Capricious bosoms
Note: The following contains a discussion of bosoms.
I have discovered in my internetual wanderings a number of blogs devoted to opera, and they have made me realize that I am merely a dabbler. (I suspected nearly as much, since I avoid Puccini and have only seen two or three Verdis.) I commented on one of those blogs that I had recently discovered a cassette recording of Ariadne auf Naxos (with Brigitte Fassbaender as the Composer) at a Goodwill, and someone asked me what the ISBN number was. I can't imagine what ritual he would use that for.
One of these blogs, for example, is even named after a line from Strauss's Capriccio. I might write about Capriccio (as I've done and am about to do again), but I didn't know there were fans of such devotion out there.
It is as if I discovered, in a drunken conversation with my boyfriend, that he once attended a performance of Turandot, without my knowing, and experienced rapture . . . And with my feet yanked so forcefully from under me, and with my jealousy boiling, I wandered the streets until I ended up at club where an old friend was playing the piano, who told me about the wild party he was playing at later, where you had to have a password and a cape and mask, and where he saw such bosoms as you would not believe . . . And when I went there I discovered it was a secret society of pagan Strauss worshipers, the very elite of society, mixing with gesture and open throats, ravishing each other in and among the marble statuary and velvet curtains . . .
Apologies to Arthur Schnitzler and Stanley Kubrick, but yes, that is very much like the secret world of opera fanatics.
But we are here to talk about bosoms. I am midway through the DVD of the Paris Opera's Capriccio, and I think Renee Fleming's bosoms are created by a dark blurry line on a flesh-colored elastic shirt. I only mention this because I first noticed her bosoms a dozen years ago when they were pressed so unnaturally (though geometrically) in The Ghosts of Versailles.
Other criticisms I'll leave to my opera-blogging brethren, but I will stand by one critique that holds for all performing arts: Whatever you do, watch yourself doing it. If you find that your gestures are erratic, your eyes and expressions inauthentic, your face and mouth twisted in a mess of nerves, then step back and work some naturalism into them. And don't let your director tell you to hold a glass of scotch in your left hand when you need to gesture at the sonnet you're holding in your right hand. It's hard to point at something when your fingers are curved.
I have discovered in my internetual wanderings a number of blogs devoted to opera, and they have made me realize that I am merely a dabbler. (I suspected nearly as much, since I avoid Puccini and have only seen two or three Verdis.) I commented on one of those blogs that I had recently discovered a cassette recording of Ariadne auf Naxos (with Brigitte Fassbaender as the Composer) at a Goodwill, and someone asked me what the ISBN number was. I can't imagine what ritual he would use that for.
One of these blogs, for example, is even named after a line from Strauss's Capriccio. I might write about Capriccio (as I've done and am about to do again), but I didn't know there were fans of such devotion out there.
It is as if I discovered, in a drunken conversation with my boyfriend, that he once attended a performance of Turandot, without my knowing, and experienced rapture . . . And with my feet yanked so forcefully from under me, and with my jealousy boiling, I wandered the streets until I ended up at club where an old friend was playing the piano, who told me about the wild party he was playing at later, where you had to have a password and a cape and mask, and where he saw such bosoms as you would not believe . . . And when I went there I discovered it was a secret society of pagan Strauss worshipers, the very elite of society, mixing with gesture and open throats, ravishing each other in and among the marble statuary and velvet curtains . . .
Apologies to Arthur Schnitzler and Stanley Kubrick, but yes, that is very much like the secret world of opera fanatics.
But we are here to talk about bosoms. I am midway through the DVD of the Paris Opera's Capriccio, and I think Renee Fleming's bosoms are created by a dark blurry line on a flesh-colored elastic shirt. I only mention this because I first noticed her bosoms a dozen years ago when they were pressed so unnaturally (though geometrically) in The Ghosts of Versailles.
Other criticisms I'll leave to my opera-blogging brethren, but I will stand by one critique that holds for all performing arts: Whatever you do, watch yourself doing it. If you find that your gestures are erratic, your eyes and expressions inauthentic, your face and mouth twisted in a mess of nerves, then step back and work some naturalism into them. And don't let your director tell you to hold a glass of scotch in your left hand when you need to gesture at the sonnet you're holding in your right hand. It's hard to point at something when your fingers are curved.
posted by Paul G. McCurdy at 8:54 AM
2 Comments:
Ha! Yes! I hate watching a performance of something that is so unnatural that I begin to squirm and look away because I am worried about how awful it's going to get.
All hail the world of opera blogging, by the way. The power of the internets is amazing, and they sure do know everything. (Even that recordings are ISBN marked, and what to do with those markings.)
Working at a bookstore, I can tell you that the ISBN or UPC number for an opera recording or catalog number for such a recording would help you quickly find the exact recording of the specific opera when looking to purchase it. Since it's on tape, he could use the number to locate it - then check to see if it's on CD from the same publisher and what-not.
Otherwise, using the artist, composer or orchestra name, you end up searching and searching through hundreds of titles, rarely finding the right one.
I work in the music department, and someone saying that they're looking for a Naxos recording of "Madame Butterfly" that a friend of theirs owned, for instance, would receive my ire. I'd have to ask them which Naxos recording of "Madame Butterfly." Then, if I were lucky enough to track that down, there's a chance it wouldn't be on CD.
The question he asked you was a good one.
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