How about Verdi or Wagner? That was one big question tonight. While some people chose to attend the opening of the COC’s Il trovatore, I opted for Wagner, namely Die Walküre. Oh dear, …I’m better with the food questions….
The concert performance in the intimate confines of College St United Church was an opportunity for some wonderful singing.
There was Michael Robert-Broder singing a very different sort of Hunding. In my experience the part is usually a brute, loud and scary. How atypical then to have a Hunding who was capable of being loud but also soft, precisely in tune, and full of subtlety. And since when does Sieglinde have an attractive husband? This was a fascinating & unexpected transgression.
Hunding was busy trying to scare his unexpected guest, namely the Siegmund of Lenard Whiting. In the concert this was a tuxedoed Siegmund, sung with wonderfully clear diction and remarkable accuracy. While Whiting might be a little light to sing Siegmund in a big venue with orchestra, he was just fine on this occasion, showing excellent stamina.
Wotan was the truly godlike presence of Andrew Tees, not only bringing power to the angry parts, gentle and musical pianissimos to the introspective parts in the second act, but also unexpected resourcefulness when confronted with a pianist re-writing chunks of Wagner. Wotans are not usually expected to improvise their role, but my hat’s off to Tees, who sang with bold conviction.
One of the most exciting moments of the night came during the Ride of the Valkyries, when Margo Levae, Naomi Eberhard, Christine Turingia, Karen Bojti, Erin Armstrong, Dolores Tjart, Monica Zerbe and Olga Tylman provided, first the happy diversion that opens the act, followed by their rescue of Sieglinde and the powerful confrontation with Wotan that follows.
Alla Ossipova as Fricka was progressively more powerful with every line sung, a goddess to match Tees’ god.
Acts Two and Three were sung without intermission, which must have been taxing for all of the performers. I was impressed that they were able to carry on so ably.
I suppose my biggest question was how to reconcile my Pollyanna principles (that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all), with the desire to honour so many people who worked hard and did great work. This bizarre review is one solution to that question.
I hope that if this offends anyone, they’ll not be harsh in their criticism.
It’s almost 2013, the bi-centennial for both Giuseppe Verdi & Richard Wagner (that is, a pair of composers born in 1813).
Last night I watched the dress rehearsal of Il trovatore at the Canadian Opera Company’s Four Seasons Centre. Tonight I watched Stephen Fry’s very personal BBC documentary about his lifelong love affair with Richard Wagner. Saturday Sept 29th will be the opening night for Trovatore, but I’ll be seeing Opera By Request’s concert performance of Die Walküre instead (and catching Trovatore again, later on in the run).
I wonder if the next year will be one long series of forks in the road, as we’re asked to choose between these two giants…?
Stephen Fry
But tonight was about Fry & his trip through Wagner. Fry is a Jew, coming to terms with the beloved music from a loathed composer. It’s a mostly chronological study taking us through Wagner’s adult life including his Swiss exile, his trip to St Petersburg (an excuse to hear some of Gergiev’s Wagner), and eventual salvation via Ludwig II of Bavaria (taking us backstage at Bayreuth).
In the last portions of the roughly hour-long documentary, we’re confronted with the great cloud over Wagner, namely his relationship to Hitler, the Nazis and their ideologies. Fry muses that the person most hurt by Wagner’s anti-semitism is Wagner himself. The way Fry agonizes over it, it’s as if he wants to talk to Wagner, hoping to rescue him from his future condemnation in the hearts and minds of the world.
Fry is a genuine Wagner nerd, delighted to step across the threshold at the Festspielhaus in Bayreuth. The film has an odd balance, between his love of Wagner and his allegiance to his own people, particularly when speaking to a Holocaust survivor, a cellist who played in the Auschwitz orchestra.
Fry feels that our modern understanding of the composer has been distorted, by being forced to look at Wagner through the tiny lens that Hitler used, judging him by those same criteria, and in the process missing all sorts of other aspects.
