My title refers to a comment Verdi made about the infamous opening night fiasco of La Traviata at La Fenice in 1853.
As would happen throughout his storied career, time proved Verdi right.
I have been musing about Verdi's letters in conjunction with a week of seminars on the operas at Washington & Lee University. And if some of what follows finds me repeating myself, I hope you'll agree that Verdi's letters bear as many readings as we have time and attention to give.
As I've already mentioned, his letters are a gold mine of insight & wit, and genuine wisdom from one who knew the craft of opera better than anyone. His characters have rightly been described as Shakespearean, and this is as true of the non-Bard characters-- like Rigoletto, Simon Boccanegra, Philippo & Don Carlos--as it is of the Macbeths, Otello and Falstaff. It is worth recalling an oft-cited observation on his thoughts on "Papa" Shakespeare:
"To copy the truth can be a good thing, but to invent the truth is better, much better. It seems there is a contradiction in these three words: invent the truth; but ask Papa [Shakespeare] about it. Maybe he encountered some Falstaff, but he would have had a hard time finding a villain as villainous as Iago, and never, absolutely never, angels like Cordelia, Imogen, Desdemona, and yet they are so true! To copy the truth is a beautiful thing; but it is a photograph, not a painting."
And how grateful are we to have the canvasses of such richly drawn characters. Writing of the tenor who would become the successful creator of Otello, Verdi expressed his misgivings and spelled out exactly how the final scene should be sung AND played. It is not just singers & conductors who do well to plumb these letters, but directors, producers, patrons and amateurs alike:
"In many respects Tamagno would be well suited to the part, but in many others not! There are broad, long legato phrases to be sung mezza voce, which is impossible for him…when he realizes that Desdemona has died guiltless, Otello can no longer breathe; he is exhausted, physically and morally at the end of his tether; he can and may still sing with only a half-extinguished, muffled voice…Of this last quality Tamagno is surely incapable. He must always sing out in full voice, otherwise his tone becomes ugly and the pitch uncertain."
Throughout his near 60-year career in the theatre, Verdi continued to work to raise the bar in every aspect of operatic production. An area of particular attention was the power and clout given to singers and impresarios, often at the expense of the composers & their operas. Even as late as the 1870's, Verdi was railing against singers who re-wrote their parts, omitting difficult passages or inserting alternate arias to suit their whims or cast themselves in a better light. The following excerpt is one such rant from the composer who did more to change this trend and elevate the status of the score to the respected status it deserves:
"Alboni too sang La Gazza Ladra, and I think La Sonnambula, and even the part of Carlo in Ernani! But what of it? All this means is that singers and managements have no scruples about tampering with or allowing others to tamper with an author’s creations."
Intimately involved in casting, Verdi wanted not only singers, but actors. And while music is the driving force in opera--with melody the "prima donna" of Italian opera--Verdi's priority was the authenticity of the dramatic situation, and if it required subordinating the music to the action on stage, so be it. Of the baritone and bass leads for the La Scala premiere of Don Carlo, Verdi wrote to his publisher, Ricordi:
"As far as Squarcia and Colini are concerned, people tell me not very favourable things about them; do you really think they will be able to sing Filippo and Posa? Set aside all your interests, sympathies, your desire (if indeed you have any) to see this opera now, and give me your whole opinion. Tell me about the quality and strength of their voices, intonation, style of singing, pronunciation, and above all, how they act. Be careful, because a stupid Filippo is impossible…"
One could make the same observation about the remaining 4 principal characters, such is the importance of every one of the 6 complex individuals that shape the chiaroscuro drama that make Don Carlo(s) the grandest of Verdi's operas.
As is so often the case, the simplest statement can be the best. I'll end with advice anyone involved in opera or music-making would do well to follow:
"Study the situation and the words scrupulously; the music will then follow entirely of its own accord.”
Amen.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Saturday, July 11, 2009
I love art when it is presented in a dignified way...
Since I ended my last entry with a reference to Shakespeare, vis-a-vis the two greatest operatic Bardolators, Berlioz and Verdi, it seems natural to pick up the exploration of Verdi "in his own words" with some of his thoughts on his first Shakespearean masterpiece, Macbeth. The first excerpt offers insight into everything from academic practice to the difference in trumpet timbres in 19th century Europe. The fine points of National schools of musical interpretation are both too broad and too specialized for my aims here; nevertheless, this a classic example of why Verdi's letters are indispensable.
[on the 1865 revision of Macbeth, for Paris] "I beg you, keep my instrumentation exactly as it is…You will laugh when you hear I did a fugue for the battle scene!!! A fugue? I, who hate everything that stinks of school, and it is almost thirty years since I last wrote one!!! But I will tell you that in this case, even that musical form can be just right. The themes & counterthemes that rush after each other, the shock of the dissonances, the racket, etc. etc. can express a battle rather well. Ah, if you only had our trumpets that are so full and brilliant!!! Those piston trumpets of yours [in Paris] are neither fish nor fowl…"
One of Verdi's defining characteristics as a musical dramatist is his knack for adapting the form to suit the content. Macbeth is a classic case in point. If we were to ascribe to primo ottocento norms (1st 1/2 of the 19th c), then we would need to cast a Prima Donna soprano, a Primo Uomo Tenore, etc, etc. If Verdi did not entirely dispense with these norms, again, he expanded, enlarged, and revitalized them. Thus we can marvel, in Verdi scholar Roger Parker's words: "as ever with Verdi, the alterations make the model change before our very ears." Macbeth is one of the first great "Verdi baritone" roles. An operatic hero replete with the Shakespearean "tragic flaw." But wait! is manifestation of said tragic flaw--ie: ambition--really that of Lady MacBeth?
[insert deconstructionalist/Derridaen/feminist/post-modern/new-musicology papers here]. In addition to the great baritone title role, Verdi creates a dramatic soprano role in Lady M that has defied category and stretched the boundaries of leading operatic ladies since its inception. But let's hear what Verdi had to say about his Macbeth:
"Take it as a rule there are three roles in this opera, and there can only be three: Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, the Chorus of Witches…No matter what you do, you will never create anything very important out of the role of Macduff [the Primo Tenore]. On the contrary, the more one emphasizes him, the more obvious one makes his vacuousness. He only becomes a hero when the opera is over. However, he has enough music to make his mark if he has a beautiful voice, but there is no need to give him one extra note."
Interesting to note Verdi settled on Macbeth and tabled (the much less enduring) I Masnadieri when he learned his tenor, Fraschini (see previous entry) was not available. Thus another example of how a creative genius attended to the practical of the everyday, made aesthetic decisions based on prosaic realities, and adapted to his environment without compromising his standards and ideals.
Yet, as is always the case, the standards of taste, popularity, and thus critical approval are subject to compromise and any such change in the proverbial weather. Verdi found himself caught in the shifting currents of the 19th century, as the Bel Canto style receded into obsolescence while the rising tide of Wagner and the new Gesanftkunstwerk spread to all corners of the European musical globe. As Verdi's career progressed, so did he: while never a revolutionary, he continued to work within the tradition of 19th c. Italian opera, constantly expanding and exploding its borders to create an original and enduring body of work.
[on the critic’s dismissal of the “passé” cabalettas]: "It’s merely that it’s now become the fashion to shout that we don’t want to listen to cabalettas. That’s just as much a mistake as when people wanted only cabalettas. They cry out against conventionality only to give up one sort for another. Oh, what utter sheep!"
[on the Don Carlos reviews] "So I am an almost perfect Wagnerite! But if the reviewers had paid a bit of attention, they would have recognized that the same intent was there in the Ernani trio, the sleepwalking scene of Macbeth, and in many other pieces. But the question is not whether Don Carlos belongs to the same system, but whether the music is good or bad. That question is neat, simple, and above all, just."
