The Living Death

There’s a club which is somewhat famous among international students in Wroclaw. Many of my classmates habitually go there during the week. I’ve never been; I have no regrets.

Where I have been is the opera house. Possibly more often than most people on my program go to their aforementioned evening venue.  I’ve attended 16 operas since September. Some I’ve seen before. Yet, I still go. The art form often transports one to another world. Sometimes I’m convinced that it acts on the mind as a drug.

I first took in an opera 8 years ago. It was during my first trip to Poland.  A sojourn which defined my future interests, and aspirations. My captivation by the art awoke in the world’s smallest opera house.

 What began as a casual interest in the old-world novelty of opera transformed over the years. Most opera companies rely on popular classical operas to fill seats. They’re often popular for a reason; you find yourself attending titles you’ve seen before. Instead of novelty, you relish hearing your favorite operatic moments preformed live. Few new works are written or preformed.

Opera is far from popular in the larger sense. In LA, I went to the opera relatively rarely. I attended most-all operas in Romania, Hungary and Poland by myself. Who else would want to go every other week?  After a while it became like a quasi-religious ritual. The experience became internalized. I only began attending shows with someone who shared my passion for high culture during the second half of my time in Wroclaw. At first, it felt odd discussing with another person between acts.  I found that a night at the opera can be a shared experience.

 Wroclaw also maintains some mystique of times gone by. I started going to the opera while traveling. In LA, company directors pride themselves on importing performers from far corners of the world. In Wroclaw, I came to understand the concept of yesteryear’s opera star. Wroclaw is Poland’s opera Mecca. This may sound banal. But, the city stages more productions than any city in Italy. The company does so with a tight cast of talented performers. You come to know the singers after a time. You develop your favorites.  

Yesterday I saw Rigoletto for the third time. I found Opera Wroclawska’s modern staging a compelling metaphor for the sympathetically tragic intransigence of the title character. I used to decry modern scenery. Now the staging has become almost as important as the singing.  

My friend had trouble understanding the story. There’s no tradition of opera in her country. She’d never seen Rigoletto before. The staging confused her.  I was surprised at first. Then I remembered similar frustrations. I wouldn’t have understood the staging had I not seen two traditional interpretations before.  I explained the plot to her. It dawned on me how much I’d changed.

The world’s changed too. Though commissioned by kings, dukes and aristocrats opera had a wide appeal. Now it holds a cult following. La Scala recently reduced its upcoming season from 13 operas to 10.

I recently read an article in which a prominent soprano calls opera a ‘dying art form’. She maintains that we largely re-stage works of the past and eschew modern alternatives.  Indeed, I can’t name any regularly preformed modern opera aside from Nixon in China (one of my favorites).  

 A group of young people attended Wroclawska’s Rigoleto. They applauded the Count’s famous solo with wordless shouts of approval.  Some claim we’ve made opera into something it isn’t.  That it’s become un-egalitarian. No longer a place to let your proverbial hair down.  The opera of times gone by isn’t the opera I know. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The most tragic character in opera isn’t the one who dies.  It’s the person that must go on living. Many opera’s lay bare the living tragedies of individuals. It’s somehow fitting that this should reflect the art itself. If opera must die. Let it live on nobly in death.