Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (5)

Continuing our discussion about the discography of the British indie band, Happy Mondays, we are now at the point where we need to cover their collaboration with Bob Mortimer - whom you might already know from his collaboration with Chris Rea on the Let's Dance single, which they made together in support and in celebration of Middlesbrough FC's participation in the FA Cup final. in 1997 (both of them being from Middlesbrough, originally).

***

Much of what I just just said - or some of it - is, of course, untrue. But what is true? Well, Bob Mortimer is true and is real - as hard as that might be to fathom, at times. But what is true about him, specifically? Well, therein lies the question, doesn't it; the question that has preoccupied - nay, that has torn - the participants on the Would I Lie to You panel show, on the episodes featuring Bob. (I have described the premise of WILTY, and the genre of British panel shows, here; to synthesize, WILTY's essence is that, given two teams of comedians / entertainers / public figures, somebody from one team will read, from a card that they have never seen before, a story about something that presumably has happened to them; then, the members of the other team will need to figure out whether that story is true, or whether it was a lie; hence, "would I lie to you?". It sounds simple, but it gets hilarious.)

But what is it, that would set Bob Mortimer apart amid the constellation of entertaining, witty, and amusing guests who have populated the previous seasons of the show? Well, I think that it is what I would call the Whimsical and Wondrous World of Bob Mortimer's Life and Times. Let's start from the fact that Bob is a natural-born comedian and entertainer - the "funny bone" is actually his very marrow, and humor seems to alive at the core of his very being. There is also a childlike quality to him, and to his humor; a sense of wonder and amazement, and a pure eagerness to find the funny in everything - in words, situations, people etc. (see the rainbow variety of his quips on WILTY - links below). Finally, he seems to have had - and to continue to live - a quite wondrous and elfin life, populated with peculiar but homely characters, and with somewhat unexpected paths and choices. (Although you will have to figure out which of his stories are actually true...). And there is also a very down to earth, specifically British quality to his life-stories - which are people and place specific, and are rooted in a regular (albeit ever-so-slightly slightly fantastic, like, say, a hobbit) British bloke existence.

Enjoy, then, the samples below - as another installment within our Happy Mondays series, which (as the title maybe, probably, surely implies) is meant to make our Mondays  - just a bit cheerier.


the legendary episode featuring Jerry Dungarees and Gary "Cheesy" Cheeseman




wherein we discover that Bob is the fourth-born of four male siblings - which has certain implications
[note: in this exercise, a person is brought in, and the members of one of the teams need to convince the other team that this unknown person is related to them, that it is part of their story)




this one actually features Chris Rea




seriously, though?



And you can enjoy more Bob-based delight here and here - collections that also includes other famous Bob stories, but also a variety of Mortimerian quips and contributions. And, of course, stay tuned for future editions (seasons) of WILTY (because if those will not feature Bob Mortimer as a guest on some of the episodes, then they will have just lost their wits).

Opera, in a Time of Cholera (A Travelogue)

The pretext for this discussion is the excellent and gracious initiative of the Metropolitan Opera of New York, to broadcast for free (at least for one week) some of their sumptuous opera productions. These are the same opera broadcasts that many of us have gotten to know so well, through the "Live in HD" Met initiative; yes, because it has happened that I have driven hours to see these live broadcasts, in a movie theater; and, short of being there, at the opera house, there is nothing better than watching them live on the large screen. In fact, it might even be a bit better, at least in some ways – because of the high production values of these HD broadcasts, in terms of camera work (framing, the use of perspective, the close-ups), of the sound (surround, Dolby etc.); in any case, certainly providing a “closer” look at the protagonists and at the action than would be possible if one would attend these in person. And the thrill – the thrill! – of watching a live performance! Given the level of complexity and difficulty, the high artistry of what one is watching, this is akin to holding your breath when watching a high-wire or a trapeze act  - as, at any moment, disaster may ensue.

But, watching the encore broadcasts in a movie theater is also tremendously enjoyable. And now, due to the COVID-19 crisis, and thus to the many people who have to remain indoors, Met Opera has put at our disposal several of these operas, to stream for free, in the comfort of our homes  - one per day, starting Monday, March 16.

Opera, the most complex and, in many ways (and for many) the pinnacle, of all art forms; combining music (some of the best music ever written, vocal and orchestral; from solo arias, to quartets, to choral pieces), theatre (poetry, literature), dance (ballet; or, simply, choreography, movement), design (sets, costumes; colors, shapes; cultural and historical references) – with a deep rootedness in history, mythology, and (broadly understood) Western culture; opera, then, is a (and maybe the) pinnacle of Western (and generally human) artistic production.

And every opera is like a lavish, multi-hour, immersive trip into a different universe, to different lands, times, stories, characters. What follows below is a chronicle, then, of the “trips” that I have taken this past week, by virtue of this excellent initiative of the Met Opera.

***

And yet, all that being said, I will begin with a non-Met opera, which I watched on the Sunday before the broadcasts began.

La Traviata

This 1967 opera film (video) stands out especially through the pathos-filled, physically expressive and vocally pure performance from Anna Moffo (as Violetta), and through some painterly framing, staging, and lighting. Examples of the latter are the scene with Violetta in bed, attended by the doctor, as seen from the hallway, while Annina (the maid) is seated by the door, guarding her room; or, the very last frame, which is a close-up of Violetta’s face (see especially the lighting, there). Overall, the staging is both harmonious and careful (in terms of the positional arrangement and blocking of the characters), and it is neither overdone nor spartan (set decoration). Although all the singers (who are also actors, in this opera film) do an excellent job, what elevates the entire show is clearly Anna Moffo - whose presence is charismatic and whose vocal performance is exquisite. Of course, Verdi’s music is sheer pleasure – numerous well-known arias and themes (including some purely orchestral pieces), of which my favorite must be the aria Un dí felice, eterea. I particularly enjoyed the duet between Violleta and Alfredo’s father, as well, and the trio at the end - but there are, of course, so many of these musical pieces to list! Finally, I should also remark that the show does not feel dated (if anyone might worry about such a thing), notwithstanding its 1967 release date. Fazit: I enjoyed it very much.

***

Carmen

This 2009 Met production of Carmen featured in the main roles Elina Garanča (Carmen) and Roberto Alagna (Don Jose), both of them bringing vocal and actorly excellence to this performance. Alagna has made this a signature role for him (it seems), and I was thrilled to, in fact, discover his masculine voice (as I have not followed his career closely). Nonetheless, it was Elina Garanča who truly elevated the entire production, with a fiery, “raging”, and vocally well-nigh perfect performance. “Raging”, because this opera is driven, to a large degree, by the tempest that is the heroine of the title – the gypsy, Carmen. As Garanča put it (in the entracte interview with Renée Fleming), Carmen is like a ping-pong ball, bouncing around and scattered (temperament- and behavior-wise) all over the place - once here, once there. Indeed! - and it is thrilling to see this typical fickleness being portrayed on stage; and also those half-silly, half-dramatic lovers’ quarrels, that we all know and love to hate. Roberto Alagna is a worthy companion to Garanča sparkling presence, in the sense of pairing her performance with that of a volcanic, intensely torn Don José; that being said, I would still remark that, both vocally and acting-wise, Garanča’s performance was the transcendent one in this show.

Of course, at these levels of stratospheric vocal artistry, it is hard (and somewhat untoward) to say anything that would sound even slightly derogatory about any of these vocal performances (and I will try not to do that). Nonetheless, I can mention the fact that I prefer to see in the role of Micaëla more of an “ingénue”; and the reason for saying this is that in my mind I have, as a model for that role, Sabina Cvilak’s performance at the Washington National Opera (who, that night, managed to outshine – her, in many ways a beginner - much bigger names; playing what is, after all, a secondary - albeit noteworthy - role). And when I am referring to an “ingénue,” I am referring both to appearance (although this is a secondary criterion, naturally, when casting operas), and in terms of the voice type (as I prefer lighter, sprightlier soprano voice, in this role). All this being said, one can only talk about Barbara Frittoli’s vocal performance (as Micaëla), in this production, with terms of praise; my notes here are just an expression of preference, then.

Because, truly, I do prefer in lyrical roles – in feminine roles - voices that are nimbler, sprightlier, generally less heavy. Of course, there are many types of lyrical roles  - and corresponding voice types (see also the discussions below, of the other operas). But let us take Garanča as Carmen, as an example, for what I mean; even while restating that she was vocally well-nigh perfect, and that her excellent performance was truly the “heart” of the entire show, I would remark (in a parenthesis) that in the famous aria L'amour est un oiseau rebelle I would have preferred a more dansant approach (dancing, dance-like) – which is why I found this particular rendition of the piece just a tiny bit dragging (just a bit earth-bound). But these are minor footnotes around excellent overall performances. Speaking of which, let us remark again that Frittoli (Micaëla) delivered a great vocal performance (fitting her own specific - personal and vocal - profile).