Yet to the end, he was micromanaging details, vigilant on the practical details and decisions he rarely entrusted to others, and always trenchant and insightful where the creation & production of opera was concerned:
[to Ricordi, on the La Scala premiere of Don Carlo]: "As far as Squarcia and Colini [bass & baritone principals] are concerned, people tell me not very favourable things about them; do you really think they will be able to sing Filippo and Posa? Set aside all your interests, sympathies, your desire (if indeed you have any) to see this opera now, and give me your whole opinion. Tell me about the quality and strength of their voices, intonation, style of singing, pronunciation, and above all, how they act. Be careful, because a stupid Filippo is impossible…Add to this the fact that if Mefistofele [Boito’s opera in rehearsal for an imminent premiere] is so difficult to learn, that means it is badly written for voices (that does not detract in any way from the gifts of the composer: Beethoven wrote extremely poorly for voices…)"
Why not end with a diatribe. To every artist who has been exasperated by producers, directors, audiences, the government, the economy, the Pope, (& so on & so forth), who has wanted to write the pithy "mot juste" and verbally eviscerate the ignoramuses responsible for the ubiquitous frustrations said ambitious artist faces in the midst of realizing the dream (& so on & so forth), why not let Verdi speak for us:
"The time is right?!! Imbeciles! What? Am I made to gloat over other people’s ruin? I am one of those men who walk straight along the road, never looking to the right or to the left, who do as much as they can, when they think they can, who don’t want either the right time or support, or protection, or claques, or publicity, or cliques. I love art when it is presented in a dignified way, not the scandals that have just gone on at La Scala."
[on the 1865 revision of Macbeth, for Paris] "I beg you, keep my instrumentation exactly as it is…You will laugh when you hear I did a fugue for the battle scene!!! A fugue? I, who hate everything that stinks of school, and it is almost thirty years since I last wrote one!!! But I will tell you that in this case, even that musical form can be just right. The themes & counterthemes that rush after each other, the shock of the dissonances, the racket, etc. etc. can express a battle rather well. Ah, if you only had our trumpets that are so full and brilliant!!! Those piston trumpets of yours [in Paris] are neither fish nor fowl…"
One of Verdi's defining characteristics as a musical dramatist is his knack for adapting the form to suit the content. Macbeth is a classic case in point. If we were to ascribe to primo ottocento norms (1st 1/2 of the 19th c), then we would need to cast a Prima Donna soprano, a Primo Uomo Tenore, etc, etc. If Verdi did not entirely dispense with these norms, again, he expanded, enlarged, and revitalized them. Thus we can marvel, in Verdi scholar Roger Parker's words: "as ever with Verdi, the alterations make the model change before our very ears." Macbeth is one of the first great "Verdi baritone" roles. An operatic hero replete with the Shakespearean "tragic flaw." But wait! is manifestation of said tragic flaw--ie: ambition--really that of Lady MacBeth?
[insert deconstructionalist/Derridaen/feminist/post-modern/new-musicology papers here]. In addition to the great baritone title role, Verdi creates a dramatic soprano role in Lady M that has defied category and stretched the boundaries of leading operatic ladies since its inception. But let's hear what Verdi had to say about his Macbeth:
"Take it as a rule there are three roles in this opera, and there can only be three: Lady Macbeth, Macbeth, the Chorus of Witches…No matter what you do, you will never create anything very important out of the role of Macduff [the Primo Tenore]. On the contrary, the more one emphasizes him, the more obvious one makes his vacuousness. He only becomes a hero when the opera is over. However, he has enough music to make his mark if he has a beautiful voice, but there is no need to give him one extra note."
Interesting to note Verdi settled on Macbeth and tabled (the much less enduring) I Masnadieri when he learned his tenor, Fraschini (see previous entry) was not available. Thus another example of how a creative genius attended to the practical of the everyday, made aesthetic decisions based on prosaic realities, and adapted to his environment without compromising his standards and ideals.
Yet, as is always the case, the standards of taste, popularity, and thus critical approval are subject to compromise and any such change in the proverbial weather. Verdi found himself caught in the shifting currents of the 19th century, as the Bel Canto style receded into obsolescence while the rising tide of Wagner and the new Gesanftkunstwerk spread to all corners of the European musical globe. As Verdi's career progressed, so did he: while never a revolutionary, he continued to work within the tradition of 19th c. Italian opera, constantly expanding and exploding its borders to create an original and enduring body of work.
[on the critic’s dismissal of the “passé” cabalettas]: "It’s merely that it’s now become the fashion to shout that we don’t want to listen to cabalettas. That’s just as much a mistake as when people wanted only cabalettas. They cry out against conventionality only to give up one sort for another. Oh, what utter sheep!"
[on the Don Carlos reviews] "So I am an almost perfect Wagnerite! But if the reviewers had paid a bit of attention, they would have recognized that the same intent was there in the Ernani trio, the sleepwalking scene of Macbeth, and in many other pieces. But the question is not whether Don Carlos belongs to the same system, but whether the music is good or bad. That question is neat, simple, and above all, just."
Yet to the end, he was micromanaging details, vigilant on the practical details and decisions he rarely entrusted to others, and always trenchant and insightful where the creation & production of opera was concerned:
[to Ricordi, on the La Scala premiere of Don Carlo]: "As far as Squarcia and Colini [bass & baritone principals] are concerned, people tell me not very favourable things about them; do you really think they will be able to sing Filippo and Posa? Set aside all your interests, sympathies, your desire (if indeed you have any) to see this opera now, and give me your whole opinion. Tell me about the quality and strength of their voices, intonation, style of singing, pronunciation, and above all, how they act. Be careful, because a stupid Filippo is impossible…Add to this the fact that if Mefistofele [Boito’s opera in rehearsal for an imminent premiere] is so difficult to learn, that means it is badly written for voices (that does not detract in any way from the gifts of the composer: Beethoven wrote extremely poorly for voices…)"
Why not end with a diatribe. To every artist who has been exasperated by producers, directors, audiences, the government, the economy, the Pope, (& so on & so forth), who has wanted to write the pithy "mot juste" and verbally eviscerate the ignoramuses responsible for the ubiquitous frustrations said ambitious artist faces in the midst of realizing the dream (& so on & so forth), why not let Verdi speak for us:
"The time is right?!! Imbeciles! What? Am I made to gloat over other people’s ruin? I am one of those men who walk straight along the road, never looking to the right or to the left, who do as much as they can, when they think they can, who don’t want either the right time or support, or protection, or claques, or publicity, or cliques. I love art when it is presented in a dignified way, not the scandals that have just gone on at La Scala."
Inventing the Truth: Verdi in (mostly) his own words
Amy and I are preparing to spend a week with the Washington and Lee University Alumni College singing and talking about Verdi. I have collected too many excerpts from the letters to possibly share in the five lectures I will give daily next Monday-Friday, so I thought I'd share them here.
My first talk will be on Verdi's "sound and style as revealed in the early operas." My colleague Tim Gaylard, a wonderful pianist and Columbia trained musicologist, will be setting the tenor of each day with an introductory talk.
I mused last month about our trip to Aix-en-Provence and the riveting Picasso-Cézanne exhibit. I find Verdi in a similar symbiotic relationship to the great bel canto composers as Picasso is to Cézanne. And if Verdi was not the revolutionary Picasso was, it is fair to say he not only reshaped & invigorated the tradition he inherited but he refashioned it into the greatest single body of work in Italian opera. His 60-year, 28-opera career contributed more works to the cannon than anyone ever has. Puccini and Wagner have a higher percentage of their works in the repertoire, and Mozart a remarkable record in such a truncated span, but Verdi, the "Attila of the Lungs" is the operatic king.
In addition to Verdi's trademark iron will and biting wit, the letters offer insight into the creative process and every aspect of opera production, and are indispensable references for performers, scholars, and amateur alike.
