A Special Night
When I was a teenager in Boston, from time to time there would be classical music specials on channel 2, PBS. The ones that caught my eye and ear were the operas. Retransmissions from The Met in New York would bring me The Magic Flute, or Don Giovanni, or Aïda, or Madame Butterfly. Those are the ones I remember most, though there were probably others, as well. I would marvel at the music and the voices, and wish I could someday sit in a concert hall to listen to them.
A couple of weeks ago, flipping through a website on upcoming events in Santiago, I came upon an event in the monastery of San Martín Pinario, the seminary in Santiago that holds cultural events. Madame Butterfly was to be shown on August 8th at nine o'clock, with tickets that began at ten euros. Exclamation points flipped up in my head. This was my chance to listen in situ to those marvelous voices! I convinced my husband, and bought the tickets.
It was pure luck I found it, really. Cultural offerings such as this aren't generally bruited about in newspapers or television. Not in Spain, much less in Galicia. What we generally do hear about are the gastronomic festivals, or bagpipe competitions, or other, more common celebrations. Classical music concerts, some serious rock or pop concerts, or other cultural events are never given much noise, except a blurb after they are held. It's almost as if they attempt to keep out the hoi polloi, and make sure the elite aren't bothered. As my husband said, after we left, that was one place he was sure he wouldn't run into anybody he knew.
The downside of the evening was the rain that decided to set in. My husband doesn't like the idea of umbrellas, so I forcibly shared mine with him from the parking garage to the monastery, walking through the old town, trying to avoid puddles, and still getting wet. When we arrived, people were already lining up at the entrance, though it was well over a half hour before it was to begin.
The original venue was the cloister of the monastery, open to the sky, but the rain forced the event indoors, to the church. Unfortunately, general admission was behind the iron grille that separated the body of the church from the area next to the altar and the stage, but there were large television screens set up on both sides for those who had problems seeing everything. We found seats midway, close to the iron grille, and people piled in until the entire church was filled. It seemed there were enough people that took notice of websites such as the one I found. A couple of minutes after nine, the lights were turned off except for the choir stalls behind the altar where the singers congregated and the lights set on the stage. We were in semi-darkness and the orchestra began playing its magic.
The first thing I realized when the first voice soared was the lack of subtitles. It was a good thing I had refreshed my memory on the story line of the opera, so I knew more or less what was going on. I did catch a few words in Italian, but that was it. I concentrated on the music and the voices. Looking up, day darkened into night in the windows of the cupola, and the notes touched the stones with caresses and sometimes with a slap, as when Cio-Cio San was disowned by her family for converting to Christianity for her faithlesss lover. After the intermission, in which people got up to wander around the side chapels, the lights darkened once more, and the drama intensified as Pinkerton sent his letter saying he was coming with his Western wife to take away his son. At the height of the dénouement, Madame Butterfly stabbed herself, the stage lights turned a lurid red, and Pinkerton cried his lament.
And it was finished. People got up, clapped, poured up the aisles, through the opened church doors, into the square. The night was cool, but the rain had stopped, and the lights glimmered in the puddles. We met up with our daughter, who had spent the day with friends in the city, and we walked back to the car. It was late, we were tired, but it had been a beautiful night of music and passion. Those who hate opera or classical music don't know what they're missing.
A couple of weeks ago, flipping through a website on upcoming events in Santiago, I came upon an event in the monastery of San Martín Pinario, the seminary in Santiago that holds cultural events. Madame Butterfly was to be shown on August 8th at nine o'clock, with tickets that began at ten euros. Exclamation points flipped up in my head. This was my chance to listen in situ to those marvelous voices! I convinced my husband, and bought the tickets.
It was pure luck I found it, really. Cultural offerings such as this aren't generally bruited about in newspapers or television. Not in Spain, much less in Galicia. What we generally do hear about are the gastronomic festivals, or bagpipe competitions, or other, more common celebrations. Classical music concerts, some serious rock or pop concerts, or other cultural events are never given much noise, except a blurb after they are held. It's almost as if they attempt to keep out the hoi polloi, and make sure the elite aren't bothered. As my husband said, after we left, that was one place he was sure he wouldn't run into anybody he knew.
The downside of the evening was the rain that decided to set in. My husband doesn't like the idea of umbrellas, so I forcibly shared mine with him from the parking garage to the monastery, walking through the old town, trying to avoid puddles, and still getting wet. When we arrived, people were already lining up at the entrance, though it was well over a half hour before it was to begin.
The original venue was the cloister of the monastery, open to the sky, but the rain forced the event indoors, to the church. Unfortunately, general admission was behind the iron grille that separated the body of the church from the area next to the altar and the stage, but there were large television screens set up on both sides for those who had problems seeing everything. We found seats midway, close to the iron grille, and people piled in until the entire church was filled. It seemed there were enough people that took notice of websites such as the one I found. A couple of minutes after nine, the lights were turned off except for the choir stalls behind the altar where the singers congregated and the lights set on the stage. We were in semi-darkness and the orchestra began playing its magic.
The first thing I realized when the first voice soared was the lack of subtitles. It was a good thing I had refreshed my memory on the story line of the opera, so I knew more or less what was going on. I did catch a few words in Italian, but that was it. I concentrated on the music and the voices. Looking up, day darkened into night in the windows of the cupola, and the notes touched the stones with caresses and sometimes with a slap, as when Cio-Cio San was disowned by her family for converting to Christianity for her faithlesss lover. After the intermission, in which people got up to wander around the side chapels, the lights darkened once more, and the drama intensified as Pinkerton sent his letter saying he was coming with his Western wife to take away his son. At the height of the dénouement, Madame Butterfly stabbed herself, the stage lights turned a lurid red, and Pinkerton cried his lament.
And it was finished. People got up, clapped, poured up the aisles, through the opened church doors, into the square. The night was cool, but the rain had stopped, and the lights glimmered in the puddles. We met up with our daughter, who had spent the day with friends in the city, and we walked back to the car. It was late, we were tired, but it had been a beautiful night of music and passion. Those who hate opera or classical music don't know what they're missing.
The Emerson College station used to broadcast Saturday at the Met. In Switzerland there is http://www.avenchesopera.ch/ festival. I've gone at least six times. The Roman amphitheatre is a perfect setting.
ReplyDelete