Since it is neither useful nor needful to go through each vocal performance (given their universally elevated quality), I will refer however to specific aspects that stood out for me. For example, baritone Earle Patriarco as one of the gypsy leaders brought a much appreciated patch of color to the proceedings; although in a supporting role, his presence was very much tridimensional (and this is not easy to do - see the other secondary roles, in this same show - which just goes to show how many things, beyond vocal qualities, are necessary in order to become an outstanding opera performer). In other words, stage charisma (just like how an actor comes across through the movie camera) is not something one can just “make up”; often, it is a given je ne sais quoi that the person is fortunate to discover to possess.

Another thing that I would remark on is about the choice that the director (Gary Halvorson) made (and I suppose it was his choice), regarding what Garanča called the two main possibilities that one has, when approaching this opera – namely, whether to put the emphasis on “sexuality” (or, let's say, the "passion"), or on “liberty” (the frenzy and boundlessness of that Gypsy freedom). Of course, she was referring more narrowly to the Carmen role itself, but this is also true, in a good degree, for the opera as a whole (as Carmen is its central engine and heart); although, indeed, there is also a parallel drama (key to the story, as well), that takes place, regarding the salvation or damnation - civil and spiritual - of Don José. Anyway - Halvorson, the director (again, I assume it was his choice), chose to emphasize the erotic aspect of this all; not the passionate, but the visibly erotic – and that was a flaw. Because, in my view, one can indeed do that  - emphasize the loverly, passionate, even carnal) in many ways. What do I mean: if sensuality and passion (which are intrinsic part of Carmen’s persona as a seductress, and of the devastating impact of this persona on the proceedings) are what you want to emphasize, you can do it; but how you do that makes the artistic difference. For example, one can suggest drunkenness - or one can get the actors drunk, and let them roll in the mud. In my view, the artist’s skill resides precisely in the subtlety of the creative choices that he makes to suggest, imply, convey this passion and sensuality – rather than in “showing” it, through visible gestures and almost vulgar actions. In other words, "showing" is cheap, but "conveying" is artistry.

That being said, some other things that I liked were, for example, the set design; which was excellent, using (but not overusing) several sides of a rotating stage - and conveying whole atmospheres with just the right type and amount of décor (I especially liked the setting for the final scene – in an “alleyway” behind the bullfighting arena). I also enjoyed the kinetics of Carmen’s “escape” – when the rotation of the stage became an element in the very dynamism of the action, both allowing her to hide from the pursuers, and revealing her to us, the spectators. There was also a lovely touch at the end; as predicted in the cards, both Carmen and Don José are supposed to die; however, in the actual opera, Bizet only implies Don José’s fate, as something that will happen after the opera ends (while we see, of course, Carmen’s demise). The director made up for this slight “incompleteness” by adding to the scene a Spanish soldier, standing, as a shadow, with his gun aimed at Don José (while the latter is crumbled on the floor, holding the dead Carmen); a very nice foreshadowing of Don José’s eventual demise.

And, about Bizet’s music - what could we even add, here? Too many “hits” to mention! But do pay attention also to the purely orchestral pieces – the preludes, the entracte – as you will also hear “hits,” very familiar lines, there as well.

Overall, then, a whirlwind of passion; intense drama, internal and external; a headstrong, unruly, passionate Carmen; the tragic fate of a (good) man; love pure as represented by Micaela and by Don José’s mother; the lawlessness, romanticism, and dangerousness of the gypsy life, and of its “freedom”; a transcendent performance from Elina Garanča; a masculine, volcanic Don José, by Roberto Alagna – and much more, in this Met production of Bizet’s Carmen.

***

La Bohème (2008)

The highlights of this production are the cast – featuring, in the main roles, Angela Gheorghiu (as Mimi), and Ramón Vargas (as Rodolfo) – and, equally prominently, a legendary production  design from none other than Franco Zeffirelli (who passed away earlier this year). Let’s start with this latter feature - because it is, indeed, remarkable: lavish, yet restrained to what is needed; detailed, but purpose-oriented. Moments that stood out for me: when the curtain rises for Act Three, and one starts feeling cold, while instinctively perceiving also what poverty in wintertime might mean. Or Act Two, which offers us... a town square! a whole town square, or so it seems to us (through the use of large set elements, and also of the power of perspective). Meanwhile, Act One and Act Four transport us to the attic, bohemian apartment of the four artists (the poet, the painter, the musician, and the philosopher); quaint, messy, friendly, bachelor-like – yet with quite some charm. And in Act Four we see this apartment as if suspended over the background of the roofs of the city of Paris. I should also note here the color tonalities – variations of earthly tones - both for the buildings and for the clothes; and yet, never mono-tone, never depressing, but alive and lively. Or how about that detail that I suddenly caught myself noticing, with surprise, in Act Three – that, "look, it is snowing”! And what I mean by this is that it was snowing (artificially, of course), but that it was done so well, and it fit so much with the cold, wintry atmosphere, that it took me a while to become conscious of it - of the fact that it was artifice, that it was artificial snow. What Zeffirelli showed with this production design, then, is that one can be both modern and period-appropriate, detailed but not baroque, thorough yet not overbearing.

And now to the other central feature – the star cast. Unsurprisingly, of course, all were very much up to task - and more. Furthermore, this was one of those occasions in which each member of the cast – Mimi, Rodolfo, the other three artists, and Musetta - managed to stand out as an individual character unto themselves (although perhaps a bit less so in the case of Schaunard). Again, this is not an easy thing to do – to project a notable presence, to create a memorable, distinct role (in a secondary role).

About the singers: Ramón Vargas impressed me by the way in which he used inflections, pauses, and certain liberty with the diction, to invest his words with passion and with pathos, thus making these words “his” - and also making the character "alive". For example, his Che gelida mannina (which, by the way, might just be one of my all-time favorite opera arias) was just thrilling (video). Although Vargas might not fit our mental image of the conquering, yet penurious poet - in about ten seconds, he makes the character his own, embodying Rodolfo (from now on) for us, and making us forget any previous mental images we might have had.

About Angela Gheorghiu (as Mimi), the first thing that struck me was the youthfulness of her voice; in addition (as explained in the discussion about Carmen) I always prefer nimbler, sprightlier voices for lyrical soprano roles. Yet nimbleness does not mean lacking in volume, or amplitude – but a sort of agility, an ability to skip, without being dragged down by the low harmonics, to “dance”, as it were, without being burdened by too much gravity. And yes, Gheorghiu’s voice had both nimbleness and agility, as well as volume and amplitude. In fact, if there was an aspect that I liked less, it was exactly the fact that, due to the power of her voice (commanding is perhaps the best word to characterize the performance), sometimes she overshadowed Ramón Vargas’ part (in their duets). But no, this does not mean that Ramón Vargas was actually overwhelmed – only that there was a slight imbalance, at times, vocally.

And one could say that this imbalance also manifested itself, a bit, in their approach (Gheorghiu’s and Vargas’) to acting out their characters. See, for example, how Mimi appears to us in Act One  - and I am referring to the fact that I was not entirely thrilled with the overly active, even hyperactive, ever-changing facial expressions from Ms. Gheorghiu, which I found somewhat distracting, and also – as said – not in harmony with her partner's, Vargas’ acting choices. Without making too much fuss over all this  - which would be unnecessary – I wanted to make this remark in order to point to a broader issue, namely to how important it is for performers (actors, singers) to “respond” to each other, to be “in tune” with each other, to be attentive and to reflect each other’s performances. And this is true both in theater (or in the movies), and in “musical theater” (opera).

Another vocal performance – or, rather, voice – that I really enjoyed hearing (and discovering) was that of Ludovic Tézier, as Marcello. What a beauteous, clear, appealing baritone voice!

And let me also remark Musetta’s character, as sung and played by Ainhoa Arteta, who ("both")  brought a sense of burning passion, vivaciousness, and genuine dedication (notwithstanding the initial flightiness of the character) to the piece.

Finally, a few words about La Bohème itself, as it might be the first time that I truly understood that the piece is not about Rodolfo and Mimi, but in fact about “la bohème”, about that bohemian life of artistic Paris. That very attractive, clearly idealized life of the struggling artist; perpetually poor but always in good humor; with creative effervescence and the care-less-ness of youth; indeed, a very romantic and attractive image – and, as Angela Gheorghiu said in her intermezzo interview  - perhaps one of the reason why we are so attracted to this opera. Indeed, if one pays attention, one realizes that good portions of acts one and four are simply about these four bohemian artists, about their life, art, and friendship – and those scenes are delightful, genuinely fun, and, as said, quite attractive.