Advice to any cast of singers:
“study the situation and the words scrupulously; the music will then follow entirely of its own accord”
Verdi worked throughout his career to raise standards, to improve conditions for producing opera, and to elevate the opera score to the near-sacrosanct level the symphony attained from Beethoven forward. His letters are full of scathing attacks on the whims of singers, the indiscretions of conductors, directors, and impresarios. They offer an insider's look at the struggles facing an Italian opera composer in the wake of the Bel Canto period, before Wagner & his successors helped complete the mission to establish opera as the "high art" form it deserved to be.
One can easily infer some of those very issues of interpretation and the inconsistent standards, and thus better locate Verdi within the primo ottocento (first half of the 19th century) in the following excerpts:
[On Ernani] "if you pay attention to the dramatic situation and to the words, you could hardly make a mistake with a tempo. I only point out that I do not like slow tempos; it is better to sin on the side of liveliness than to drag…I ask that you see that the roles are entrusted to singers that the audience likes the most and that the performance be accurate…I beg you not to allow cuts."
[On Rigoletto]: "Good secondary singers, and not taken from the chorus—see that the old Castiglione [Monterone] is a beautiful, strong baritone voice: not a second-rate singer—"
(The premiere of La Traviata was a famous fiasco, largely because of miscast singers).
[On the opening night fiasco of Traviata]: "Is it my fault or the singers? Time will tell."
[On the prima donna Basseggio – in Aroldo] "I hope she won’t ruin any other opera in the future! She has absolutely no voice nor talent nor style of singing! Imagine delicate, heartfelt, sentimental music such as that of Traviata meowed by a voice that is neither sop nor mezzo-soprano nor contralto..."
It was common practice, from the dawn of the "diva" before the Bel Canto period to the twilight of Verdi's career for singers to request changes in their music and be obliged. It was just as common for leads to simply disregard the composer and insert a personal favorite aria where desired. From another of the composer's operas, or from another composer altogether. Verdi would have none of it (though he did write for specific singers, and did tailor to their strengths & needs, if not their whims).
[On a request by the soprano Barbieri to change Leonora’s music]: "…tell her that I believe that the cavatina of Trovatore is good…I cannot and must not change it. It would be suicide!...Why is Barbieri singing that role, if it does not suit her? And, if she wishes to do Trovatore, there is another role, that of the Gypsy. Put tradition aside: they say it is a secondary role: No, truly: it is a leading role—even the very most important role, more beautiful, more dramatic, more original than the other one [Leonora]. If I were a prima donna (fine thing!) I would want to sing the role of the Gypsy in Trovatore"
One needn't read that excerpt to know that Azucena has show-stealing power in Trovatore, a trait that her niece, Eboli, would inherit in Don Carlo. Because we are so familiar with them, it is easy to forget the "Verdi Mezzo" and Verdi Baritone" did not exist before him!
Verdi expanded the dramatic range and musical scope of the baritones & mezzos (nieces of the dramatic lyrc soprano like Abigaille in Nabucco and Bellini's Norma, among others) AND from Nabucco on, wrote fully lyric, "tenore di forza" roles for his heroes. The Rossinian "tenore di grazia" was gradually phased out for the Italian version of the Heldentenor. Rossini was none too pleased with the changing techniques and styles as tenors began to sing the note which would crown Pavarotti as the "king of the high c's." On hearing the first exponent of the "do di petto" (high c in the chest voice), Gilbert Duprez, Rossini complained he sounded like the shriek of a "capon with it's throat slit." Nevertheless, the high c was there to stay for the tenor.
Verdi eventually swapped dramatic weight and color for brilliance & the stratosphere, and after his middle period, the tenors rarely venture above b-flat. This is yet another example of how Verdi inherited and then reinvented the tradition.
Gaetano Fraschini was one of the first of these tenors, whose voice was described as "a giant silver platter being struck with a giant silver hammer." Fraschini was one of the composer's early favorites, and the creator of Stiffelio and Riccardo (Ballo). One of the next tenors in this vein was Enrico Tamberlik, who created Alvaro in La Forza del Destino. He was also responsible for the ossia high c’s in “Di quella pira," the most famous appearance of that note in Verdi's operas. Asked whether or not the Maestro approved of his interpolation, Verdi replied to the tenor:
"sing as many of them as you like, as long as they are all good high c’s!"
I will sign off with a quote from one of Verdi's esteemed colleagues, and a fellow devotee of Shakespeare. The title of my essay today refers to Verdi's observation that it is better to invent the truth than copy it. Verdi cites Shakespeare as the "Papa" of this principal, using Iago & Desdemona as characters that could only be invented and yet appear so true. Hector Berlioz' words on the Paris premiere of Les Vêpres Siciliennes in June, 1855, also appear so true, and apply to any number of Verdi's operas:
" …the penetrating intensity of the melodic expression, the sumptuous variety and wisdom of the instrumentation, the vastness, the poetic sonority of the ensemble pieces, the colorful warmth that shines everywhere, and that passionate but deliberate force...the characteristic traits of Verdi’s genius give the entire opera a greatness, a kind of sovereign majesty…"
(most quotations courtesy of the excellent monograph of Mary Jane Phillips-Matz, Verdi: A Biography. Oxford. 1993)
My first talk will be on Verdi's "sound and style as revealed in the early operas." My colleague Tim Gaylard, a wonderful pianist and Columbia trained musicologist, will be setting the tenor of each day with an introductory talk.
I mused last month about our trip to Aix-en-Provence and the riveting Picasso-Cézanne exhibit. I find Verdi in a similar symbiotic relationship to the great bel canto composers as Picasso is to Cézanne. And if Verdi was not the revolutionary Picasso was, it is fair to say he not only reshaped & invigorated the tradition he inherited but he refashioned it into the greatest single body of work in Italian opera. His 60-year, 28-opera career contributed more works to the cannon than anyone ever has. Puccini and Wagner have a higher percentage of their works in the repertoire, and Mozart a remarkable record in such a truncated span, but Verdi, the "Attila of the Lungs" is the operatic king.
In addition to Verdi's trademark iron will and biting wit, the letters offer insight into the creative process and every aspect of opera production, and are indispensable references for performers, scholars, and amateur alike.
Advice to any cast of singers:
“study the situation and the words scrupulously; the music will then follow entirely of its own accord”
Verdi worked throughout his career to raise standards, to improve conditions for producing opera, and to elevate the opera score to the near-sacrosanct level the symphony attained from Beethoven forward. His letters are full of scathing attacks on the whims of singers, the indiscretions of conductors, directors, and impresarios. They offer an insider's look at the struggles facing an Italian opera composer in the wake of the Bel Canto period, before Wagner & his successors helped complete the mission to establish opera as the "high art" form it deserved to be.
One can easily infer some of those very issues of interpretation and the inconsistent standards, and thus better locate Verdi within the primo ottocento (first half of the 19th century) in the following excerpts:
[On Ernani] "if you pay attention to the dramatic situation and to the words, you could hardly make a mistake with a tempo. I only point out that I do not like slow tempos; it is better to sin on the side of liveliness than to drag…I ask that you see that the roles are entrusted to singers that the audience likes the most and that the performance be accurate…I beg you not to allow cuts."
[On Rigoletto]: "Good secondary singers, and not taken from the chorus—see that the old Castiglione [Monterone] is a beautiful, strong baritone voice: not a second-rate singer—"
(The premiere of La Traviata was a famous fiasco, largely because of miscast singers).
[On the opening night fiasco of Traviata]: "Is it my fault or the singers? Time will tell."
[On the prima donna Basseggio – in Aroldo] "I hope she won’t ruin any other opera in the future! She has absolutely no voice nor talent nor style of singing! Imagine delicate, heartfelt, sentimental music such as that of Traviata meowed by a voice that is neither sop nor mezzo-soprano nor contralto..."