Yet, as Fry says near the conclusion, “Hitler wasn’t the first nor the last dictator to exploit art. They always do so, from the Medicis to Stalin & Chairman Mao.”
Here’s the documentary (enjoy it while the link is still working)
I saw and heard the dress rehearsal of the new Canadian Opera Company Il trovatore at the Four Seasons Centre.
While it’s understood that singers are permitted to mark, the headline tells you everything you need to know:
Tenor Ramon Vargas
Ramón Vargas’s Manrico was beautifully sung, including a strong high C in “Di quella pira”. If this is what he sounds like holding back(!?!), he’ll blow the roof off on opening night (Saturday).
Elena Manistina sang a powerful, if unsubtle Azucena, singing some of the loudest low notes I’ve heard in a long time.
Elza van den Heever in comparison sang a carefully modulated and subtle Leonora, including an interpolated C in the Miserere, (even while underplaying much of that scene), while jubilant in her big solos.
Russell Braun gave us the prettiest singing of the night, and unquestionably the best acting, even if I felt he’s wasted in a role that resembles an old-fashioned villain (NB that Azucena can get away with one-dimensional melodrama). Braun is especially brilliant at the conclusion of the opera, for me the unexpected focus of the last moments
While I am a staunch defender of experimental staging at least in principle, I still expect the drama to work. Trovatore used to be Verdi’s most popular opera, but in the past century has slipped behind both of the (roughly) contemporary middle-period operas that seem so much less anachronistic, namely Rigoletto and La traviata. Trovatore is more melodramatic than either of the other two, which might be one of the reasons the work seems to resist modernization, an unlikely tale from a period that’s remote from our own in every sense. I think it’s short-sighted to assume that you can make these characters resonate with a modern audience simply by putting everyone in modern dress and then pretending this is a modern story.
And then there’s the religious content, further complicating things for any prospective director. As I look at the changing fortunes of our Troubador and his fall from grace, I can’t decide which aspect is most responsible. Does a modern audience resist melodrama, or is it no longer as open to the religious imagery? Under the circumstances, one modernizes at one’s own peril.
I am looking forward to catching a performance later in the run, eagerly anticipating another opportunity to hear the wonderful singing, hoping it all works better next time.
Il trovatore opens Sept 29th at the Four Seasons Centre, running until October 31st.
Today and this week, we celebrate the 80th birthday of a famous Canadian. If Toronto is Glenn Gould’s city we live in “Gould burg”. In the Beaches there’s a plaque not far from his high school reminding us of his childhood. Downtown there’s a sculpture of the pianist in front of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation (CBC) building.
Although come to think of it, the CBC gained a great deal from Gould, an artist who seemed to put the network and the rest of us on the map. Of course you’re going to hear hot and cold running Gould on the air, when Gould is like the CBC’s godfather. Harold Innis & Marshall McLuhan are understood as our media prophets: not just among Canadians but perhaps for the world. We should have learned a few things, perched as we were on the edge of the great American Media Pond. Yet I think Gould had a great deal to say in this regard.
Every time you click on an article about Gould you’ll have to brace yourself for another barrage of attempts to explain his significance, lists of his achievements, anecdotes seeking to capture his wit unique flavour.
Some will talk about his wit & unique personality.
Others will discuss his pianism & his musicianship. In a summer where I’ve spoken more about piano music than usual, I surprise myself. I like some recordings more than others, but I won’t go there. Let’s leave this aside.
And others will talk about his experimental media creations, creating the impression of a genuine visionary.
No, I have only one axe to grind concerning Gould. I think he had one insight that dwarfs everything else, or perhaps it’s where all the rest really begins. Although I think it began as his personal preference it grew into something verging on a prophecy.