Standouts, then: Zeffirelli’s production; Gheorghiu’s ever-youthful voice; Ramon Vargas making Rodolfo’s role truly his own, with a great rendition of Che gelida mannina – and much more.

If there would be anything to add – and while it is of course a bit late to share one’s suggestions with Giacomo Puccini - I would note that, while the ending is dramatic, I would not have chosen to end the opera with Mimi’s death. Instead, I would have appended an additional scene (or act), taking place, for example, a year later, in the same artists’ apartment; with Marcello at the canvas, and Rodolfo singing an aria - melancholy, wistful, but also with hope - about Mimi; remembering her and that lost love; but also talking, then, about how life inevitably needs to go on, and how artistic creation needs to go on, as well – now made painfully “richer” by the indelible memory of Mimi, and of her loss. Because this opera is indeed called La Bohéme – and such an ending would be true to actual bohemian life, and to how tragedies, sufferings, gladness, rejoicing, are all part of, and become incorporated in, the artistic life - and are then expressed in one’s artistic production.

***

Il Trovatore (2015)

Perhaps we should start this discussion by talking about Dmitri Hvorostovsky (Count Di Luna, in this opera), whose sheer entrance on the stage was received with a wall of applause and cheers by the audience – partly because he had just announced, a few months before, that he had been diagnosed with brain cancer. (And indeed, he did pass away only two years later, in 2017.) Of course, his presence is not to be noted, or notable, only because of that; but it is clear that this fact also elevated the emotional import of the evening. But no, he is not to be noted – or notable – just because of that, as his performance in this show was, as expected, exquisite (as fitting for one of the great stars of the opera; and, to become a star, as a baritone, is not the easiest thing to do) - his voice clear, decisive, powerful, and most delighting.

Then, there was Anna Netrebko as Leonora – another superstar of the opera. Regarding her (overall great) performance, what I noticed - or seemed to notice - at the beginning, in Act One, was a certain “lack of effortlessness”. I am not sure if I am right in this observation, or if I was just noticing the visible effort put in producing the purest sounds (and this effort was visible in some of the other roles, as well, and I am thinking especially of Azucena / Dolora Zajick) – or if it just took her a bit longer to warm into this specific performance (because this slight "straining" seemed to fade away, as the night went by). Be it as it may, this did not take away from what was a thrills-filled, highly skilled, and overall beautiful vocal performance from Netrebko  - vocal performance that was also matched also by a passionate, yet also fairly grounded, acting performance from her, as well.

The role of il trovatore (the troubadour of the title) was sung by tenor Yonghoon Lee, who did a technically perfect job; really, nothing was missing, and nothing went missing acting-wise, either. However, in his case what I did miss was a bit of what the Germans call “Ausstrahlung” – whose closest translation is probably “charisma”, but that would be too strong of a word; rather, Ausstrahlung, as that inner "something" that radiates outward from a person, drawing others’ attention, while also conferring a richness, uniqueness, and stand-out quality, to a person (to a character).

The troubadour’s (foster) mother in the story, the gypsy Azucena, was played by mezzo-soprano Dolora Zajick - who at that time was 63 years old! And with what vigor, and persuasiveness, and poignancy, and uninterrupted stamina she managed to play that role! – truly a marvelous thing to behold, given the size, extensiveness, and intensity (in all regards) of the role!

About the opera in itself I would say that in acts one to three the best portions, musically, are the ensemble pieces – for example, those featuring the choir and several soloists (e.g. a trio). Such pieces occur several times in these acts, and Giuseppe Verdi seems to delight in showcasing his creativity and skillfulness through them (to our great pleasure). Overall, however, I would say that Act Four has the most memorable arias and lines (in solos, duets and trios). Moreover, from a dramatic perspective as well, Act Four takes the cake, as this is where all the narrative threads of the previous acts meet and, as it were, come to “fruition” - of course, with devastating consequences. Because, as we know, this is not a happy opera, not even a lightly-dramatic one; the tone, set from the beginning, is one of terror (the story of the Count’s baby brother), even horror, and it remains grim and unrelenting in its depiction of the evil impulses driving and wreaking havoc of the characters.

In comparison, La Bohéme, which we discussed above, is, yes, a drama (and even a tragedy) - yet is also permeated by a general air of, well, “fun”, and by a certain “lightness of being” (as appropriate to its bohemian nature); and all the characters there are likable! Not in Il Trovatore, though. Here, the main emotions driving the characters are revenge, hatred, competition (between furious rivals), and - yes – dark passion. All the characters are flawed - and aren’t we all? Yes, of course, but in these characters it is precise these deep flaws, their unholy passions, that become the driving forces of their misfortunate actions. Take Azucena, for example, who is tortured by her past, half-delusional, even crazed; who loves, but loves enviously, her foster son; and who – at the end of the day – only finds satisfaction in revenge (and not in that motherly love). And the Count, of course! – he even says (and I paraphrase): “the only God that I know and follow, is revenge”! Dark psyches, and violent and gloomy actions.

However, in my opinion all this should not mean that the set design needs to be equally glum and grim - and yet it is thus. Made simply of the two alternating sides (divided by a very tall wall) of a rotating stage, the simplicity of the set is not, however, the issue; rather, the problem is its drabness, and its color palette (which is, basically, gray). Yes, even the costumes – the exception being the military ones, like the ever-decorative soldier outfit of Count Di Luna. In my opinion, the very tragic, violent, and dark story would have been nicely and effectively counterbalanced (and, in a way, thus heightened) by a colorful setting; not in an overly-abundant way, but with the use of some decisive, clear colors. Moreover, these color choices could have also been used to better define the characters; I am thinking, for example, about using plain violet for Azucena; white and red for Leonora; green for Manrico (the troubadour) - and so on.

Speaking of the general direction of the piece, I would note that the director of this production was the same Gary Halvorson who also directed Carmen (discussed above). I make this aside because the same thing that I found distracting and unnecessary there, was also present here; which just leads me to think that it might as well be Mr. Halvorson’s mark; namely, the artless use of the erotic. As discussed earlier, artistry resides in the creative means, in the inventiveness with which an artist is able to express (rather than show) something (let alone that these erotic notes are nowhere in the script of the Il Trovatore, but were added, because...? again, this is not a sign of complexity, but of a simpleness of one's imagination). To make it clear – passion can be (and is) beautiful, when expressed artistically – and in that resides the art, in the skillfulness with which an author manages to express something that is not visibly (and even less vulgarly) shown.

But back to Act Four, which, I felt, was truly the culmination of this piece, because in it both the music and the story were at their most gripping, elevated, and engaging - for me. And the final line, uttered by the gypsy Azucena, was truly like a dagger struck into the contorted body of this narrative, of a story that has been “pushed around” so violently by all those engaged, by their raging impulses and emotions. Indeed, I found this ending, as designed by Verdi and by his librettist, Salvadore Cammarano, really effective – even cathartic!

***

Lucia di Lammermoor (2009)

Appropriately, the opera starts in a very Macbethian setting: brooding, overcast, shades of dark and grey – very Scottish. There is indeed a Macbethian feel to it, to this tragedy of unthinking passions; of unquenched (clan-like) thirst for revenge; of frailty, violence and (in the end) madness. And I liked Anna Netrebko more here, in this piece, than in Il Trovatore (discussed above), and I think that this dramatic-lyrical voice part, and the dramatic weight of the acting role, fit her better than the part there (or maybe she was just in a different form). In any case, Netrebko delivers a thoroughly believable and involving Lucia (the Lucia di Lammermoor of the title); from the girlish silliness, yet with some slips of the mind into the supernatural, of the first act - to the undone protagonist of the last act (blood splattered, having committed a murderous act – and yet, indeed, still endearing in her lostness, and with her tragic fate).

Originally, her partner in this performance was supposed to be another superstar, Rolando Villazon – who, however, got sick before this specific performance. And so it happened – and thus fate has it – that another tenor was thrust into the role, and ended up being featured in the live broadcast, and also on the DVDs, Blu-Rays, and CDs produced from it. And this tenor (seemingly at hand in another Met role, at the time) more than - very much more than! - lived up to this occasion, Piotr Beczala bringing a dashing, confident. vocally flawless performance; truly a smash hit, a "leading" performance.

I also enjoyed Ildar Abdrazakov as Raimondo (the pastor, played more like an Orthodox priest, which fit it well).

But I mentioned the set design – and I should mention also the costumes; both fairly “classical”, conventional (for the period chosen  - late nineteenth or early century, I would say), and for the geo-cultural location (gloomy Scotland, as said). Yes, they were all very appropriate and - especially the set design - very beautiful, even. I would note here the setting in Lord Ashton’s drawing room (office), with the “sun” sending its rays through the tall windows, which then played across the protagonists’ faces; and also the nice way in which this same set transitioned (“behind the cover” of a slightly redundant duet) into the ceremonial room (ballroom?) setting that followed. All in all, a beautiful, appropriate, and also appropriately wistful and gloomy (but not unpleasantly so) décor, throughout.