It was common practice, from the dawn of the "diva" before the Bel Canto period to the twilight of Verdi's career for singers to request changes in their music and be obliged. It was just as common for leads to simply disregard the composer and insert a personal favorite aria where desired. From another of the composer's operas, or from another composer altogether. Verdi would have none of it (though he did write for specific singers, and did tailor to their strengths & needs, if not their whims).
[On a request by the soprano Barbieri to change Leonora’s music]: "…tell her that I believe that the cavatina of Trovatore is good…I cannot and must not change it. It would be suicide!...Why is Barbieri singing that role, if it does not suit her? And, if she wishes to do Trovatore, there is another role, that of the Gypsy. Put tradition aside: they say it is a secondary role: No, truly: it is a leading role—even the very most important role, more beautiful, more dramatic, more original than the other one [Leonora]. If I were a prima donna (fine thing!) I would want to sing the role of the Gypsy in Trovatore"
One needn't read that excerpt to know that Azucena has show-stealing power in Trovatore, a trait that her niece, Eboli, would inherit in Don Carlo. Because we are so familiar with them, it is easy to forget the "Verdi Mezzo" and Verdi Baritone" did not exist before him!
Verdi expanded the dramatic range and musical scope of the baritones & mezzos (nieces of the dramatic lyrc soprano like Abigaille in Nabucco and Bellini's Norma, among others) AND from Nabucco on, wrote fully lyric, "tenore di forza" roles for his heroes. The Rossinian "tenore di grazia" was gradually phased out for the Italian version of the Heldentenor. Rossini was none too pleased with the changing techniques and styles as tenors began to sing the note which would crown Pavarotti as the "king of the high c's." On hearing the first exponent of the "do di petto" (high c in the chest voice), Gilbert Duprez, Rossini complained he sounded like the shriek of a "capon with it's throat slit." Nevertheless, the high c was there to stay for the tenor.
Verdi eventually swapped dramatic weight and color for brilliance & the stratosphere, and after his middle period, the tenors rarely venture above b-flat. This is yet another example of how Verdi inherited and then reinvented the tradition.
Gaetano Fraschini was one of the first of these tenors, whose voice was described as "a giant silver platter being struck with a giant silver hammer." Fraschini was one of the composer's early favorites, and the creator of Stiffelio and Riccardo (Ballo). One of the next tenors in this vein was Enrico Tamberlik, who created Alvaro in La Forza del Destino. He was also responsible for the ossia high c’s in “Di quella pira," the most famous appearance of that note in Verdi's operas. Asked whether or not the Maestro approved of his interpolation, Verdi replied to the tenor:
"sing as many of them as you like, as long as they are all good high c’s!"
I will sign off with a quote from one of Verdi's esteemed colleagues, and a fellow devotee of Shakespeare. The title of my essay today refers to Verdi's observation that it is better to invent the truth than copy it. Verdi cites Shakespeare as the "Papa" of this principal, using Iago & Desdemona as characters that could only be invented and yet appear so true. Hector Berlioz' words on the Paris premiere of Les Vêpres Siciliennes in June, 1855, also appear so true, and apply to any number of Verdi's operas:
" …the penetrating intensity of the melodic expression, the sumptuous variety and wisdom of the instrumentation, the vastness, the poetic sonority of the ensemble pieces, the colorful warmth that shines everywhere, and that passionate but deliberate force...the characteristic traits of Verdi’s genius give the entire opera a greatness, a kind of sovereign majesty…"
(most quotations courtesy of the excellent monograph of Mary Jane Phillips-Matz, Verdi: A Biography. Oxford. 1993)
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Travel Journal: Marseille/Aix-en-Provence
My last travel journal chronicled an amazing day in Nice, and more great art than any one person should attempt to absorb in just a day. Following that day on the beautiful Côte d'Azur, we sailed up to the historic and culturally vibrant port of Marseille. Our excursion was to the famed medieval hill town in the heart of Provence, Aix.
With the imposing yet scenic Mt. Saint-Victoire in the background, the countryside of Cézanne has lost none of its allure. Amy and I skipped the excursion to his studio in order to spend more time exploring the ancient walls and cathedrals, lingering at the fragrant farmer's market in the center of town. (I will never buy "herbes de provence" anywhere else!)
Aix is home to one of Europe's most renowned music festivals, and we were disappointed to miss, among other classical superstars, Sir Simon Rattle. Cézanne's home and studio are among the chief lures for the art lover, and the town's museum, the Musee Granet, is a fine example of a small regional museum. This regional museum had just been transformed, however, into an international destination with the recent opening of the Picasso-Cézanne exhibit. I have been an art lover since the full awakening of my artistic consciousness in graduate school at Westminster Choir College in Princeton. Besides the world-class education I absorbed like a sponge, the Choirs' regular run-out performances to Philadelphia and New York and the residencies at summer festivals in Charleston, Spoleto, and Colmar whet an appetite for culture that has only increased. Before attending Westminster, I was just another wet-behind-the-ears kid with maybe above average brains & talent, but no worldly knowledge nor experience, and very little exposure to art and culture. I was, however, ready to open to it, and I am grateful my mind and soul were the fertile ground upon which an amazing amount of cultural experience could settle and begin to ripen.
That is all to say, some 15 years of international travel and experience later, the Picasso-Cézanne exhibit was the greatest single art show I've attended.
Though an amateur in the deepest sense of the word, I am not an art historian enough to give the background this exhibit deserves. I was aware the two artists were cousins: Cézanne's still lifes, for example, changed the way that genre was viewed and painted, and it is easy to discern his influence on Picasso. An exhibition of some of these paintings 100 years ago inspired a book's worth of letters from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. His "Letters on Cézanne" contain such insightful observations on the man and his work:
"To achieve the conviction and substantiality of things, a reality intensified and potentiated to the point of indestructability by his experience of the object, this seemed to him to the purpose of his innermost work..."
Rather than mere cousins, the P-C exhibit reveals these two great and utterly individual artists to be more surrogate father-son. At the end of the exhibit, a wonderful quotation of Picasso made me glad I'd taken my pocket journal along:
"I am interested in the unquiet of Cézanne, the teaching of Cézanne, the torment of Van Gogh, and what I call the 'drama of man.' The rest is false."
The exhibit is brilliantly organized in four sections. The Granet musuem is too small a building to adequately contain the size and scope of such an extensive, spacious, and overwhelming collection of paintings. The curators are all the more to be commended for the care with which the 100 plus canvas show was handled.
The first section, "Picasso looks at Cézanne" introduces us to the Spanish prodigy's early recognition of his colleague's "late bloomer" genius (this is an interesting point of departure between the two artists--Picasso is an example of that rare child prodigy; Cézanne one who only hit his stride after he'd turned 40, and whose fame has only ripened with age and time).
The first section of the show revealed side by side the influence of Picasso viewing Cézanne. The first two paintings on display, in fact were a pair of still lifes from each artist. Nudes and self-portraits further revealed the indebtedness. What opened a new window of awareness was a pair of landscapes where Cézanne's late period minimalism presages Picasso's modernist cubism. And somehow, I had also failed to see Picasso's indebtedness to Cézanne's portraits of his wife. Viewing Picasso's portraits of women, culminating in the famed painting of Gertrude Stein, the proximity was obvious.
"You do well to think I have looked at his paintings" was the quote by Picasso heading the second section of the exhibit, "Picasso collects Cézanne." Here, a handful of classic Cézanne's--another Madame C. portrait, a landscape, and a bathers painting--if not literally fruit as in the still lifes, are at least seeds of inspiration for Picasso.
The heart of the exhibit is the third section "Shared themes and forms." Another classic Cézanne portrait, "Man with a pipe" becomes a springboard for Picasso's cubist and fauvist paintings. More than any other section of the exhibit, it was apparent how one great artist takes from his predecessors, absorbs their influence, and creates wholly original works that both rejuvenate and reestablish a tradition. No one would mistake a Picasso for a Cézanne, just as no one could fail to distinguish between the symphonies of Mahler and Beethoven. Yet each artist in this equation worked from within a tradition, while expanding and renewing it, thereby enriching the tradition and laying the groundwork for the next generation to mine and plumb it anew.