The world was surprised when Glenn Gould announced that he would stop doing public concerts, and make his music solely in a studio instead. Did it begin as performance anxiety as some have said? Was it a kind of futurist project, extrapolating along a few specific trajectories from the present? Gould predicted that concerts would stop, echoing earlier thinkers troubled in various ways by liveness. Brahms once said he’d rather experience a particular symphony from a score in a chair in his living room, than in the concert hall. Maurice Maeterlinck said he’d rather read Shakespeare than encounter the bard in performance because something of Hamlet dies when he’s portrayed on stage.
It is in their tradition that I’d like to see Gould’s choice to retreat from the realm of the live into the virtuality of the studio, a pledge of allegiance to music. In the world of the concert Murphy’s Law rules, whether it’s the bad weather that disrupts airplane schedules, or a simple cough robbing us of the silence from which music emerges. In a studio you can simply record another take, whether the issue is noise or a wrong note. One can overdub or adjust the pitch (as sometimes happens for singers).
The coolness of Gould’s output has always reminded me of McLuhan. Live performance is a hot medium at the very least because of the possibility of wrong notes, the implicit drama of audience applause (or the lack thereof). By removing the applause & the errors, it all becomes much cooler, much more ambient, and therefore virtual.
When I listened to Gould’s transcription of Wagner’s Die Meistersinger on youtubeI was asking myself the same question I’ve asked myself since I first heard the vinyl recording that I grabbed at the record store when the performance was first released, which can be re-phrased in this perverse way: is it even a performance?
When I listened to it, so calm and cool and balanced as the ideal of the musical academy itself, I had to wonder if Gould had overdubbed. He plays so many notes so cleanly, that it’s not the old-fashioned transcription we know from Liszt, the bravura reduction for the piano. Whether Gould plays it live or constructs it in a series of overlaid tracks, the performance is as calm as the technicians with him rolling tape. It is a triumph of musicianship even as its pristine perfection would likely have freaked Wagner out. No, it’s not music by Eno or Glass, yet there’s a kind of tranquility to the recording –no I won’t call it a performance—that belies the original.
I don’t like everything Gould plays but he brings a special excitement to his readings precisely because they’re not like what you’d hear from anyone else.
And now? We’re in a period of textual fundamentalism, when conductors & performers seem to have less leeway to interpret, when the recordings rarely have the kind of excitement to them that a Gould could generate. In this respect, however original he may have been, Gould belongs with the generation of virtuosi of the mid-century.
His recorded legacy is large. And then there are the television programs. I have a great deal of listening & watching ahead of me as I catch up with yesteryear.
A.J. Gray, aka Alison Gray, was born in England. Parents with talents of their own encouraged an interest in the arts.
A.J. Gray: “The Greater Philosopher’s Kite,” pure powdered pigment and varnish on canvas, 36” 48”
While it is still not clear which of these would have been most appropriate as an occupation, many years have been spent working on paper and canvas. While Gray says, not without irony, that the work has always been documentary in nature, sometimes literally, as a landscape painting, hers is a poetic sensibility with an eye for beauty & meaning in everything.
She recounts how the desire to prove a point in a dispute over unnecessary noise prompted the purchase of a videocamera with some fairly good microphones built in.
It was almost inevitable that recording performances would be an attractive pursuit, and an interest in all kinds of music has led to the acquisition of peripherals that allow more sensitive recording of the audio track using strategically-placed condenser microphones. Every kind of music, from large orchestras and opera to rock and roll, has been covered, along with theatre and dance productions.
At this relatively early stage in her career as the creator of documentary video I ask Gray 10 questions: five about herself, and five about her videographic activities documenting performance.
1) Which of your parents do you resemble (what s your nationality / ethnic background)?
I was born in England, and both of my parents had a mix of English and Scottish ancestry.
AJ Gray, on the job
In my Dad’s case there was a little Welsh thrown in, and the part of Scotland that my maternal grandmother came from was probably invaded by Scandinavians. When I was a young adult, many of my parents’ friends would remark that I resembled my Dad. More recently, the people taking care of my Mum would say how alike we were.