And I should also mention some tremendously, tremendously inventive and enjoyable character choreography, as well – reflecting what was going on, or, more precisely, the “supernatural” elements of the story. I am thinking here of the “mirror image” of the all-white ghost, in Act One, “communicating” in her silence with what Lucia says, and with Lucia herself (who is dressed in all black); and also the final apparition of Lucia di Lammermoor herself, now in all white, and also engaged in a mute, mirroring dialogue with the heart-broken, desperate, and “departing” Edgardo. Really nice scene choreographies – because they were expressive of what was actually going on, in the given scene; neither adding too much, nor derailing the scene into unnecessary directions; but fleshing it out, complementing, expressing, and beautifying it. (By the way, many of these scenes – just like several scenes from the other operas discussed– are available on YouTube.)

And then there is Donizetti’s music; relentlessly... well, fun, I would say (notwithstanding the subject matter), enjoyable, inventive – a delight (listen to this sextet, for example)!

So, at the end of the day (and of the performance) one is moved, refreshed, delighted, through this combination of deep drama and beautiful music; sensations somewhat different from the rather grim ones with which one was left after the staging of Il Trovatore discussed above (which was still enjoyable and engaging, as an opera - but still...) Yes - as said there - there are many ways of doing a tragedy, and the juxtaposition of dark storylines with colorful music or settings works better for me, than a relentlessly glum, and thus rather monotonous, staging (even if it remains musically remarkable).

***

Evgheni Onegin (2007)

In his introduction to the broadcast, the “host”, Mikhail Baryshnikov (yes!) explained that this Tchaikovsky opera is, essentially, about “love unrequited”. I beg to differ; or, to be more accurate, I beg to see its depth and richness as lying in other aspects – or, in a grander and deeper perspective, which it affords for us, not only about issues of love and marriage, but also about the Russian society (and its culture, and the human types populating it) at a time when modernity was beginning to make its mark upon it (early nineteenth century). 

After all, the title of the piece is “Evgheni Onegin” – and not, “Tatyana”. I think that this is important, and that it supports the perspective that I just suggested, and that I will explain below. And yet, and yet - the character of Evgheni Onegin is introduced fairly late into the first act! – after we have already met, first, Tatyana’s mother (the mistress of the house) and her nanny, and then Tatyana and her sister.

So the opera starts with an enjoyable and meaningful discussion between Madame Larina (the mother) and the nanny, and they each have their parts to say about the difference between a young person's romantic idea of love, and the grown-up realization of the duties and responsibilities of marriage - about about where fate and life takes human beings, in general (the realities of life). This dialogue nicely sets the context for the tension between romantic love and dutiful marriage that will be one of the themes of the opera, while also rooting the story much deeper – both temporally, by anchoring it in the past, in the lived experience of these women; and also existentially, by making reference to the general human experience and to its perennial (yet also very "personal") questions. And it is precisely this breadth of the opera (or, to “put blame where blame is due”, of Alexander Pushkin’s poem, on which the opera is based) that I found tremendously appealing; its sweep, both human, cultural, and social – while, at the same thing, involving us in the very specific, personal and passionate stories of its interesting characters.

Thus the opera starts by anchoring us in a deeper conversation (about "things"), and only then introduces Tanya and her sister, Olga. And it is only after we meet them, and after we get to know more about Tanya, and about her slightly Bovarian and (still) immature personality – only thereafter, then, that we get to be introduced to Lensky (their neighbor, the poet, who is also Olga’s fiancé), and to his friend whom we brings to the women's house – namely, the Evgheni Onegin of the title (and who turns out to be a prosaic, cynical, very “modern” fellow). Strange, isn’t it – that the titular character would be introduced so late; so, the question is, why? My answer to points precisely to the fact that the main conflict or drive of the opera (of the poem) is not this or that unrequited love, but, on a broader canvas, the tensions and conflicts between the various social and cultural forces present in early modern Russia. But no, this is not a dry, didactic, or even (horribile dictu!) political nonsense – no, this is a living story about people who are (for us) very much flesh and (boiling, passionate) blood.

And this broad socio-cultural and existential sweep, which happens at the same time with, and is expressed through, very personalized (and personal) dramatic stories, has quite the Dostoyevskian feel to it – at least to me (although, of course, the poem’s author was Alexander Pushkin). Similarly, the initial setting, at that country estate  - where nothing happens (thing emphasized by one of the ensemble songs, sung by all the invitees - by all the landed gentry of the area)  - this “boredom”, this apparent lack of the interesting – well, all this felt quite Chekhovian, very “Cherry Orchard”-like, for me (although, of course, the writer is... Pushkin). This is not a matter of falling into that puerile trap, of identifying everything “Russian” (which, in itself, is a vague attribute) with the major Russian authors that one might know (all Russians being Dostoyevskian etc.); that would be nonsense, of course. But there is a certain broader sweep  - with references to history, culture, to key human questions – that seems to be common for all these authors; and there is also the fact that all these authors belonged to (generally) the same era (although Pushkin was from the generation that preceded the other two - early nineteenth, as opposed to late nineteenth century).

And all these conflicts of early modernity - between various impulses, ways of thought, and manners of life - seem to crest and to clash in the character of Evgheni Onegin – hence, in my reading, why it is he who gives the title of the piece (and not Tatyana, for example). Thus we have this modern, slightly cynic fellow, who is easily bored with said rural, stale life, and who desired the action-packed, modern life of the city (or, I assume, of the imperial court) - namely, Evgheni Onegin. And here he is, entering that calm, probably somewhat boring, somewhat dusty, rural estate (and rural life) in which Tanya lives. Tatyana who, as said, is a slightly Bovarian, juvenile figure, at this point, living nourished on romantic books - and who will thus be all too easily inflamed by a sudden, passionate, even rash devotion to this Onegin. This is what happens, then –Tanya sees Onegin, and is engulfed by the flames of passion, of a very romantic love; and Onegin, in response, quite honorably, but also quite coldly, refuses her passionate advances - explaining that the two of them could have no future together; not in the routine, in the boredom of a marriage lived on such a country estate. (And, informed by what we know from Chekhov, it is hard not to agree with Onegin, to a good degree...)

But the poem / opera takes the side of passion; and, perhaps, of Romanticism; as opposed and as against the cold, calculating, utterly pragmatic, even utilitarian, individualistic, and perpetually unsettled (liberal) modernity of Onegin. And thus the second major conflict of the piece is between Onegin and his (until then) very close friend, Lensky (the poet). And we already know from Lensky that they have always always been different, as – “I am a poet, and you are prose”. And yet, the real and tragic clash will take place only after Onegin (all too facilely) plays with, and gambles away, his best friend’s trust and (ardent) passion.

And, after this tragic clash between Onegin and Lensky, that has disastrous consequences - we have a brief respiro, a transitional moment, on the sounds of Tchaikovsky’s lovely Polonaise. And after that we come back to find Evgheni, years later; now devoid of pleasure and feeling, internally (still) devastated by what he had done (thoughtlessly, all too easily) against his friend; and now finding all the hustle and bustle of life in fashionable society empty and utterly unsatisfying. And then we see Tatyana, who enters, now a fully grown woman, as Countess Gremin; and it is Onegin’s turn, at this moment, to be engulfed by passion and to (rashly) write her an ardent letter (mirroring her youthful behavior and the episode between the two from years before) – only to find himself rejected, in the end, by Tanya (duty and honor, and marriage, conquering guilty passion - she says). A very, very satisfactory ending.

And, throughout these events, we meet and become involved with different characters, most of whom have their own important profile, story, and things to say (and this is another feature that I really enjoyed). For example, singer Larisa Shevchenko fully embodies the role of the Nanny (Nyanya, Filippyevna) - giving us a lovable, thoroughly believable, and vocally impeccable interpretation of that character. I would even say that this story (opera) would not be the same, without her. The mother (the mistress of the estate), Madame Larin (interpreted by Svetlana Volkova) is also a tridimensional character – remember how she told us about her youth, about her past romantic nature, and about her later marriage - about how she changed? And even Count Gremin (embodied so well – what a great choice of physical casting! – and sung quite stirringly by Sergei Alexashkin) - he is introduced in Act Three, so in the last part of the piece; and yet, he has a crucial aria, with important things to say, things through which we get to know him, and through which the central conflict of the piece is also further fleshed out. All these are examples of secondary, even tertiary characters – or they would be that, and thus would be somewhat “flat”, in a different opera; and yet here they are full, living beings, and important elements on the aforesaid canvas – that broad canvas within which the passion and fullness and organic nature of the traditional Russian lifestyle (as seen through the high Romantic prism of Pushkin) clashes (or so it seems) with the coldness, individualism, unsettledness, and urbane superficiality of modernity (or what we would call classical liberalism).

