On Beauty and Freedom
in the Opera
An argument could be made, though I fear it would be a facile one, that the desire for freedom is the animating force of many opera plots. Just think of the stories of some of the bowwow showstoppers: Aida wants to be free of the chains of slavery as well as the forces that keep her from loving Radamès; Tosca wants to be free of the menaces of Scarpia and wants to be free to sing too; Rodelinda, queen of the Longobards, wants to be free of the importuning Grimoaldo; Don Carlo and Florestan want political freedom; and even Figaro expresses that subversive idea. The list goes on and most opera goers could easily toss in a dozen more names, though no matter how long the list, the observation about freedom would never be less than self-evident.
What I find more interesting is the freedom that opera, indeed all art, bestows upon both artist and audience. We do not speak in iambic pentameter; in fact, the meter imposes a discipline upon language that language ordinarily does not support. But its flow and cadence, at least when in the hands of the greatest English poets, frees language from the weight and inertia of uninspired prose and tosses it up into the air, there to take flight alongside the images it creates.
Nor do people, even in moments of highest passion, burst into spontaneous song, but opera lets them do so, freeing the earthbound expression of love or passion or rage to sing with a finer voice.
As to the audience, few readers jump about while in the act of reading; fewer still break the silence of a museum or gallery to give voice to whatever joy or rage a painting might inspire in them. But opera allows—one might even say encourages—just this excessive response. Whether this is a result of the darkened anonymity of the opera house, or whether fans are spurred on by the company of their peers, opera does seem to drive those in its thrall to behave in ways that, in ordinary life, they would view as both ridiculous and embarrassing. It allows us to shout, it allows us to clap our hands and stomp our feet in rhythm as if we were members of a forest-bound tribe, capable of expressing satisfaction only by rhythmic thumpings. It further allows us to cry out, hoot, whistle, shout in response to the noise made by a performer, reducing us all to soccer hooligans in evening dress.
It allows us, as well, the freedom of I-don’t-give-a-damn excess. So what if a weekend at Salzburg costs more than a month’s rent? Wasn’t it Cecilia Bartoli whom God had in mind when He created the credit card? You won’t come see your poor old mother on Christmas and you’re going to the opera instead? (But your poor old mother isn’t singing Elisabetta with Joyce DiDonato on Christmas, is she?) Going to San Francisco for one day? In short, this urge or passion or helplessness in the face of beauty—whatever it is—frees us to be willing to pay the price of following the trail of beauty wherever it will lead.
In return for our excesses what do we get? Some notes thrown together by a few dozen musicians, a couple of singers, and a man waving a stick. Some costumes, perhaps an ostrich plume, a backdrop or two, people moving around on the stage with greater or lesser skill. That, I’m afraid, is pretty much it, or so it would be without the magic of art. With that present, we get the deep rush of joy and excitement that comes when we are in the presence of glory. We get those moments, even if they last no longer than a few heartbeats, when perfection is achieved and we are freed of the dross of our own existence and get a glimpse of what Aristotle, utterly at a loss for words, called “celestial isness.”
Art’s a mugger and can knock us down whenever it wants. It can lie lurking in a poem and surprise us with joy; it can hide in the lines of a drawing, the curve of the R in an illuminated manuscript. Or it can slide out from behind Iago’s sneer. For some of us, it comes most powerfully in those perfect moments when the voice, always the voice, goes there and rests just there and, in the doing, sets our spirits free.