2) what is the BEST thing / worst thing about video documentation?
The best thing is the addition of a fourth dimension, i.e., Time, to the ones I was already using. Outside of recording performances, some of the most interesting projects for me have been the ones in which the camera, trained on the sky, would be running for several hours. The resulting data can be edited down in all kinds of ways.
The worst thing would have to be the constraints about publishing. So much of the great material that I have recorded in the past few months is for archival purposes only, so I can’t put it out there, much as I’d love to. Then, in addition to the need to abide by the policies of the Musicians’ Union, there are other factors to consider. When minors are involved, it’s especially delicate and I prefer to err on the side of caution.
3) who do you listen to or watch?
I’m a fan of opera, also love the ballet and have been known to attend shows by David Byrne and Randy Newman, and Lou Reed. I am still kicking myself for missing Paul Simon. Brazilian drumming and World Music in general have a lot of appeal for me.
4) what ability or skill do you wish you had, that you don’t have?
It would be great to have skills in musical performance at a level that would permit playing with a group. It’s so wonderful to see the interactions between players who have been practising together for so long that all it takes is the movement of an eyeball to give a cue. I can’t think of many other human endeavours that create these kinds of relationships. Soccer might be one.
5) When you re just relaxing (and not working) what is your favorite thing to do?
For me, the 50 metre pool and the running “track” are where the best unwinding can happen. For sheer goofing off, it’s nice to get together with others and trade stories.
Five more about video documentation
1) How does video documentation challenge you?
The challenges are usually only technical. In a club at close quarters there may not be anywhere to put a pair of mic stands, or it might be in a huge church with the performer moving from one end to the other. In such a case, a second pair of microphones would be helpful, meaning another 400 feet of XLR cable, a much more elaborate set-up. It can take as little as 20 minutes for me to have everything hooked up and ready to go. Sometimes it’s hard to find a place where the camera has a clear view of the performers. Flexibility is key.
2) what do you love about making documentary video?
I love my camera. It was a fairly big investment, and has had things added to it, the wide-angle lens adapter being significant. It’s wonderful to be able to get everybody in the orchestra in the frame, and to zoom in on someone’s fingering allows the viewer the same kind of intimacy with the instrument that otherwise only the player would have.
I’ve barely scratched the surface of what it can do and am amazed sometimes. Once a battery ran out but the camera kept going for another 10 minutes anyway, thereby capturing the tail end of a great show that went on longer than expected. It was such a thrill to discover that nothing had been lost.
3) Do you have a favourite video that you’ve created?
A couple of my favourites are Night Falls and The 90th Annual Warriors’ Day Parade. Night Falls is a pretty early example where eight hours of video gets taken down to about five minutes. This was made before I’d figured out how to fiddle with the audio, so the editing is fairly arbitrary because I wanted certain sounds kept in.
The Warriors’ Day Parade video, from last year, is nearly half an hour long, also put up in installments as the editing progressed. There are some sweet and poignant moments, and Part One has a funny little sub-plot concerning a chap in a green shirt. My hope was to try and make it so that all of the participants (or their grandchildren) could see or hear themselves at some point in the video. It seemed a massive task, until compared with the sacrifices made by some of the Veterans in the parade.
4) How do you relate to video documentation as a modern woman?
As a modern woman? Since my little operation is fairly compact I can usually carry my own gear. There is still sometimes an odd vibe suggesting that I can’t possibly know what I’m doing because I’m not a guy, likely coming from someone even more old-fashioned than I am, so I try to be understanding about his or her perspective..
Whatever it may have to do with being a woman, modern or otherwise, there are always the options of asking for help or advice, and continuing formal education. Being primarily a visual artist using a recording device that is primarily a camera, I know there is much to learn as far as the audio engineering is concerned. So I consult a long-time friend (John S. Gray) who has many years of experience recording performances.