And this is why and how the opera is called “Evgheni Onegin” – and not, say, “The Travails of Love”; because it is he who is the tragic character, and not love itself – and not Tatyana (who, at the end of the day and of the story, is actually happy in her settledness). 

I already mentioned some names from the cast – and let me point again here their excellent vocal performances, across the board. However, I omitted to talk, until now, about the principal cast: opera superstars Renée Fleming (with her buttery, classic, quite swoon-inducing soprano voice - as Tanya) and Dimitri Hvorostovsky (as the titular character; an impeccable voice, and also some excellent acting), Add to this the same tenor, Ramón Vargas, who was so dashing in La Bohéme, as Rodolfo (see above) - and who is impetuous, slightly naive, but also endearing as the very romantic and very passionate young poet Lenski. And add also, conducting the orchestra, the legendary Valery Gergiev! A stellar cast, in other words.

And, if all the aspects mentioned above were thoroughly, thoroughly enjoyable and involving, let me also mention the aspect that I liked the least about this particular staging of Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece – an aspect that has nothing to do with either Tchaikovsky, or Pushkin's poem, or said individual singers. I am referring to the production design (the set). I was quite unimpressed, indeed, by the intentional barrenness of this set; and I am thankful, in this case, that I got to enjoy this opera as seen through the lens of the camera, and not there, in the opera house (!); because, through a wise use of camera angles and perspectives, the cinematographer was able to “fill” each take with characters and with action; fill it, this way, because otherwise the gigantic, empty stage would have felt just that, "empty" - and the people on it, small and a bit overwhelmed by all that empty space. No, I do not think that these were wise choices – the way they chose to leave most of the space empty, and to use just some pieces of decoration, in order to suggest different locations etc.

But that being said, at the end of the day I can only be happy and thankful  - to Piotr Ilich Tchaikovsky (and to Alexander Pushkin) for this new musical favorite – and to the stellar cast for their excellent performances  - and thus for quite an unforgettable, thrilling opera experience.

***


This, then, is the story - or were the stories - of my week-long trip through worlds, times, and music, facilitated by the exquisite productions of the Metropolitan Opera (and by their free broadcasting to the wide public).  

The Correspondence Between Paul Claudel and André Gide

(1899-1926)

I went to this book driven by my attraction toward, and interest in, the French intellectual life of the end of the 19^th, and first half of the 20^th century. Yes, this is an intellectual milieu (era and location) that I find very appealing  - thus what I was looking for in this book was to encounter a slice (a living, pulsating slice) of this life, and thus to engage in a vicarious partaking in “the life of the artist”. And I did find this, or a good measure of it; however, what this Claudel-Gide correspondence is (ultimately) about is something else – namely, a spiritual struggle, whose protagonists are the Catholic convert (and artist) Paul Claudel, and the struggling and prideful (intellectual) André Gide; and this is a struggle about Gide’s soul.

I used the word “prideful”, about Gide, and yet by that I do not mean “pridefulness” in his relationship with Claudel; if anything, Gide seemed to generally humble himself, in his relationship with Claudel - humility rooted in his genuine admiration for Claudel the artist, but also in the fact that Claudel played a role of spiritual reference point for Gide (in his searching, in his struggles). “Prideful,” however, does refer to a core part of Gide’s personality – of his spiritual, moral and intellectual being - and this side of Gide will eventually play its part in the undoing of their friendship - of their relationship.

Because their relationship was one of friendship – which might seem surprising, at first, based on the retrospective image that we have of the two; as said, one being the epitomic Catholic convert (prominent socially, artistically, even politically, in early twentieth century France), the other (retrospectively) a flag-bearer of unbelief, and (even) of an inimical relationship to the faith - or at least to the Church.

Inimical, yes, but not to every kind of faith - as Gide will later (famously) become a fellow traveler of the totalitarian Soviet regime...; yes, that ersatz religion of ideology, to which so many subscribed, in the West, under the pale cover of good, progressive, even humanistic intentions.

So I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this volume of correspondence, but what I did find, and what I did learn, from reading it, did in fact clarify some aspects of what I went looking for (and I will explain what I mean by this in a moment). Yes, there is a lot, in this correspondence, about the daily work in the artist’s workshop; minutia about typesetting, editing, about struggling with publishing houses; about launching (and about failing) publications; about contributing to this or to that magazine; and so on. Yes, I did enjoy this part, just as I enjoyed the behind the scenes information about Claudel’s efforts to balance his diplomatic career (endeavored mostly in far-off China, but also in Poland) with his artistic work (which was more important, of course; but one does need to earn, as well, to support one’s family). There were also interesting bits about their relationship to Pascal, and (partially) Jansenism; it seems to me that Pascal has faded, to a large degree, from our interests, which is why it is striking to discover how important he (and Port-Royal, the center of Jansenism) was for these two protagonists. Some of this minutia also has the inevitable drabness of the daily grind of the working artist (yet not in an unpleasant, but rather in an instructive way, I find); and sometimes the discussion of other artists veers close, perhaps, to gossip, or at least to “politicking” (which does not interest me, but which is informative as a sort of anthropology of the artistic milieu).

And their discussions about other cultural figures of the day, with whom they had personal and intellectual entanglements, were also most welcome, because for me one of the great gains of reading, say, intellectual autobiographies, monographies about a specific era, or collections of correspondence such as this one, is the opportunity to discover new figures, artists and thinkers, with whom I am less, or not at all, familiar. Since often these (new) figures are (intellectually or personally) close and akin to the author whose memoirs I have chosen to read, there is a good chance that they might appeal to me, as well; in any case, this is a good way for them to enter my own intellectual purview (to be looked at, and to be engaged, later); to obtain further “road markers” for one’s own intellectual journey. And the same thing happened here – names I jotted down, people and works that I need to look into.

*

Paul Claudel

But I mentioned that, although I did not find exactly what I started after, I did however find aspects that helped me in that regard, as well. What do I mean by this? Well, the very fact that the “on art and artists” dimension of this correspondence is soon enough taken over, even overwhelmed, by a different theme, namely of the spiritual struggle, reveals certain useful things about the relationship of art to spirituality, for Claudel. What do I mean by this?

Well, not long after reading this volume, I picked up and read Second Thoughts, which is a book of essays (on art and life) by François Mauriac. And what a soothing and liberating encounter that was – in comparison! – for me... And what I mean by this is that I found Mauriac’s approach to the relationship between life and art – and, inevitably, and centrally, faith – much more akin, or suitable, to me, than Claudel’s. Paul Claudel, of whom I am, and have always been, quite fond; but whom I have always found just a bit “heavy,” a tad cumbersome, maybe... in ways that are not easy to explain. And I am not necessarily referring here to his art – although it is reflected in that, as well; but more, I don’t know, in terms of his personality (maybe spirituality). I am talking here about a certain “angularity,” rigidity even; about an embodiment - of an otherwise honest, genuine, deeply devout soul - that I find a tad bit heavier, more burdensome, than I would prefer. To put it differently, it seems to me that Claudel’s artistic “flight” is much more burdened by... well, by other considerations; while, in comparison, Mauriac appears to see and approach everything through art, which in turn endows it (his art) with a kind of inner freedom (which I much prefer). There is, then, a certain "weightiness" to Claudel - which (for lack of a better way of expressing it) is related to how his (genuine, clear) soul manifests itself outwardly - toward others, and in art.  

Let me try to explain this a bit further. Well, it seems to me (but I might be wrong) that Mauriac lives faith through and by being an artist, through art, with an artist’s soul; on the other hand, in Claudel’s case, while his exquisite artistry is very much rooted in and expressive of his faith, the two seem to follow different paths, and to ultimately part ways, overall. To put it differently – art can be seen as the very way of living faith (Mauriac) - or, instead, as a craft, that is put in the service of, that expresses, yet also remains somewhat externally related to, faith (Claudel). Or so it seems to me. But let us not push these distinctions too far, because I also do not think that one can draw too thick of a line of separation, as the artist’s engagement with his artistry fluctuates and takes different shapes, at different times. But there is a difference between the two, I dare say, in this regard; and I do find Mauriac’s way more akin, and more attractive, to me.

But let me also add here, before anyone gets the wrong idea, that I was always, and remain, quite fond of Claudel; and that he is one of the greatest playwrights of the last century, and also one of its major poets. So what I am discussing here is not about the quality of his artistry, but about a specific existential approach, a specific take on the condition of the artist, and on the relationship between art and faith.