"I've just bought Cézanne's Saint-Victoire [mountain]" said Picasso.
"Which one?" inquired his agent (C painted the mountain some 30 times).
"The real one."
Picasso bought a chateau at Vauvenargues, near Cézanne's beloved mountain, and it is fitting that Mt Saint-Victoire shades the resting places of both artists. The final section of the exhibit was entitled "Picasso reconciles with Cézanne." Though the last two dozen paintings of the show are Picasso's, the shadow of Cézanne looms large after spending so much time observing what, when, and how the younger artist absorbed his elder. The curvilinear arc connecting Cézannes work--the still lifes and "nature mortes" (memento mori, or vanities), portraits and landscapes--to Picasso's paintings in the same genres imbedded itself in the consciousness. And so the last section of Picasso's, with their pastiche-like collage of the many styles their creator assimilated, superficially bore little resemblance to the world of Cézanne. Yet beneath the blurred abstractions of Picasso's singular imagination was a through line of homage from one master to another.
With the imposing yet scenic Mt. Saint-Victoire in the background, the countryside of Cézanne has lost none of its allure. Amy and I skipped the excursion to his studio in order to spend more time exploring the ancient walls and cathedrals, lingering at the fragrant farmer's market in the center of town. (I will never buy "herbes de provence" anywhere else!)
Aix is home to one of Europe's most renowned music festivals, and we were disappointed to miss, among other classical superstars, Sir Simon Rattle. Cézanne's home and studio are among the chief lures for the art lover, and the town's museum, the Musee Granet, is a fine example of a small regional museum. This regional museum had just been transformed, however, into an international destination with the recent opening of the Picasso-Cézanne exhibit. I have been an art lover since the full awakening of my artistic consciousness in graduate school at Westminster Choir College in Princeton. Besides the world-class education I absorbed like a sponge, the Choirs' regular run-out performances to Philadelphia and New York and the residencies at summer festivals in Charleston, Spoleto, and Colmar whet an appetite for culture that has only increased. Before attending Westminster, I was just another wet-behind-the-ears kid with maybe above average brains & talent, but no worldly knowledge nor experience, and very little exposure to art and culture. I was, however, ready to open to it, and I am grateful my mind and soul were the fertile ground upon which an amazing amount of cultural experience could settle and begin to ripen.
That is all to say, some 15 years of international travel and experience later, the Picasso-Cézanne exhibit was the greatest single art show I've attended.
Though an amateur in the deepest sense of the word, I am not an art historian enough to give the background this exhibit deserves. I was aware the two artists were cousins: Cézanne's still lifes, for example, changed the way that genre was viewed and painted, and it is easy to discern his influence on Picasso. An exhibition of some of these paintings 100 years ago inspired a book's worth of letters from the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. His "Letters on Cézanne" contain such insightful observations on the man and his work:
"To achieve the conviction and substantiality of things, a reality intensified and potentiated to the point of indestructability by his experience of the object, this seemed to him to the purpose of his innermost work..."
Rather than mere cousins, the P-C exhibit reveals these two great and utterly individual artists to be more surrogate father-son. At the end of the exhibit, a wonderful quotation of Picasso made me glad I'd taken my pocket journal along:
"I am interested in the unquiet of Cézanne, the teaching of Cézanne, the torment of Van Gogh, and what I call the 'drama of man.' The rest is false."
The exhibit is brilliantly organized in four sections. The Granet musuem is too small a building to adequately contain the size and scope of such an extensive, spacious, and overwhelming collection of paintings. The curators are all the more to be commended for the care with which the 100 plus canvas show was handled.
The first section, "Picasso looks at Cézanne" introduces us to the Spanish prodigy's early recognition of his colleague's "late bloomer" genius (this is an interesting point of departure between the two artists--Picasso is an example of that rare child prodigy; Cézanne one who only hit his stride after he'd turned 40, and whose fame has only ripened with age and time).
The first section of the show revealed side by side the influence of Picasso viewing Cézanne. The first two paintings on display, in fact were a pair of still lifes from each artist. Nudes and self-portraits further revealed the indebtedness. What opened a new window of awareness was a pair of landscapes where Cézanne's late period minimalism presages Picasso's modernist cubism. And somehow, I had also failed to see Picasso's indebtedness to Cézanne's portraits of his wife. Viewing Picasso's portraits of women, culminating in the famed painting of Gertrude Stein, the proximity was obvious.
"You do well to think I have looked at his paintings" was the quote by Picasso heading the second section of the exhibit, "Picasso collects Cézanne." Here, a handful of classic Cézanne's--another Madame C. portrait, a landscape, and a bathers painting--if not literally fruit as in the still lifes, are at least seeds of inspiration for Picasso.
The heart of the exhibit is the third section "Shared themes and forms." Another classic Cézanne portrait, "Man with a pipe" becomes a springboard for Picasso's cubist and fauvist paintings. More than any other section of the exhibit, it was apparent how one great artist takes from his predecessors, absorbs their influence, and creates wholly original works that both rejuvenate and reestablish a tradition. No one would mistake a Picasso for a Cézanne, just as no one could fail to distinguish between the symphonies of Mahler and Beethoven. Yet each artist in this equation worked from within a tradition, while expanding and renewing it, thereby enriching the tradition and laying the groundwork for the next generation to mine and plumb it anew.
"I've just bought Cézanne's Saint-Victoire [mountain]" said Picasso.
"Which one?" inquired his agent (C painted the mountain some 30 times).
"The real one."
Picasso bought a chateau at Vauvenargues, near Cézanne's beloved mountain, and it is fitting that Mt Saint-Victoire shades the resting places of both artists. The final section of the exhibit was entitled "Picasso reconciles with Cézanne." Though the last two dozen paintings of the show are Picasso's, the shadow of Cézanne looms large after spending so much time observing what, when, and how the younger artist absorbed his elder. The curvilinear arc connecting Cézannes work--the still lifes and "nature mortes" (memento mori, or vanities), portraits and landscapes--to Picasso's paintings in the same genres imbedded itself in the consciousness. And so the last section of Picasso's, with their pastiche-like collage of the many styles their creator assimilated, superficially bore little resemblance to the world of Cézanne. Yet beneath the blurred abstractions of Picasso's singular imagination was a through line of homage from one master to another.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
"Champagne for my real friends and real pain for my sham friends" (Francis Bacon: 1909-1992)
Since I have been musing on some of the art viewed during our recent Mediterranean Music cruise, I thought I'd write a bit about my visit to New York City yesterday. I was there to audition for the Westfield Symphony & Teatro Grattacielo. As every singer who's lived outside the City knows, straightforward auditions are rarely simple (you go through a number of hoops just to show up and sing your stuff--hopefully you're asked for a 2nd aria after you present your first choice--and the "big deal" is over before its begun. We consider ourselves lucky if we get one offer in 15 auditions).
I needed to fly to and from NYC on the same day, and was happy to find a cheap flight that left first thing in the morning, and returned before last call that evening, thus giving the requisite buffer time. I arranged to rent a studio at the audition site, a 1/2 hour before my audition, to alleviate any concerns about being warmed-up, etc. Since my audition was not until 5 pm, I had ample buffer time on the arrival side, and decided I was going to spend the day quietly taking in some art.
My destination was the Francis Bacon Centennial retrospective at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bacon has always captivated and fascinated me. The baroque carcasses and creatures juxtaposed with the modern urbane figures and settings; the wrestling male nudes and screaming Popes, the triptychs, crucifixions, and momento mori are both disturbing and engaging, and therein lies my primary interest in this boldly original, divisive 20th century painter. I've been intrigued by his biography since reading about and subsequently viewing the 1998 biopic film starring Derek Jacobi, Daniel Craig, and Tilda Swinton, "Love is the Devil."