5) Is there anyone out there who you particularly admire, and who has influenced you?
Michael Snow
That list would run to several pages and it’s hard to know where to begin. In art school (Queen’s, BFA) in the 70s we had sessions with the film department, and one example we were shown was Wavelength by Michael Snow. It still stands up. Back in those days, making movies was prohibitively expensive and while I never dreamed I’d be doing what I’m doing today, having seen that film I wanted to.
Also, European cinema was starting to be available at some theatres in Toronto, so Truffaut, Fellini and Bergman, among others, had a big impact. Nowadays I’m way behind with my movie-viewing, hoping to catch Werner Herzog’s latest at some point. He never disappoints.
Paul Simon’s video for The Afterlife seems to me to be a beautiful example of what I’ve been aiming to do. It’s a very straightforward piece. The music, and the relationships that the musicians have with their instruments and each other, take precedence over special effects. It’s almost not so much a document about the music and performers as it is about the positive energy they create.
It’s nice to imagine that this energy increases whenever someone uploads a video of people making music and having a good time. The world can always use more so I’m happy to help.
AJ Gray’s work can be found on her youtube channel, or her Vimeo page. If you’re an artist, band, or ensemble interested in video documentation you can email her at capabilitygray@gmail.com.
It sounds overblown, but Brian Wyers’ recent paintings are a genuine study in the power of the human spirit. I’ve watched this painter and the drama enacted on his canvases paralleling the struggles of his life, so much more than one can possibly speak of in such a short article as this. Brian has said that he “lost everything”, suffering a major illness at the same time he was losing the love of his life.
Last year I wrote a pair of essays on Wyers’ work, fascinated by allegorical depths that remind me of painters such as the symbolists Paul Gaugin or Maurice Denis: 1) Brian Wyers and 2) Wyers subjectivities .
And then there was a radical change, no more symbolism. For the past year Wyers has been florally obsessed, painting enormous canvases. Walking among these big surreal blasts of colour, one seems to be a honeybee in the presence of gods and goddesses, massive fountains of nectar and colour, with deep chiaroscuro crevasses.
They tend to grow on you. Online they’re powerful enough, but in person? Suddenly I am more gnat than honeybee, the honeybee being too exalted and massive a creature, in comparison to these majestic compositions.
I got a big clue from a Facebook remark from one of Wyers’ friends, connecting the garden to Sandra, Wyers’ deceased wife. It’s indelicate to talk about lives, both his and hers, but let me simply state the obvious, that Wyers loved his wife very much and has not only been mourning her passing. If the garden was the Wyers’s special shared place, the exploration of flowers takes on a whole new meaning, as though the paintings were meditations. That the garden was their shared place, however, suggests that maybe these flowers are much more symbolic than I ever understood.
And now Wyers is undertaking human shapes again. In the last week he’s created three different canvases, each a portent of a kind of renewal.
Brian Wyers: Solitude, oil on canvas, 48 x 48
“Solitude” resembles a photo printed in sepia, a cloisonist’s series of blocks, embellished with a humanizing shock of hair falling in the foreground. I invoke the cloisonist because the chunks of colour take us towards the abstract, requiring a moment to resolve the ambiguities into the slightly uncommon composition. Or should I have said “conception” rather than composition? Wyers’ Solitude seems to be emerging from an egg. As with the earlier series of human figure paintings I obsessed about last year, we’re on the boundary between abstract and realist, between dreams and waking.
I only saw Solitude online (that is, via my laptop) last week, but had the pleasure of seeing it in the flesh today. In person? Wow. Jaw-dropping, luscious, and very much alive even though there’s another ambiguity to the form, as we can’t really tell how alive this female form might be.
I spoke earlier of renewal. The next two that I saw –(first via the computer earlier this morning, giving me the urge to go over to see them in Wyers’ studio in person) confirm that assessment.