*

However, this essay is not intended to be a comparison between Claudel and Mauriac – nor would it be able to endeavor such a thing, based solely on these two books. So, going back to our Claudel-Gide subject, let us pick up the thread of the conversation by continuing our discussion of (what I called) Claudel’s “angularity,” that "heaviness". Well, what do we learn from this book - did Gide also notice this (or does it only exist in my own reading, in my fantasy)? He did, and in this sense I recall a fragment from a Gide journal (which is included in the book) in which he describes (and this is toward the end of their friendship) the aesthetic and psychological impact that Claudel’s physical presence made on him, in one occasion - referring to (and I paraphrase) Claudel’s stoutness, rockiness, to his straight-lined solidity (as he was sitting there, in his armchair). And these remarks are not, in fact, about Claudel’s physicality, are they? No, they seem to be expressions of the way in which the overly-sensitive Gide perceived, then, Claudel’s being.

And my concern is, of course, not with physical angularity, heaviness - but with interior angularity or rigidity. An example of this "rigidity" in action might be the somewhat abrupt way in which Claudel (eventually) handled Gide’s spiritual (and especially moral) struggles. Yes, Claudel was right, in his positions – but his imperative tone, his norms-based suggestions, instructions even, struck me as counterproductive – especially given Gide’s over-sensitive nature. But Claudel did have, I think, a harsh(er), perhaps more volcanic (although I think also a bit melancholic) temperament; and temperament is not something that we can choose, no more than we can skip over our own shadow. (In addition, we always live in a state of “inherent ignorance”, represented by the limits of our understanding or wisdom at the given moment; limits which, by their very nature, are invisible to us, at that moment; and which we sometimes discover later, retrospectively, realizing “how stupid I was!”, or, “how blind we were!”) Thus I am not emitting a judgment on Claudel – of whom I've always been quite fond. To the contrary, it is because I admire Claudel, that I am interested in understanding him better (as an artist, as a man of faith, and as a human being).

So, that Gidean spiritual struggle – what was it about? Why was there a “struggle”? And why was that a theme, a central theme, of their correspondence? Well - God, the faith, and religion being at the center of Claudel’s life (and how could they not be, as what else is there, in ultimate terms?), they naturally became central topics of conversation with Gide, as well. And not because Claudel "pushed" them. No, Gide himself (like many other figures of that time and of that place) was deeply preoccupied with the ideas of faith, God, the Church; he was, as it were, searching, or seeking, struggling - with all this. Furthermore, as mentioned before, Claudel represented for Gide both an admired (genius) artist, and also a spiritual partner of conversation, point of reference, even tentative guide (recall here again Claudel’s very prominent position, in France, at that time, as the emblematic Catholic artist).

So what was Gide's struggle about? Well, I would classify these inner conflicts into two categories: on the one hand, there seemed to be the specifically modern conflict between a “Cartesian” approach to reality (in which something is, only inasmuch as I can demonstrate its being; I think, therefore I am - instead of I am, which then allows me to think) - and (the nature and condition of) faith. And, if this was Gide's spiritual-intellectual struggle, there was also another one, of a moral nature, which was related to Gide’s sensuality (which included his homosexuality, and, some say, his ephebo-, even pedo-philia) – all in all, what I would more broadly call his sensuality, or the role and burden of the sensuous within one's self. So, on the one hand, the intellectual-spiritual conflict involving modern rationality and faith; and, on the other, the moral struggle with one’s overbearing sensual drives.

Sadly, both of these will bring their contributions to the radical break which will intervene after decades of intellectual and personal friendship between the two; as on both accounts Gide will take (as said) a proud and stubborn path of radical defiance - and even, at times, of enmity - toward faith (or at least the Church) and (from Claudel’s and from our perspective) toward the truth. And I do not know (nor do I recall if this is ever made clear) which came first: Gide’s turn (away), or Claudel break with him. Overall, I think that these happened more or less at the same time, in parallel - one action responding to and reinforcing the other. One key moment that I do seem to recall is Gide asking to use a Claudel quote as a motto or epigraph for one of his books, which Claudel agreed to, only to be horrified to discover the use (or, rather, misuse) to which that quote was put - the book reflecting the very opposite of what that quote (and Claudel) intended, and stood for. But, all in all, it seems that Gide was already going (down) on a certain route, notwithstanding his conversations with Claudel.

And I mentioned heaviness, and rigidity – and here’s again why; because I do think that, notwithstanding Gide’s doings, even the more egregious ones, Claudel could have remained at least at an arm’s length, or somewhere, removed, but still within Gide’s line of sight - as a possible (because, who knows what can happen?) life line, a secours in a time of desperate need. But take this with a grain of salt - as I am equally quick to note here that some of the things that Gide did (read: wrote) became so egregious (for Claudel), that they became simply unacceptable, and unassumable (for Claudel). And I understand that – just as I understand that expecting from Claudel to be someone else, of a different temperament, personality, personal history - would be nonsensical, an impossibility.

And perhaps their paths were destined to break off from each other, to split... After all, weren’t they just too different? Weren’t they not set on completely different paths? And Gide, after all, made his own decisions - notwithstanding everything, notwithstanding their conversations.

*

But let’s get back to the aforementioned two aspects of the struggle. Regarding the first aspect, Gide seems to have been stuck, indeed, in that Cartesian position that leads to an inability to even understand what faith might be, i.e. to understand faith as a “different” kind of knowing. And, indeed, it is very, very difficult, to even come to grasp the distinctiveness of faith, if one’s criterion of truth, i.e. of accepting what there is, is one’s own powers and ability to demonstrate it. (And isn’t this a very familiar position? – so familiar, that it seems to be the only possible position, the only possible approach to the idea of knowledge, today?)

The Cartesian position – by which I mean, rooted not necessarily in what Descartes thought (who was a believer), but in the ulterior implications of his “cogito ergo sum”.

But, but... am I really the measure of what there is – or, as classical philosophy has affirmed, am I only a guest in a cosmos that is not of my doing and making, an invitee, whose purpose and mission is to acquire, recognize, and pursue the truth that is out there? Am I the truth, and thus its measure - or is reality, what there is, out there, the (measure of) truth? And yes, today many, millions of people encounter these same questions, and find themselves stuck in this struggle, simply by virtue of the fact that in our intellectual and cultural context (which was shaped, to a good degree, by the Enlightenment – by its deep errors as much as by its relative gains) we just do not know of any other means of pursuing the truth... And yet, if this limited I is the criterion of truth – instead of being the pursuer thereof... If we measure a grander reality with a limited instrument, will not the result be a limited (image of) reality? The measure used does determine the results obtained.

But what is the solution? I mentioned the word "pride" – and the word has its due place here. The limiting and centering of our pursuit of the truth in the I carries with it an inherent pridefulness (even if the pursuer does not intend it that way) and stubbornness. What is then the alternative? The alternative is a position of inherent humility - of the pursuit of truth that starts from wonder, from an acknowledgment of one’s inherent ignorance; from knowing that one is not the truth, nor its measure; that Truth is out there, and one is only its pursuer; and thus from the desire to shape oneself according to this Truth - and not vice versa. And this humility also understands – it is forced to – that natural reason has its inherent limits; that just because our intellective powers are finite, it does not mean that the truth is equally finite; thus opening us to other ways of knowing – namely faith, which is not in contradiction, but in continuation of, and in complementarity with, natural reason; rational faith, and faithful reason. (But to have access to this kind of knowledge one needs the humility to at least be open to the fact that, after a certain point, our understanding fails; and to be open to the gift of understanding that one receives, beyond and above the limits of one's own intellective powers; to grace, therefore.)¹

*

The other dimension or kind of struggle, as said, related to Gide’s sexuality; or, more broadly understood, to the tremendous pull and weight and burden of the sensuous within the person. And, in Gide’s case (as evidenced by his life, up to its end), this was not something that he was able or willing to part with, or to fight against – to not allow for it to become the determinant force in his life. (A heavy burden, indeed - and is this struggle any easier today, in this age of mass addiction to, and boundless consumption of, pornography? Another issue, then, from this correspondence – and from his struggles – that is very much of current relevance.)  And in this aspect Gide was equally indecisive, and coy - perpetually oscillating, perpetually pulled in various directions – yet gradually and consistently pursuing, in fact, a chosen path - the path away from Claudel and from what Claudel stood for. (Oh, yes, not all major decisions are taken in one clear moment, through one definite act; many, perhaps most choices, are gradual, incremental - often being a sliding down that is not noticeable in the moment, but whose accumulated effects will become clear in time...)