The film focuses on the central relationship between Bacon and George Dyer, a petty thief who became the artist's lover and muse for one of the most fertile periods of his career. Dyer's death from an overdose haunted Bacon and inspired a moving series of portraits. But I get ahead of myself.
The exhibition is well-organized and is given the ample space these works require. Since Bacon's favorite form was the triptych, most of these are given their own walls. Given the violence in these paintings--both overt and latent in the tension between his figures--literal breathing room is necessary. Bacon found his style after WWII, and it is as a post-war artist depicting the horrors of war, the abuse of power, and human suffering (physical, emotional, psychological) where his unique voice first speaks.
A photograph of Goebbels delivering a speech became the model for many of Bacon's signature gaping mouths. Painted with bared teeth in detailed relief, these mouths appear on human, beast, and supernatural creature alike. Such creatures are the only figures present in his early masterpiece, 3 figures for the base of a Crucifixion, which looks back to the vivid fantasias of Bosch, while being firmly grounded in the present.
A Dubliner and apostate Catholic, Bacon's atheism found a potent outlet in turning Christian images and symbols on their heads. Besides the grotesque figures for the Crucifixion panels, one of his most famous series of works (featuring those gaping mouths) are the screaming Popes. Modeled on Valezquez's portrait of Pope Innocent X, Bacon juxtaposed images of the divisive contemporary Pope Pius XII with images from one of his favorite films, "Battleship Potemkin."
The specific image from Eisenstein's cinematic masterpiece was a still of the nurse whose glasses have been shattered by a bullet. Bacon's blurring of the lines between the backqround and foreground, and the chiaroscuro juxtaposition of charcoals, greys, and black with "royal" purple and gold create a tension which gives these works an unsettling power.
Influenced by the early photographer Eadweard Muybridge's photos of men wrestling, Bacon's male nudes from the 50's and early 60's are charged with another kind of tension. In reference to painting his lovers, he tried to portray "all the areas of feeling which you yourself have apprehensions of." Based on the result, his attempts were successful.
The triptych which is an elegy/eulogy for Dyer features a seated figure, with Bacon's characteristic expressionism (with traces of Fauvism): curvilinear angles creating blurred, bloated and distorted features. Set against vacuum-like black backgrounds, the figures each have unfinished limbs which dissolve in a surrealist, Daliesque manner onto the floor. The depiction of decaying flesh could not be more vivid, yet despite (or because of?) the grotesqueness, it is singularly moving.
Equally moving are the two self portraits from this period. Dyer was one of several intimates the artist lost around this time in the early 70's, and quipped that since his friends were "dropping like flies" he had no one else to paint but himself. And these self-portraits--Bacon seated, legs crossed, one arm folded, the other holding a half-crooked head--are among the saddest, most forlorn pictures I've seen. I've never looked at a more melancholy lavender. Both of these portraits feature a prominent wristwatch, another potent symbol for an artist obsessed with death and dying.
One of his last Triptychs was inspired by a bullfight, and a famous line of the tragic Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca:
"The rest was death, and death alone, at five o'clock in the afternoon."
Here the figures--the gored leg of the matador, the head of the bull--are isolated, viewed through a window, as if the artist was locating the spectator as a participant in the pageant, a parallel to the spectacle of the bullfight itself.
As I write about these works, I cannot help but think a stranger to them could be easily persuaded an artist so preoccupied with the grotesque & violent would not be their cup of tea. I am not on a mission to convert any fellow art amateurs to the unique universe of Francis Bacon's paintings. I find them engaging, moving, and provocative, and that is enough for me.
I needed to fly to and from NYC on the same day, and was happy to find a cheap flight that left first thing in the morning, and returned before last call that evening, thus giving the requisite buffer time. I arranged to rent a studio at the audition site, a 1/2 hour before my audition, to alleviate any concerns about being warmed-up, etc. Since my audition was not until 5 pm, I had ample buffer time on the arrival side, and decided I was going to spend the day quietly taking in some art.
My destination was the Francis Bacon Centennial retrospective at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Bacon has always captivated and fascinated me. The baroque carcasses and creatures juxtaposed with the modern urbane figures and settings; the wrestling male nudes and screaming Popes, the triptychs, crucifixions, and momento mori are both disturbing and engaging, and therein lies my primary interest in this boldly original, divisive 20th century painter. I've been intrigued by his biography since reading about and subsequently viewing the 1998 biopic film starring Derek Jacobi, Daniel Craig, and Tilda Swinton, "Love is the Devil."
The film focuses on the central relationship between Bacon and George Dyer, a petty thief who became the artist's lover and muse for one of the most fertile periods of his career. Dyer's death from an overdose haunted Bacon and inspired a moving series of portraits. But I get ahead of myself.
The exhibition is well-organized and is given the ample space these works require. Since Bacon's favorite form was the triptych, most of these are given their own walls. Given the violence in these paintings--both overt and latent in the tension between his figures--literal breathing room is necessary. Bacon found his style after WWII, and it is as a post-war artist depicting the horrors of war, the abuse of power, and human suffering (physical, emotional, psychological) where his unique voice first speaks.
A photograph of Goebbels delivering a speech became the model for many of Bacon's signature gaping mouths. Painted with bared teeth in detailed relief, these mouths appear on human, beast, and supernatural creature alike. Such creatures are the only figures present in his early masterpiece, 3 figures for the base of a Crucifixion, which looks back to the vivid fantasias of Bosch, while being firmly grounded in the present.
A Dubliner and apostate Catholic, Bacon's atheism found a potent outlet in turning Christian images and symbols on their heads. Besides the grotesque figures for the Crucifixion panels, one of his most famous series of works (featuring those gaping mouths) are the screaming Popes. Modeled on Valezquez's portrait of Pope Innocent X, Bacon juxtaposed images of the divisive contemporary Pope Pius XII with images from one of his favorite films, "Battleship Potemkin."
The specific image from Eisenstein's cinematic masterpiece was a still of the nurse whose glasses have been shattered by a bullet. Bacon's blurring of the lines between the backqround and foreground, and the chiaroscuro juxtaposition of charcoals, greys, and black with "royal" purple and gold create a tension which gives these works an unsettling power.
Influenced by the early photographer Eadweard Muybridge's photos of men wrestling, Bacon's male nudes from the 50's and early 60's are charged with another kind of tension. In reference to painting his lovers, he tried to portray "all the areas of feeling which you yourself have apprehensions of." Based on the result, his attempts were successful.
The triptych which is an elegy/eulogy for Dyer features a seated figure, with Bacon's characteristic expressionism (with traces of Fauvism): curvilinear angles creating blurred, bloated and distorted features. Set against vacuum-like black backgrounds, the figures each have unfinished limbs which dissolve in a surrealist, Daliesque manner onto the floor. The depiction of decaying flesh could not be more vivid, yet despite (or because of?) the grotesqueness, it is singularly moving.
Equally moving are the two self portraits from this period. Dyer was one of several intimates the artist lost around this time in the early 70's, and quipped that since his friends were "dropping like flies" he had no one else to paint but himself. And these self-portraits--Bacon seated, legs crossed, one arm folded, the other holding a half-crooked head--are among the saddest, most forlorn pictures I've seen. I've never looked at a more melancholy lavender. Both of these portraits feature a prominent wristwatch, another potent symbol for an artist obsessed with death and dying.
One of his last Triptychs was inspired by a bullfight, and a famous line of the tragic Spanish poet, Federico Garcia Lorca:
"The rest was death, and death alone, at five o'clock in the afternoon."
Here the figures--the gored leg of the matador, the head of the bull--are isolated, viewed through a window, as if the artist was locating the spectator as a participant in the pageant, a parallel to the spectacle of the bullfight itself.