I don’t know the sequence for these two but they share key features with Solitude, even though they are more differentiated, less abstract. They make me feel that the renewal is progressing out of Solitude’s “egg”, a rebirth of sorts.
Let’s address the two simultaneously. We’re again in the kind of ideal place we’ve seen in the wistfully surreal last half-hour of Tree of Life. One is called “Breathe”, the other “Rapture”. As with Solitude, we have a female form. Where we saw a head in Solitude but saw no sign of wakefulness or motion (indeed, if one were being macabre, there is the slight possibility that Solitude is a portrait of one who is not alive: but the picture glows with life, and yes, fertility… she is inside an egg but seems nubile with her own eggs, strong, muscular and so healthy I wanted to reach out and touch), both Breathe and Rapture are dynamic.
Brian Wyers: Breathe, oil on canvas, 52 x 48
Breathe seems to be like a moment of birth, a head that is unseen above the water, while we see the body relieved at the moment of breaking the surface. Perhaps it would be better to think of re-birth, that impulse to survive and inhale, after being submerged? Forgive me if I project, thinking of Wyers’ ordeal and his return to life.
Rapture is more languid, its colours warmer than those of Breathe. Where you can feel the coldness of the water in Breathe –and the relief to be getting your head up and OUT of that water—in Rapture, the water is a safe sensual place to bask and languish. This pair goes together so well, I wonder if Wyers thinks of them as a set (I didn’t think to ask him when i was at his studio). As far as I know he wouldn’t insist that you keep two paintings together for fear of breaking up a set, and indeed I wonder if he even realized how brilliantly these two seem to balance one another.
So far we have no faces, but at least Wyers has emerged from his reflective garden, has lifted his head out of the pool to breathe again.
Elliott Hayes was a playwright & dramaturg, the literary manager of the Stratford Festival for awhile in the 1980s.
A friend of mine introduced me to him, a really big deal I thought, an opportunity to maybe get some input on what I should do, where I should take my work. I had an operatic project I was working on. I sent it to the friend who showed Hayes.
I had the one meeting with Hayes, highlighted by a sentence that I resented at the time. Hayes said –of my confused unfinished libretto fragment—that it contained “big ideas”.
When he said “big ideas” his face contorted somewhat with the words: as if big ideas are bad. Here I was talking to this great man (I’d just seen his new play Blake), and uh oh I felt as if I had urinated on the floor, except somehow instead of urine, the floor was immersed in my “big ideas” which I couldn’t possibly retract or conceal.
Yeah it was pretty embarrassing.
That one encounter was back in the 1980s. Unfortunately I never had a chance to atone, to either show him that wait, look here, I really could create small ideas, see?
But as it turned out that conversation was seminal (if you’ll excuse my use of a metaphor that echoes the one I used for the big ideas all over the floor), as I pondered my sense of humiliation, that I wanted to take up the debate about the value of big ideas, hoping to show him.. Sadly and tragically Mr Hayes died an untimely death in 1994, before I could ever discuss it with him.
Big ideas? Maybe you wouldn’t want to see them in a new spoken word play. But they’re essential in opera. Opera is a symbolic medium where there’s simply less time for words, so each one much carry much more weight.
I don’t bring this up to debate Mr Hayes, wherever he’s gone. He was reflecting the conventional wisdom. Big ideas are unwieldy. But they are also the essence of the difference between opera & spoken word theatre.
When I think of the most successful original operas over the last 35 years (and forgive me if that number is arbitrary, to allow particular examples), you’ll notice something they have in common.
Philip Glass wrote Einstein on the Beach, then Satyagraha, then Akhnaten
John Adams wrote Nixon in China, The Death of Klinghoffer and Doctor Atomic
Every one of the operas listed concerns big themes.
I suppose in fairness, all that Mr Hayes sought was the usual outcome any good dramaturg seeks: to fix a bad text and make it better.
I submit that there are at least two things you can do to a text that’s full of holes. A dramaturg can change it, of course. But sometimes what’s missing isn’t text.