*

This, then, is the story that emerges from this volume: of two writers of whom we usually think as representing radically different positions on the spiritual-literary spectrum, but who, for many years, were in close intellectual and personal contact, even friendship. And, yes, I did not find exactly what I went looking for, in this book – not entirely. I did learn, however, things about Claudel (some of which I had perceived before, to a degree); things that, together with what I learned later from Mauriac, further clarified certain important aspects about art, faith, and the condition of the artist.

Finally, this volume of correspondence also illuminated some of the dramas which remain also core dramas of our age, of our own existence: one, the difficulty that we face in even beginning to approach faith, let alone comprehend it as a distinct way of knowledge, because of our embeddedness in a Cartesian understanding of the very nature of knowing; and, two, the heavy burden of the sensuous, which is very much a contemporary challenge, as well, and which is related to said Cartesian limitations on our understanding (after all, isn’t “follow your desires” one of the dominant ways of defining living truthfully and meaningfully, today? following your desires, appetites, isn't this proposed today as a "recipe for happiness"? while Plato characterized the same appetites as the unruly, wild horses which, uncontrolled, will devastate the soul?)²

A very instructive reading, then – both for reasons of personal ruminations on art, faith, and the artist – and for additional illuminations on some of our peculiarly modern dilemmas.

***

FOOTNOTES

1. And, to continue this discussion – there is also an opposite type of error, which comes however from the same separation of reason and faith; in this, one "take the side" of a faith that is understood in opposition to reason - a-rational, even ir-rational. And this position has of course its roots (to a good degree) in Luther - and in his distrust, even dismissal, of reason. This approach to faith as the irrational goes counter, however, to the millennium and a half old Tradition that preceded Luther (Tradition that continued after him, as well); a Tradition in which reason and faith are seen as two different (and complementary) forms of human understanding, i.e. of the human pursuit of the same Truth. 

And, lo and behold, Gide was indeed raised as a Huguenot, as a Calvinist (i.e. at this other end of the spectrum) - which might have contributed to his struggle with integrating faith and reason, in the sense of swinging from one end (dismissal of reason, following irrational faith) to the other (dismissal of faith, as irrational, and only trusting what empirical reason can certify). Indeed, the position of equilibrium, the balanced integration of faith and reason, as the "two wings on which the human spirit rises to the contemplation of truth", while harmonious, may be the hardest to hold, especially if one does not have a tradition or an authority to reinforce this position.).

2. See Plato’s discussion of the soul which, like a chariot, is aimless and gets ravaged, when pulled hither and thither, back and forth, right and left, by the uncontrolled, unruly, wild horses of the desires, of our appetites. To the contrary, in the ordered, harmonious soul of the wise person, the higher understanding (nous) takes charge and orders these unruly forces of the appetites (knowing their power and dangerousness), directing them according to what it (the higher understanding) knows to be the Truth.

So why or how is this relevant to us? Do we not live in an age in which “science” (which is supposed to be the pinnacle and also the sole path of knowledge) is meant to be the measure and ruler of everything? To be the most powerful force, governing (in a sense) society? But, then, how come that we are still, society-wide, ravaged by these unruly desires and appetites; how come that, simultaneously with the apparent worship of science, we are also told that the goal of life is to “follow your desires”, that “fulfilling one’s appetites” is so essential that it becomes a "basic right" of the human being? And, implicitly, that chasing one’s appetites is the path to happiness, to truth? So, how can we reconcile these two, apparently opposite things – praising a form of rationality (science), but ultimately being driven by one’s appetites?

Our classical friends can come to our aid here, as well. Yes, we do seem to (at least apparently, or formally) worship (or at least pretend to respect) reason; yes, but this is not the type of reason (or understanding) that, in Plato, leads to the knowledge of the Truth; instead, it is a lower kind of rationality, that Aristotle refers to as techne: instrumental, technical knowledge, which helps us to explain and to manipulate how things work – but which is not able to tell us anything about the why, about meaning and purpose. 

Techne, in other words, does not and can not talk about the Truth; and yet, only the kind of knowledge that can talk about it, that can attain to the Truth (or the Good) can give the human being – the self – a direction. Still, even bringing up the need for this kind of knowledge, the need for asking these questions, about Truth, about the Good, is no longer socially acceptable, kosher, "in polite society", today. So we renounce asking these questions (the most important questions) - and pursuing the (only) answers (that can give direction to our lives). And, then, what remains? 

Well, our selves (just like a chariot) never remain driverless. Just because we fail to, or give up on, putting a driver on the chariot  (a driver that can take us home), it does not mean that the chariot will not be driven (pulled). But, driverless, it will be be pulled - hither and thither - by the unleashed, unruly, wild and self-seeking horses  - namely, our powerful appetites, the desires - pulling the entire chariot (our self) to its destruction.

“Ways of Escape”: A Dialogue on a Train

A: Nice pictures!

B: Thank you! Yes, we just got back from tropical island Z; it was great!

A: Great?

B: Well, yes, we had a good time. I mean, the kids were a bit rowdy, and I was... you know, to be honest, I was in a sort of a foul mood for most of the week; but it was a beautiful place, nevertheless, and overall we enjoyed ourselves - a lot!

A: How come that you went there?

B: What do you mean?

A: What led you to choose tropical island Z – to go there? How have you heard of it, if I may ask?

B: We’ve seen pictures of it, and heard some stories from people who’ve been there... you know?

A: Yes, but, if I may ask - why did you go there (as you could have gone somewhere else)? Or, better yet, why go anywhere?

B: I’m not sure I understand your questions...

A: I’m sorry; it’s just something that preoccupies me... Why go anywhere? Or, why not go somewhere closer to home – some park...?

B: Well, you know, the image of a tropical island... the white sands, the endless blue ocean, a few white clouds scattered over the otherwise clear blue sky, the palm trees - all that... It’s – you know - the ideal image, isn’t it?

A: Yes, “ideal” is a good word for it.

B: What do you mean?

A: That “ideal” is a word that we use to indicate an image that we project of, of...

B: ... of the perfect spot?

A: ... of perfection, rather. You see, that’s what interests me about all this – the reason why I ask; namely, why do we create for ourselves such images, why do we chase such images?

B: I'm not sure that I get what you mean.

A: Well, you said that you saw pictures of this place (I suppose, on social media), and I would say that they probably resonated with something... something in you (sorry to presume, but I assume...)

B: Well, yes, yes! I always wanted to go to one of those places...

A: Who wouldn’t?

B: ... white sands, blue ocean, palm trees – I mean, this is the kind of place that you see in the movies: where people retire, at the end of the heist movie, after having escaped the cops – and then they buy a bar there, and spend their lives on the beach – or?

A: Indeed, indeed – right you are. But... now that you’ve been there, is now – I mean, is that need, that desire for these kinds of a places - is it now... fulfilled?

B: Need? Desire? What do you mean, exactly?

A: Well, like you mentioned – the need or desire that made you “always want to go to one of those places”... (and me as well, by the way; I am no different).

B: Well, it’s a nice place...

A: Yes, but you mentioned “ideal,” and movies... That’s what I am referring to – the apparent need (shared by you, me, and those moviemakers) that drives us all toward such “ideal” places.

B: ...

A: And yes, yes, I know that they’re nice. But, here it is – we go to the pristine beach, to a spectacular waterfall, to the virgin forest, or to the icy-blue mountaintop – and, does that "need" ever cease? Is it ever... fulfilled? Do we ever just go there, and then just... sit and rest, as it were ... accomplished, fulfilled... complete?

B: Ha, ha - well, I can’t say that you are not right, in a way, you know? Truth be said, while I am still living off the sensory memories of the warm days and starry nights spent on the beach (not staying up too late, though, because we had to put the kids to sleep), I know that in a couple of months me and my wife will start thinking about our next destination...

A: Yes, yes, that’s what I mean...

[A seems to be looking for the right words... Brief silence.]

A: Well, you know, the reason why I’m asking... You mentioned that you saw those pictures, of tropical island Z, online somewhere.

B: Yes.

A: My question is, why do we post these kinds of images... – besides the fact that they’re nice (which they are!). What I am referring to is – did you notice that every day we are, I don’t know, bombarded by not just nice images, but news stories, pretty videos, inspirational messages about ... some place, some people, some things, some ways of doing things...

B: ...

A: You know, those news stories about... about how in Finland, for example, they have eliminated homework in their schools, and how that has created the “best educational system ever”; or how in Italy there is this valley where people live to a hundred years, and we wonder about their diet and their lifestyle, and what we could take over from their habits; or how in Japan the transportation minister resigned last year (or was it the year before?) because the trains had a cumulated delay (across the entire year!) of one minute and thirty seconds...

B: ... yes, and?

A: ... or how, according to studies done by some British researchers, this or that country in Scandinavia is considered to be “the happiest” in the world...

