The Write Thing

It is a cold night in Houston, with temperatures dropping below zero degree Celsius. My eyes hurt with the sting of the slow tears that have accompanied me throughout the day. Yes, I am in pain.

I was never drawn to drama, so I am not sure how I got myself into this. I am trapped in an icy prison, like that Dead Man Walking the Houston Grand Opera decided to revisit with Flicka Von Stade as the mother of the convict. I’m probably a dead heart walking, only that mine still beats, despite myself. I wish it did not. I wish it were free…to death or to a happier fate, if something like that exists.

I was recently watching the last movie version of Graham Greene’s The End of the Affair, with  Julianne Moore and Ralph Fiennes starring as the lovers whose fate is doomed by a too likeable husband (somewhat like a Brief Encounter type, with more screen time) and by the mother of all fates and relationships: circumstance.

Timing is always an essential ingredient to relationships, and yet lovers take it for granted. Perhaps because I am behind these prison bars now, I can look at happy couples with a renewed eye, knowing without their sharing in that knowledge how lucky they are to have fallen for each other on a tabula rasa, with no past to pay dues to, or to feel they have to. I did not know how much circumstance shapes facts and options until I met you. Perhaps it was because of the extended suspension of disbelief that accompanies the anesthetized initial romance, or the pursuit of seduction as a game, as an option, that fleeting moment in which we think we know where things are going, and when “inevitable” seems like an infallible word.

Oh, well, I’ve learned that “inevitable” is a nice umbrella word to cover up for the fantasy of thinking that we know, when we really do not. We do not know the secrets, the hiding, and mostly the lying that accompanies each strategy of seduction, the moves behind the scenes  to get what we want, not thinking of the future because it scares us, because it is too far to think about. Greene’s Maurice Bendrix is consumed by jealousy for what he cannot change and he cannot understand…for what he cannot see. In my version, there is only emptiness, as my side of the story becomes a tepid version of Amy Winehouse’s Back to Black.

And now add to the tragedy of a lover’s plight the fact that you may be ill, and then the terror of hearing the worst prognosis is superseded by the certainty that I will be external to you in any process, as you let circumstances take over the fragile texture of a life that a radiologist’s report can change forever. I know more than you do, despite your technical expertise and the medical degree that probably decorates some wall in an unreachable house. I know that rotting out is not paying homage to whatever is left of your time anywhere, be it long, fruitful years, or the sad and lonesome count of a calendar the family you think you are protecting imposes on you. Rotting out is another kind of prison, one that you build around yourself, one that is hard to resist without real love if real love has come to you. And I know it has, and I wish you could stop fighting it like a disease.

I have a thing for French opera. I always have, since I saw my first performance of Gounod’s Faust at the Colón many years ago. My expectations were not really high, as I was more used to the Italian drama that a Puccini or a Verdi would ooze. However, as the curtain was lifted on the first act, a new world opened before my eyes. The melodic lines, the finesse of the singing, the words, the dramatic tempo all melted in a magical feast for the senses. It was all there, subtle and enriching, like a three-course meal in a cozy French restaurant. Everything in its right measure, the perfect marriage of music and words, providing that the artists could accomplish their task correctly. That night they did.

And so it was that I developed a strong liking for French opera. I was not disappointed when I switched from Gounod to Massenet afterwards. First, there was Manon and, a few years later, Thaïs (which I have never been able to see live yet). Now, these past few weeks I found myself listening to the two works again after quite some time. Curiously enough, the excerpts I listened to were Act III of Manon, and Act II of Thaïs. In both these acts, the protagonists sing about youth and the aging process, albeit from a different perspective. There is young Manon urging her friends to enjoy youth, and to love, laugh and sing non-stop, because they will not be twenty years old forever and youth fades away only too soon, like love itself. Then, there is Thaïs bringing a different shade to the whole issue. She feels the emptiness of beauty with no purpose, and in fear asks her mirror to tell her she will be beautiful for good. (Dis-moi…que) rien ne flétrira les roses de mes lèvres, rien ne ternira l’or pur de mes cheveux, she sings as if she could seal a pact with the devil and never grow old. But her mirror is only too cruel and replies Thaïs, tu vieilliras!

So my reflection upon listening to this was…is youth an operatic obsession for the French? I could argue that, if that is the case, so are mirrors (Thaïs talks to hers and Gounod’s Marguerite does the same in Faust). However, I prefer to think that, more than an obsession — in fact, being forever young is an impossible aspiration for all cultures these days — youth for the French is a way of life. In this light, the prevailing idea would be to enjoy and use up your youth (and your life) while it lasts instead of regretting its passing in advance. In short, it is awareness of pleasure…enjoy what you have knowing that it will go away at some point.

This is my own interpretation of French wisdom, I must confess, but if I elaborate a little further, I can actually say I have seen the French really apply this rule. For example, a woman I once met in Paris told me: “we may not have a lot of money, but we do have lovely cars”. I would say that it is not only that. France has also made a very rich contribution to the realm of opera, with works that even today defy the passage of time, in characters that despite their fear or their knowledge have remained forever young.

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.