As I write about these works, I cannot help but think a stranger to them could be easily persuaded an artist so preoccupied with the grotesque & violent would not be their cup of tea. I am not on a mission to convert any fellow art amateurs to the unique universe of Francis Bacon's paintings. I find them engaging, moving, and provocative, and that is enough for me.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Travel Journal: Nice/St Paul-de-Vence
The Mediterranean Music cruise about which I've been writing reached a peak upon our arrival in Nice, the heart of the French Riviera. The twin poles of Elba and Nice balanced perfectly on an axis of natural beauty and cultural richness. If I preferred Elba's exotic island atmosphere for an ideal vacation setting, then Nice offered that unforgettable Mediterranean setting with significant doses of art.
Our morning began with an excursion to the hill town of St. Paul-de-Vence, off the sunny coast towards the Alps which dip down into France. One could not ask for a more compelling juxtaposition of mountains and sea. Nor could one ask for a more engaging day of 20th century art in such a charmed setting. St. Paul-de-Vence is home to the Maeght Foundation, a remarkable house of work collected by and created for the patrons & curators Marguerite and Aime Maeght.
A sculpture garden with mosaic lined walls and works by Braque, Calder, Chagall, and among others, Leger, lead the viewer to the house itself, which rivals the Barnes Foundation for the ratio of space to masterpiece. Stained glass by Miro and Braque were among the unfamiliar works in this gallery of masters. Chagall's sprawling "La Vie" (Life) dominated a room where it simply dwarfed its more petite neighbors. Bonnard's Gauguin-tinged "L'ete" (Summer) did the same in an adjacent room. A series of late, typically playful and surreal "bird" paintings ("Femme l'oiseau") filled the Miro room. New to me were abstract works by Jean-Paul Riepelle and Bram van Velde--the former more abstract expressionist; the latter cubist. Amy was particularly taken with Wilfredo Lam's sensually cubist canvas, "La Fiancee de Kiriwina," another discovery for both of us. Hauntingly familiar, like Doppelgangers, were the existentially minimalist sculptures of Giacometti. A courtyard of his signature "stick figure" bronzes led to a Miro Labyrinth, full of larger-than-life figures, creatures & combinations. The Spaniard's sculptures served a leavening purpose by inspiring some bearable lightness after the pervasive angst of his Swiss colleague.
That visit alone would have been sufficient for the thirstiest of modern art pilgrims. Our day continued, however, with visits to the two great single-artist museums in and around Nice: those of Chagall and Matisse. The Chagall museum (officially named National Museum Message Biblique Marc Chagall) was organized by the artist himself upon giving some 50 paintings--almost all on Biblical themes, arguably the central focus of his oeuvre--to the government of France. The museum was planned specifically for and around the series of huge murals depicting Old Testament stories--from the Creation to stories of Abraham, Jacob, Noah and Moses. In addition to these narrative and symbolically potent canvasses in the "Nave" of the museum, a "chapel" off the main room is devoted to a series of 5 paintings that are the ultimate sacred Valentines in gorgeous red & pink oils: Les Cantiques des Cantique (The Song of Songs). A stunning walled mosaic of the prophet Elijah is visible outside that room, from a gallery opposite, across a small reflecting pool. On the other side of the museum's sanctuary of Biblical paintings is a triptych that combines Jewish, Christian, and Russian imagery with typical Chagallian abandon. "Resistance/Ressurection/Liberation" feature his porous blending of images and symbols, the coexistence of the sacred and the sensual, and the high and low (and the blurring of all those lines). In short, the proximity of his work to kitsch fuels his critics and inspires his admirers; I am obviously and unashamedly one of the latter. The museum also had his series of 7 Creation stained glass windows, perhaps the most beautiful modern examples of that classic & sacred genre.
I have to admit I have always been less impressed--less moved, less engaged is more accurate--with Matisse. I would prefer to spend time with Chagall or Miro or when I'm feeling schizophrenic, Picasso. Cezanne and Manet are my favorites leading up to the twentieth century, and the line of abtract expressionism from Kandinsky to Pollock and De Kooning and beyond has always sustained my interest and imagination. Matisse (and Gauguin) have just not "done it" for me. I realize the problem is mine, and I continue to seek treatment for this and my many other "faults and derelictions" (Whitman), and of those I've tried, the visit to Matisse's house in Nice was by far the best remedy. The rooms contain a somewhat chronological history of his development and career, an interesting collection of sketches and drawings, and examples from nearly every period of his storied life. Most moving (therefore for me surprising) were the plans and models of the chapel in Vence he designed for a long-time friend. Juxtaposed with the Renaissance murals that inspired him, this late work possessed a very moving & human quality I had heretofore missed in the curvy figures and blue cut-outs stereotypically associated with this 20th century giant.
Our morning began with an excursion to the hill town of St. Paul-de-Vence, off the sunny coast towards the Alps which dip down into France. One could not ask for a more compelling juxtaposition of mountains and sea. Nor could one ask for a more engaging day of 20th century art in such a charmed setting. St. Paul-de-Vence is home to the Maeght Foundation, a remarkable house of work collected by and created for the patrons & curators Marguerite and Aime Maeght.
A sculpture garden with mosaic lined walls and works by Braque, Calder, Chagall, and among others, Leger, lead the viewer to the house itself, which rivals the Barnes Foundation for the ratio of space to masterpiece. Stained glass by Miro and Braque were among the unfamiliar works in this gallery of masters. Chagall's sprawling "La Vie" (Life) dominated a room where it simply dwarfed its more petite neighbors. Bonnard's Gauguin-tinged "L'ete" (Summer) did the same in an adjacent room. A series of late, typically playful and surreal "bird" paintings ("Femme l'oiseau") filled the Miro room. New to me were abstract works by Jean-Paul Riepelle and Bram van Velde--the former more abstract expressionist; the latter cubist. Amy was particularly taken with Wilfredo Lam's sensually cubist canvas, "La Fiancee de Kiriwina," another discovery for both of us. Hauntingly familiar, like Doppelgangers, were the existentially minimalist sculptures of Giacometti. A courtyard of his signature "stick figure" bronzes led to a Miro Labyrinth, full of larger-than-life figures, creatures & combinations. The Spaniard's sculptures served a leavening purpose by inspiring some bearable lightness after the pervasive angst of his Swiss colleague.
That visit alone would have been sufficient for the thirstiest of modern art pilgrims. Our day continued, however, with visits to the two great single-artist museums in and around Nice: those of Chagall and Matisse. The Chagall museum (officially named National Museum Message Biblique Marc Chagall) was organized by the artist himself upon giving some 50 paintings--almost all on Biblical themes, arguably the central focus of his oeuvre--to the government of France. The museum was planned specifically for and around the series of huge murals depicting Old Testament stories--from the Creation to stories of Abraham, Jacob, Noah and Moses. In addition to these narrative and symbolically potent canvasses in the "Nave" of the museum, a "chapel" off the main room is devoted to a series of 5 paintings that are the ultimate sacred Valentines in gorgeous red & pink oils: Les Cantiques des Cantique (The Song of Songs). A stunning walled mosaic of the prophet Elijah is visible outside that room, from a gallery opposite, across a small reflecting pool. On the other side of the museum's sanctuary of Biblical paintings is a triptych that combines Jewish, Christian, and Russian imagery with typical Chagallian abandon. "Resistance/Ressurection/Liberation" feature his porous blending of images and symbols, the coexistence of the sacred and the sensual, and the high and low (and the blurring of all those lines). In short, the proximity of his work to kitsch fuels his critics and inspires his admirers; I am obviously and unashamedly one of the latter. The museum also had his series of 7 Creation stained glass windows, perhaps the most beautiful modern examples of that classic & sacred genre.