B: ... yes, and?

A: Or, or – and I promise that I’ll end with this – how about those videos made by that young Chinese woman, showing us the simple rural life, and how to cook using only simple tools and natural ingredients...

B: And?

A: Well, aren’t these just as much “ideal places” (or ways of being, or of doing things), not unlike your tropical island Z? “Ideal images” that we keep sharing, and reading about – always trying to find – the next one?! (And, my question is - why?)

B: What do you mean?

A: Well, my question is - why this endless stream of stories, images, messages, coming at us every day, all proposing some other place, other life, other country, other way of, I don’t know, being?

B: Because these are models of how to live better, or where to live better, and so on! ...aren’t they?

A: Yes, but once we learned about them - and once we start doing that diet, or after we move to country X in Scandinavia... well, does our search actually end, then? Are we satisfied, fulfilled, finito - done?

B: Well, no; clearly not. In fact, the place where we live right now, in this country – me and my family just moved here a couple of years ago from...

A: But that’s it!... Sorry to interrupt you – but that’s exactly it! That’s what... that’s what’s been keeping me up at night, lately – or, to be honest, for the past couple of years, in fact.

B: Really? What, more precisely?

A: Well, trying to think about, and to actually get to terms with, the fact that we are engaged in this, I don’t know, seemingly endless pursuit, never satisfied by anything that we find. Trying to understand why it is so. What we are chasing. Or, better yet, why we are engaged in this chase – what is driving or chasing us...

B: You mean, why are we always, even if we go to any of these places, still... I mean, why do we remain “hungry” for more?

A: “Hungry”! – “hungry” is a good word! Well, yes, what is this  - as you said - deep “hunger,” or need, or whatever it is, that fuels this endless chase – for some thing or things that seem to always remain just a bit too far, just beyond our reach, just there, around the line of the horizon... So, I’ve been asking this... it's been preoccupying me...

[Pause. They sit in silence, glancing through the window of the compartment at the fields that are rushing past their train.]

A: [breaking the silence] Are you familiar with Graham Greene? The writer?

B: No...  well, I’ve heard the name, but I do not know much about him...

A: A great writer... Anyway, one of the volumes of his memoirs is titled, “Ways of Escape.”

B: “Ways of Escape?” Why, why did he call it that?

A: It’s called that because it chronicles the many ways in which Greene had been running - trying to run away...

B: Running away from what?

A: Away – from his native England, from his wife, from the Western world (the book was written around the middle of the twentieth century – or that’s when those things took place), from... well, at the end of the day, from himself, actually; he was trying to run away from himself, in fact.

B: And (just out of curiosity) where did he try to run away?

A: Well, to the Far East, to various instantiations of the “Third World” (as it was then called) ... but, you know, not just to places, but to things, ideas, persons; for example, to a beautiful Vietnamese mistress, to causes and revolutions, to opium dens... Opium -  what more of a “way of escape” can one even think of!

B: Not very much of a way of escape, I would say; more of a way of self-enslavement.

A: Well, yes, long-term; but, for the moment, I guess it works - as an escape.

B: So... what about it? Why did you bring this up – Graham Greene?

A: Because, while at the end of the day all these “ways of escape” turned out to be futile, fruitless (so, it is kind of sad, his story, overall) – what I do admire about him is the courage to... you know, to look at himself and at his life and at his deeds, to look them “in the eyes,” and to acknowledge - and also to share with us – that these were actually attempts to “escape.”

B: But why was he trying to escape – all those things?

A: That, I think, is the right question - it’s good that you put it that way; not “where,” not even “what from” – but “why.” Well, I contend that his frantic attempts at escaping are no different than our own attempts at chasing the ideal place, or thing, or person, or manner of doing things – the things that we’ve been talking about. And also that, just like in Greene's case, no matter where we go, and what we try to do... [smiles]

B: What? What are you smiling about?

A: Well, I was just thinking: do we really care about... the transportation system in Japan? Does any of us one just toss and turn, night after night, waking up in a sweat, torn by the crucial question of how to reform the transportation system in our country?

B: Ha, ha, ha... no, clearly not...

A: Because that’s not the point, is it – the transportation system in Japan? That is not the reason why we both heard that news story, a while ago, and paid attention, and remembered it! And the same with the Finnish educational system, and so on, and so on... It’s not what these stories are about, but that they seem to illustrate a country or a place where “things have been solved,” where everything works just fine; again, an “ideal place," only - just another version of it...

B: Yes, I would agree.

A: So, the issue, in fact, is not so much about the “what” or the “where,” but about - what's with this seemingly endless pursuit for things that always seem to leave us ultimately unsatisfied, unfulfilled,  "incomplete." 

B: Ha, ha! “You complete me!”, said Tom Cruise to Renée Zellweger...

A: ...in “Jerry Maguire!” Exactly! And then, of course, the movie ends.

B: But, it turns out (or it would, if the movie would have a sequel) that, well, she did not actually (and eventually) “complete” him...

A: Nor him, her.

B: Indeed. Look, I am married – even, what they might call, “happily married;” but, like you said (and, the more I listen to you, the more I understand what you mean, or so I think), this restless search, truly, never ceases. I mean, we care deeply for each other, me and my wife (even after all these years) - but that chase, as you called it... continues; only now, we do it together. It does not cease... and I wonder why.

A: Me, too, I have been wondering about this, and looking for answers.

B: And, what have you found?

A: Well, some things... How shall I explain... Well, look – if we take all these examples we mentioned – tropical island Z, the Finnish educational reform, or the Japanese transportation system – what do all these things have in common?

B: Well?

A: Well, they all seem to be variations of the same thing...

B: Of the same thing? How? What do you mean?

A: Well, they all seem to be – how shall I put it... “horizontal” things, horizontal “ways of escape.”

B: “Horizontal”?

A: Well, I am trying to express myself as clearly as I can... “horizontal,” meaning variations of the same kind of thing... different places, different times, but always variations of the same... – and always remaining “outside” of us, as it were...

B: “Outside”? How?

A: Think about it: you go to this pristine beach, or to that wonderful waterfall, or to that ancient forest - but, these are just varieties of “places”... Or, you find another way of doing this thing or that thing – but these are just varied ways of “doing things”... Here’s the thing (and I am really struggling here, trying to express my thoughts and feelings as clearly as possible) – while we alternate between locations, methods, reforms, diets – the need always seems to remain the same, unfulfilled.

B: ...

A: So, the “outside” things keep on changing, but our “hunger,” as you called it – remains the same. So, I vary these outside sort of things, on, and on, and on – and, clearly, if the answer or solution would be “outside,” then one of these variations would finally have to work, and the chase would have to end.

B: But it does not end.

A: No, it does not. So, if the external things keep on changing, and yet the need remains the same, I have to ask myself – through all these external variations, what is there that always stays the same? What do I always “take with myself,” wherever I go, whatever I do (while everything outside, from the specific place to the educational policy, changes)?

B: Well?

A: Well, myself – isn’t it? The one constant amid all these places, people, or ways of doing things - is myself; so, given the fact that the “hunger” is the same, never satiated, no matter the external changes, clearly the origin or solution to the question is not in any of the external variations – but is somewhere inside, within myself. This is why I can go to a beautiful spot – and still feel (while nevertheless enjoying the place!) deep down unfulfilled, unsatisfied - even a bit melancholy. So, this is why I called these solutions, these things that we are chasing, “horizontal,” because the cause or source of the chase, its origin, seems to not be on the same plane as these... seems to be of a different nature... in a different direction.

B: Namely?

A: Well, I don't know - perhaps "vertical," or internal, or inner?... I’m trying to find the right words... In any case, of a different kind and nature and direction, than the solutions that we are ceaselessly chasing.

B: ...

A: Well, this need seems to be something deep within us, seemingly (perhaps) at the very foundation of our being. Because – and this was a momentous realization for me, when I understood this – our entire life is defined and driven by this deep need, starting from childhood! This is why we keep chasing, and projecting, and dreaming, throughout our lives – for an ideal place, an ideal person, for something in the future... So, so, if this need seems to be determine and to drive our very existence - if it seems to shape, deep down, our entire life - well, then, if ever there was a question to pose, and to try to answer, then this is it. Namely: what is this deep drive, that shapes our entire existence? What is its origin? Because, if I know what it is, perhaps I can also ...

B: ... get a chance to fill it? to fulfill it?

A: Well, that sounds ambitious... but still, I need to ask! So, yes, indeed - this is the question that's been keeping me up, for the past, I don’t know, maybe couple of years; and what I’ve been reading, asking, talking with people (like you) about,,, trying to understand – if anything, then this!

B: So, what have you found? What have you learned? I am curious! I am genuinely interested, because I agree with your, let’s say, existential diagnosis.