I'm back from Glimmerglass opera in Cooperstown, New York. (I'm currently working on a print article due next week. But if you're eager to read a review of the internationally-known company's season now, check out Tony Tomasini's excellent piece in Wednesday's New York Times.)
While I was there, I has the privilege of hearing Jonathan Miller give a talk to a small crowd of fans. Miller, a British medical doctor who has become a celebrated opera director, spoke for a little more than an hour, without notes. He described his influences and approach to directing, citing his greatest influences as philosophers and photographers. (Here I was on the edge of my seat.)
John Searle's book Speech Arts teases out the meanings of sentences and explores the notion of context. Take any sentence, Miller said. WHO utters it determines its meaning and weight. Where is it coming from? This makes all the difference.
He described his efforts to work with what he called Jurassic Park singers, who spread their arms and belt, oblivious and stilted. He tries to teach these performers to act naturally on stage. He tunes into people's involuntary acts such as twirling a lock of hair, rubbing the edge of a table, making fluttery hand motions. These are the small, subtle gestures he tries to coax from singers.
Miller takes that one step further, he said. He doesn't want to direct these gestures at all. His role, he said, is to create an atmosphere in which singers invent expressive movements on their own. He also considers the sensibility of the mind which produced a work of art before he presents it to a contemporary audience. For example, when asked to film Alice in Wonderland, Miller didn't call a special effects crew. Instead, he explored what childhood meant during the Victorian era, when Lewis Carroll wrote the book.
Victorians considered childhood a magical time, a time of incredibly vivid experiences. Kids see everyday life with visionary intensity, they thought, something they lose as they grow older. So instead of dazzling his audience with weird scenery and costumes, Miller directed this sequence as though it were a dream a Victorian child might have.
Tim Burton is making a new film version of Alice in Wonderland with Johnny Depp and Helena Bonham Carter that's due to be released next year. Miller says it'll probably be filled with amazing special effects. He laughed. He'll go see it anyway, he said.
I'll read anything as long as it's a good yarn. During a recent vacation, I tore through a potboiler about a jogger attacked by a genetically altered polar bear. I wouldn't recommend it. Then I read an adventure novel from a dollar store. The experience supports the adage, “You get what you pay for.”
But on the same trip I discovered The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery (Europa, 2006.) Translated from the original French by Alison Anderson, the novel presents two characters whose needs and wants converge.
Stout, ugly Renee is a concierge in a Parisian hotel where she poses as a witless soap opera fan. But behind closed doors, she's addicted to art, music, philosophy, and Japanese culture. She hides her passions until a subtle slip involving two cats and Anna Karenina reveals her secret.
The second major character is a resident of the same hotel. Brilliant, twelve year-old Paloma observes adults and decides they all lead lives of quiet desperation. She resolves to end her life on her thirteenth birthday.
Sounds grim, but I often laughed out loud. It's funny. Each chapter advances the plot, and some offer marvelous nuggets about art and music.
Renee studies a still life by Pieter Claesz depicting a table set for a light meal of bread and oysters. A half-pared lemon shines on a silver plate.
“We cannot cease desiring, and this is our glory and our doom,” Renee reflects. “but when we gaze at a still life . . . we delight in its beauty . . . we find pleasure in the fact that there was no need for desire.”
“Art is emotion without desire,” she thinks.
Later, she listens to a recording of Purcell's Dido and Aeneas. When she hears the bit at the death of Dido, she thinks this is the most stunning music on earth.
“There is a beauty in these sounds no animal cry can ever attain, a beauty born of the subversion of phonetic articulation and the transgression of the careful verbal language that ordinarily creates distinct sounds. Broken sounds, melting sounds.”
Such sounds break our defenses.
Muriel Barbery's novel The Elegance of the Hedgehog brushes deep mysteries with a light touch. I loved it.
Forty years ago, I was crawling around in diapers when Neil Armstrong planted his flesh-and-blood foot on the moon. The MOON!
Well, I missed the whole thing. The historical significance of the event was beyond my comprehension. Consequently, the iconic image of the earth rising over the dusty moonscape never struck me as unusual or bizarre. Years later, when I was in my teens, fiction writer James Michener opened my eyes to the marvel of it all, the risks, and the fact that until they landed, the crew of Apollo 11 half-expected to sink into six feet of powdery dust.
“NASA never understood the need for a philosopher corps,” Wolfe writes. With all of its smarts, the American space program lacks a poet, someone able to spark enough general enthusiasm for building a bridge to the stars.
Such a philosopher would find his work cut out for him. My generation is hard to impress. When was the last time you were truly floored by a scientific discovery or piece of technology? We expect daily, small-scale marvels. Turn on the news. There they are.
The last time I felt fullblown wonder at a scientific advance was in 1992. I was sitting in front of a computer, and my husband was explaining the Internet terms “gopher,” “archie” and “veronica.” He punched the return key. A tiny green star whirled on the black screen.
“Your computer is making another computer in Denmark look something up,” he said. I hardly believed him. Then text appeared, in Danish, pre-Google, like primitive paintings on the cave walls near Lascaux, France.
Western New York native Stephanie Finney is studying in London. She had a funny thing happen. In her own words . . .
(post by Steph Finney)
Okay! Here's the story.
So yesterday, I went for my haircut, which was on Portobello Road.
It’s that time again. The Grassroots Festival starts Thursday in Trumansburg. I blogged about it last year, before and after, and can’t sum up my appreciation any better now. I was in Ithaca last week and as I drove back home past the festival site on Saturday it was exciting to see workers setting up the Infield Stage and the Dance Tent.
The email was delivered a few weeks back: Backstage Pass was a finalist in the Radio division for New York Festivals. We just didn't know what we won. We waited. The word came on Friday, and it was Bronze!