I have to admit I have always been less impressed--less moved, less engaged is more accurate--with Matisse. I would prefer to spend time with Chagall or Miro or when I'm feeling schizophrenic, Picasso. Cezanne and Manet are my favorites leading up to the twentieth century, and the line of abtract expressionism from Kandinsky to Pollock and De Kooning and beyond has always sustained my interest and imagination. Matisse (and Gauguin) have just not "done it" for me. I realize the problem is mine, and I continue to seek treatment for this and my many other "faults and derelictions" (Whitman), and of those I've tried, the visit to Matisse's house in Nice was by far the best remedy. The rooms contain a somewhat chronological history of his development and career, an interesting collection of sketches and drawings, and examples from nearly every period of his storied life. Most moving (therefore for me surprising) were the plans and models of the chapel in Vence he designed for a long-time friend. Juxtaposed with the Renaissance murals that inspired him, this late work possessed a very moving & human quality I had heretofore missed in the curvy figures and blue cut-outs stereotypically associated with this 20th century giant.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Travel Journal: Elba
The heart of the Mediterranean Music cruise about which I've been writing spanned the second half of the trip, from Palermo and Naples to the beautiful island of Elba to the gorgeous French Riviera. Our day in Elba was the first day "off" we had, as the previous days involved either recitals or rehearsals. Our final program was lighter fare, consisting of music theater favorites and standards, and was 3 nights away, so we decided to concentrate on relaxing.
For those readers of the Sunday NY Times, last week's travel section featured a front page article on Elba, the main attraction of the Tuscan archipelago. The cover shot of Portoferraio offers a glimpse of just how inviting the Mediterranean is on this Island getaway.
Before we arrived at the port, we heard the final lectures from our distinguished professors. Jim (Hepokoski, from Yale) delivered an informative and entertaining talk on the evolution of recorded music, from a scratchy record of Brahms playing one of his dances to the fabled recordings of the great Caruso. Alan (Fletcher, Aspen festival) spoke about his Clarinet Concerto, and whet all our appetites for hearing a performance of this engaging work. Treating the clarinet soloist as a real character, he quoted from William Carlos Williams:
I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely.
I am best so.
A sentiment every artist knows, at some level, through experience. I am now re-reading one of the best books on the spiritual life I know (recommended to me by my ultra-cool Lutheran minister cousin, Jeff Sonafelt): "The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality" by Belden C. Lane (publ. by Oxford). I will probably write more about it after I've had more time to process, but just this morning I read a passage that reminded me of Alan's talk and the quote above. In writing of solitude and its centrality to the spiritual life of the early desert fathers, Lane makes a connection to the creative life:
"To be a writer, an artist, a monk creating praise out of the stuff of his own being, one has to be able to endure staying alone in a room."
While I did want to be alone in my room upon our arrival in Elba, I did want to follow my own path and not accompany the group walking tour to the Vigilanti Theatre and the Villa dei Mulini--Napoleon's residence in exile.
So I took the proverbial road less traveled and hiked along one of the cliff's edges and climbed up the rough side of one for an even more stunning --and vertigo inducing--view of the sea and a panorama of the island. Gorgeous, clear green and blue water--diaphanous, luminous, beckoning: "Vieni qui. Dimenticate tutti degli lamenti, pieni e dolori." The sea WAS talking to me (and in my 2nd grade Italian): "Come and bring your melancholy to my pure bosom. Dissolve your hardness here. Be lost in me..."
The stunning vista was so inviting, and the call of the sea so vivid I had to find my way down that mountain and just go to the beach! The water was so cool, so clear, so cleansing. I have never been in water that felt better. It is difficult to describe with adjectives the physical and textural incarnation of the purity of that sea. It was more than refreshing; it was restorative. Julian of Norwich describes God's love as like a Mother's. God lets us fall like a watchful and loving mother in order to teach us. The loving embrace of the mother is even more comforting and cherished in such a context. Among other things, I was trying not to freak out about the fact I'd been sleepwalking on this cruise, for what I believed (hoped!) to be the first time in my life. The previous night I dreamt I was wandering around the ship, lost & confused, only to wake up in a hallway and realize I was not dreaming but literally wandering around the ship, and was now locked out of our room!
Anyway, my experience of the beautiful & invigorating sea was seconded by Amy and Scott (Beard) when I found them and shared my discovery (the beach was literally around the corner from the port, but the tour guides neglected to mention that!)
After the beach, I strolled along the boat-lined port, enjoying the mingling of history with the present: the medieval walls and buildings around a busy marina full of travelers from all over the world, some busy cleaning their skiffs, others enjoying a glass of wine and a chance to relax in the Meiterranean sun.
Amen.
For those readers of the Sunday NY Times, last week's travel section featured a front page article on Elba, the main attraction of the Tuscan archipelago. The cover shot of Portoferraio offers a glimpse of just how inviting the Mediterranean is on this Island getaway.
Before we arrived at the port, we heard the final lectures from our distinguished professors. Jim (Hepokoski, from Yale) delivered an informative and entertaining talk on the evolution of recorded music, from a scratchy record of Brahms playing one of his dances to the fabled recordings of the great Caruso. Alan (Fletcher, Aspen festival) spoke about his Clarinet Concerto, and whet all our appetites for hearing a performance of this engaging work. Treating the clarinet soloist as a real character, he quoted from William Carlos Williams:
I am lonely, lonely.
I was born to be lonely.
I am best so.
A sentiment every artist knows, at some level, through experience. I am now re-reading one of the best books on the spiritual life I know (recommended to me by my ultra-cool Lutheran minister cousin, Jeff Sonafelt): "The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality" by Belden C. Lane (publ. by Oxford). I will probably write more about it after I've had more time to process, but just this morning I read a passage that reminded me of Alan's talk and the quote above. In writing of solitude and its centrality to the spiritual life of the early desert fathers, Lane makes a connection to the creative life:
"To be a writer, an artist, a monk creating praise out of the stuff of his own being, one has to be able to endure staying alone in a room."
While I did want to be alone in my room upon our arrival in Elba, I did want to follow my own path and not accompany the group walking tour to the Vigilanti Theatre and the Villa dei Mulini--Napoleon's residence in exile.
So I took the proverbial road less traveled and hiked along one of the cliff's edges and climbed up the rough side of one for an even more stunning --and vertigo inducing--view of the sea and a panorama of the island. Gorgeous, clear green and blue water--diaphanous, luminous, beckoning: "Vieni qui. Dimenticate tutti degli lamenti, pieni e dolori." The sea WAS talking to me (and in my 2nd grade Italian): "Come and bring your melancholy to my pure bosom. Dissolve your hardness here. Be lost in me..."
The stunning vista was so inviting, and the call of the sea so vivid I had to find my way down that mountain and just go to the beach! The water was so cool, so clear, so cleansing. I have never been in water that felt better. It is difficult to describe with adjectives the physical and textural incarnation of the purity of that sea. It was more than refreshing; it was restorative. Julian of Norwich describes God's love as like a Mother's. God lets us fall like a watchful and loving mother in order to teach us. The loving embrace of the mother is even more comforting and cherished in such a context. Among other things, I was trying not to freak out about the fact I'd been sleepwalking on this cruise, for what I believed (hoped!) to be the first time in my life. The previous night I dreamt I was wandering around the ship, lost & confused, only to wake up in a hallway and realize I was not dreaming but literally wandering around the ship, and was now locked out of our room!
Anyway, my experience of the beautiful & invigorating sea was seconded by Amy and Scott (Beard) when I found them and shared my discovery (the beach was literally around the corner from the port, but the tour guides neglected to mention that!)
After the beach, I strolled along the boat-lined port, enjoying the mingling of history with the present: the medieval walls and buildings around a busy marina full of travelers from all over the world, some busy cleaning their skiffs, others enjoying a glass of wine and a chance to relax in the Meiterranean sun.
Amen.
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