Yesterday, I went to a surprise retirement party that was thrown for Stephen by his colleagues at the Met, where he's worked for the past forty years. In some ways, given that I've known him (and many of his fellow stage directors) for twenty-six of those years, it felt like I was retiring from something too.
As I returned to the room where the reception was held -- and almost got lost, which is something that's easy to do in the endless levels and corridors of the Met -- I felt extraordinarily lucky to have been introduced by Stephen to the opera (and to the Met), given that I knew nothing about it when we met. Or almost nothing; growing up in the suburbs, I was frightened of opera, sensing that -- like any musical theater (or really, just theater) -- there was something very 'gay' about it, and for that reason alone to be avoided if I didn't want to be tainted by the association. But somehow I found my way out of the suburbs, and somehow I found Stephen, who taught me about opera. He started by throwing me into the proverbial 'deep end,' bringing me to (the dissonant, cacophonous, modern) Moses und Aron, which he was working on, but then, the summer after we moved in together, guiding me through an 'Opera 101' syllabus: La Boheme and Don Giovanni followed by more 'difficult' works by Wagner and Strauss. I took these recordings to work and listened to them repeatedly. Burned out on rock, I was thrilled to realize that my love of music had been rekindled by opera (which in turn would resurrect my affection for rock).
And in the ensuing years, I went to the opera, a lot. I attended final dress rehearsals with busloads of students and seniors, I attended performances with rich patrons, I even saw a piano rehearsal in one of the cavernous rehearsal rooms in the basement, where I sat in a folding chair next to the wall as Valkyries galloped past, just a few feet away, singing their famous 'Hojotoho! Heiaha!' war cries. As remarkable as it was to attend the actual performances -- to feel the electricity of the audience as it was (on certain nights) molded by music and drama into something that at moments can feel strangely and exhilaratingly cohesive and even spiritual in a world that's otherwise marked by so much division and chaos -- there was for me something equally magical about seeing the inner workings of the Met, of watching members of the chorus and orchestra and musical and production staff exit the stage door minutes after the curtain went down, clearly happy to be done with work as countless other employees rushed (or lingered) around doing any number of other jobs necessary to keep a massive opera house running.
What I've noticed over the years is that everyone who works at the opera loves the art form and that everyone (like Stephen) who works on the actual productions is (no surprise) deeply knowledgeable about it -- they are professionals in every sense -- but they don't fetishize it in a way I associate with certain opera critics and obsessive fans, whose adoration of the art involves a different kind of passion and knowledge. And while there's clearly room for both types in the world of opera, I always felt more at home among the former, meaning people (like Stephen) for whom opera was both an art form and a job or craft to which they had devoted their lives, which always brings a different -- and to me, more interesting, and often more nuanced -- perspective to any venture.
Far more than just a magical evening at the theater, opera becomes a metaphor.
As long as you are alive, there is time for a new act.
How lovely! ❤️💙💜
Posted by: Maryellen Kernaghan | 12/21/2024 at 11:50 AM