LA TRAVIATA AND OTHER OPERAS

I didn't have an opera mask or binoculars last Thursday as I walked across Venice towards La Scuola Grande dei Carmini (photo below, borrowed from www.scuolagrandecarmini.it); I did, however, have a pair of uncomfortable heels on that didn't mix well with the Venetian cobblestones, and therefore I also had a pair of blue flip-flops sticking out of my purse reminding me that the opera would not last forever. It isn't that I was not enthusiastic to go to the opera, but I was a little tired, tending to a sore throat, and apprehensive. I pomodori di San Servolo had managed to control their hunger with large slices of pizza and gelati on Campo Santa Margherita before heading over to the show, yet I had the foreboding of previous experiences with opera music that the pizza would not last and neither would I. Opera can be long and boring, it's a known fact, especially with the bad rap it gets as the snob's musical. I entered the opera house ready to stifle yawns and a grumbling stomach, but, as I said, I was nevertheless enthusiastic, and despite my misgivings I was curious to hear at least a little of La Traviata, an opera written by Giuseppe Verdi and first performed in 1853 in Venice's Teatro La Fenice. I was excited because I had heard excerpts of La Traviata in class, had enjoyed a short concert of various opera pieces a few weeks ago in Il Ateneo di San Basso on Saint Mark's Square, and had become enraptured by a segment of another opera, La Bohème by Giacomo Puccini, that very morning. In class, we had discussed the bombastic emotion of opera, the dynamics of opera attendees, and other aspects of the art (including its identity as kitsch: taking itself seriously despite its ridiculous, unrealistic nature) that made me aware of opera in new ways, especially in its ability to speak to people across both time and place. As we said in class, people don't go to the opera to understand it literally, although they may want the context of the emotions presented to better enjoy it; minus for the glam and class and culture, people go to feast on what is versatile about it. The stories are basic human stories about love, death, family, and feminine and masculine calamity, and the music speaks to everyone in a partly learned, partly inborn play on emotions. Opera has universal characteristics that last through the ages and that can be understood around the world.

As a musician, I find the power of opera music especially interesting; when I began writing music myself, I pondered the power of music, what it was, why people like it, why music makes us feel. By now, of course, I think I have it figured out; music speaks directly to our emotions, it is a form of communication, the communication of emotion, that can almost wield us from the inside out. In our discussions of opera in class, I found this fact validated by the effect of the performers' foreign-tongued voices on myself and others, and thinking about this particular use of music, that flows directly through a human body into the audience, I became fascinated by the notion of voice without meaning. When the words are not understood, opera is pure voice expressing emotion, only hinting at where the emotion comes from through any action on stage. The singers take the audience on a shockingly desperate and earnest journey, belting out life like no real person would be able to off stage. When audience members leave the opera, they thank the show for releasing them from a need to scream themselves. "No risk:" Catherine Clément wrote in her book Opera, Or the Undoing of Women, "one makes a pretense of not being interested in the plot, which is completely unimportant. So one is moved for no apparent reason, what bliss!" The fact that most people cannot understand opera, because it is traditionally in Italian, is compensated for by this effect. But this side of opera is not what intrigued me most in our discussions. Opera as a use of musical power spoke to me further when we discussed La Bohème. At one point in our sample, during the song "Che gelida manina" in which Mimi enters Rudolfo's apartment to ask him whether she can relight a candle that the wind has blown out (which is the scene in the picture to the right, with Inva Mula as Mimi and Aquiles Machado as Rudolfo), Rudolfo sang a loud, long, crescendoing line that, after we had finished listening, turned out to mean "How do I live? I live." You can sample this song from La Bohème here. At that moment, opera became something else for me: a possibility. In a blending of emotional dialogue and literary depth, in the combination of melodramatic song and story, I thought I found a musical tool of exploration that could explore character emotion in connection with specific situations. Aside from simply enjoying bombastic expression of emotion through music, I realized that opera could give extra depth to the words of its stories if only we could understand them. I know this seems exactly like what we do with any other form of music, song, musical, but with opera using the music and narration together is different because opera is a musical form that follows the emotions of the characters rather than the melody of a methodical song. In opera every word is sung with emphasis on what the note can say to the audience, the meanings of the words are emphasized not by normal sentence emphasis but by the emotion of the characters. If the words were understood in this medium, the story might take on a sort of literary purpose, and opera would be not simply a feast of expressed emotion but a mode of speaking true inner emotion along side fact and logic. Really, this may be what opera started out doing, but has since become the opera that Clément loves, the one that enjoys emotional experiences in a minimalistic way. After I began to see opera in a literary way, I was anxious to hear La Traviata performed live, even if I knew I would not be able to understand it, or sit through it easily. I wanted to experience opera the "traditional" way before I ever delve into opera with deeper narrative meaning.

