordings and a couple of video performances to watch and see how a true artist lives in the skin of a character.
I would sit on the small bench opposite her house, staring at the window on top, in a delusional wish that her face would play hide and seek with the white curtain, as a mocking Butterfly nascosta, per non morire al primo incontro. Her Pinkerton was long dead when she let herself go down the road of the final suffering, and somehow that building seemed to me to preserve her pain. I would imagine it recorded in the walls. Perhaps if I dared to touch them, they would bring back something of her, the mourning soul, the pathos. No, the sound of my footsteps on the gravel path that preceded the entrance to the building was all I heard. Another bouquet of flowers, a picture and the gratitude of someone who could not forget her. Who could?
One year ago, on September 16, I was there, at that door, sitting on that bench for the last time in a long stretch of years before I would make it to Paris again. I went there to say goodbye, and stayed for a while recapping those years of my youth when I was just discovering the world and myself.
One year later, I am in a different kind of goodbye mood, although with an operatic flavor. Carmen was seeking to preserve her freedom when it was never challenged. In my opera, Don José does not kill her in his final act of impotence and possession. He simply leaves, and Carmen is left to enjoy her freedom, as only she can understand it.