The lights went out, and the violins, the cello, and piano struck up one of the most beautiful pieces I have heard recently. In the dimness of soft spot lights, we waited for the story to start. La Scuola Grande dei Carmini is a small building just off Campo Santa Margherita containing a chapel and a nice collection of artwork and woodwork. On the ground floor, the chapel now acts as an auditorium for various types of performances (photo on left, www.scuolagrandecarmini.it), and the rooms above it, the old scuola, are now shown as a museum because their ceilings are decorated with paintings by Giovanni Battista Tiepolo, one of Venice's top 18th century artists. Down in the chapel, a low stage surrounds the front of a small yet lavish alter of the mother and child. For the first act of La Traviata, a row of chairs and a table with flowers waited for the characters to appear. We listened eagerly for the music of the intro to end, then smiled, at least I did, as the first singers came to the stage, already singing. One of the singers, who played the character Alfredo and who had sung the selections at Il Ateneo di San Basso, we were especially excited to see; not only is he excellent, we love the expressions on his face as he sings. We could just see the concentration and skill it took him to sing every note, which made me realize that opera is a challenge even for professional singers. All of the opera singers' voices were so loud I could feel my ears receiving the vibrations of music, and it immediately moved me, like most music does. The human voice sang so loudly, though, that this music connected me with the characters both physically and mentally. In class we talked about how opera is written to bring the audience into the characters positions, to experience emotion through the characters as a substitute or confirmation of the real thing. As I sat there, exposed to the tremendous voices of the singers, I experienced this effect. Although I did not know what they were singing, except for a few words like "grazie" "abbiamo" and "si," I knew the emotions and I probably felt new ones. It was amazing how the music so easily conveyed emotion, especially when I could physically feel the power of the singers and identify with them. At the same time, though, I was glad I knew what was happening in the story because as time past I became restless at points when the "wordless" songs seemed to last longer than was necessary. The story of La Traviata is basically the original and inspiration for Moulin Rouge, the 2001 film directed by Baz Luhrmann. A prostitute, recently recovered from illness, throws a party to celebrate her good health. Her name is Violetta and, when she meets a high class gentleman named Alfredo at her celebration, she falls in love and eventually moves to the country with her new lover. Throughout the first act, Alfredo and Violetta discover and sing of their love, and Violetta, almost in secret, finds her health may still be in decline. In the second act, Violetta and Alfredo are living in the country together where they are very happy. When Alfredo leaves for Paris, however, his father arrives to confront Violetta, the lowlife his son is treating as a wife and who is therefore a danger to the family. Alfredo's father begs Violetta to leave Alfredo in order to save the name of Alfredo's family which would allow Alfredo's sister to find a respectable husband. Violetta finally gives after much singing and she begins to write a farewell note to Alfredo. As she weeps bitterly over her quill and paper, Alfredo returns from Paris and they sing about their love. Once Violetta leaves under the pretense of attending a party, and Alfredo finds the note, Alfredo angrily goes to Paris to find her. In a gambling scene, he sees her with a past lover, calls her a whore, and throws two hand-fulls of gambling coins at her feet. In the final act, Violetta dies just after Alfredo has decided to return to her. The third act was a long act with little action besides the reunion and realization of death. The entire show was overly dramatic, that's opera, but I would have known little of it without a synopsis we were given for class, and knowing the story definitely added to my experience. Without knowing what exactly the characters were doing on stage, I think I would have been lost, and probably bored frequently by constant confusion and the singular activity of feeling the dramatic, and sometimes wearisome, emotions. (photo above: Moulin Rouge.)

Knowing the words to an opera could make opera more interesting, more dimensional. Obviously the stories of some operas have been worthy enough for remakes (La Traviata inspired Moulin Rouge; La Bohème seems to have inspired the musical RENT, although I truthfully have never seen either the opera or the show/film). With words and musical commentary on human emotions, their strengths, depths, logic, and all their other mysterious qualities, I think opera could shine in a way most people never imagine. Whenever I finally learn to speak Italian well enough to follow an opera, or I see one in English (I don't know whether supertitles count, it depends on whether I can read them and be certain I know exactly where the singer is putting emphasis), I will probably enjoy it as much as a "wordless" opera. Like an opera I don't understand, one I do will take me through an extreme emotional experience that I will come away from feeling refreshed by the power of the voices and enlightened through an insight into the thoughts and the emotions connected with the experiences of the characters. But even if I don't enjoy operas I can understand, I will always have the option of seeing operas in unknown languages, so I have no fears about trying to understand, or ruining, opera for myself. Not seeing operas again is probably not an option though, I must say. I enjoyed La Traviata immensely, never feeling tired or hungry as I had predicted, and only feeling slightly bored throughout. The emotional ride of La Traviata was soothing, illuminating, and invigorating; it was the sort of release that Venice has offered the world for years through other ventures, so it is no surprise to me that Venice and opera seem to go hand in hand. Freedom, life, and passion all are words fitting to both ideas: Venice and opera, and in a way I feel each has probably inspired the other to greater and lesser degrees. Because I now have a greater interest in opera as well as an appreciation for it as a Venetian expression, I am super excited for our class's final show, an opera in La Fenice, Venice's one true opera house. This show is going to be amazing, just look at the venue (photo above, source unknown). (And I'm just going to end my blog like this ---> because there is no need to elaborate when Linsay's already read the unfinished version of this blog that ended like this.) Linsay would enjoy, maybe? If she still likes opera?