Lech Walesa (click link if you don’t know who he is… or even if you do)
I doubt that anyone of genuinely conservative leanings will read this unless they mistake it for an opera review. Hm someday someone may write an opera about Lech Walesa, perhaps in Polish or Prussian. But the title of such an opera would be Solidarność, not “Solidarity”. So you can stop reading, conservative opera lover.
What was I saying?
Ah yes. I can’t recall a period when class war seemed to be so central to our discourse.
We’re watching a showdown between the teachers and government in Ontario that seems to be calling the collective bargaining process into question, not so long after the Conservative Government in Ottawa seemed to do the same in their legislated solution to the Canada Post dispute.
The American election features two figures who are so wildly divergent that their positions are as different (if you’ll excuse the expression) as black from white. In the past week Romney has been taking a beating in the social media that I read; but of course in Facebook or Twitter we always preach to the choir. Those who disagree are not “friends” or “followers”, and so we can be seriously out of touch with popular opinion. Just ask all those friends of mine who argued whether to support Pantalone or Smitherman in the last Toronto mayoralty election, blind to Rob Ford’s impending landslide. Of course, as a Scarborough resident I wasn’t quite so blind given the signage (all for Ford) on my street.
The Occupy Movement has changed the conversation, even if the only real revolutions occurred on the other side of the ocean in countries experiencing the “Arab Spring“: or some of them anyway. Percentages are now tossed about in this election with the vigour of baseball fans, and for the first time in a long time, capitalism seems to be on the defensive.
What is it in the optics around some conflicts that win our sympathy in some cases but not all? My question is not one I address to the 1%, as we’d expect them to identify with rich owners rather than poor workers. That dichotomy –rich owners and poor workers—seems to break down, however when we’re confronted by the millions earned by hockey players.
At least for most people.
Me? While I am a poor skater, I identify with the hockey players, no matter how much money they make. The game of hockey belongs to those who play it. I believe Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson and Oprah all deserve their millions, even if they’re so big that they’re like multi-national corporations. I suppose I am talking about principles not money, even if those principles have exceptions in practice.
Hm…. The participation of money in our arts & entertainment usually taints it. I grew up disliking PT Barnum for his cynical outlook, his riches made in the under-estimation of the public intellect, a kind of prophecy of modern dumbing down. I have no real problem with entertainment if that’s what people genuinely like, so long as I am not forced to watch it.
Sol Hurok is another figure about whom I am conflicted. Yes he was a brilliant judge of talent. But I heard an architect once explain to me that the reason so many concert halls had bad acoustics in the middle of the 20th century can be laid at Hurok’s feet. It was all about money, about raking in dough with huge audiences who couldn’t really hear without amplification, of a star-driven business that ceased to be art. If the attraction were using microphones anyway, no problem. But if you were hearing the Metropolitan Opera on tour? Different story.
Where am I going with this?
Ken Gass
I have been a quiet observer of the ongoing drama surrounding the dismissal of the Artistic Director of Factory Theatre, Ken Gass. I didn’t need to hear the details –which created a great wave of sympathy for Gass—to know that I identify with the artistic talent, not the money.
The dynamic for non-profit arts companies isn’t the same as for sports franchises. Those Boards are not making money from their contribution. I’ve heard people try to make the case for the contributions made to the arts by boards of directors, the input from savvy owners in sports.
I submit that the primary qualification for Boards seems to be allegiance. I’d be useless on a board –at least in the current model—because I don’t think like a banker or a lawyer. I wear the rose-coloured glasses of an artist. Even so, there has to be a balance. Does your art sell its soul in pursuit of money?
I believe culture is a necessity. We have other necessities that are funded by the government. We don’t expect our firemen to work on a cost-recovery basis, but instead, they’re funded. The defence of the country, the policing of our streets, these are necessities.
And so is culture.
I am old enough to remember other principles. Our Canadian culture seems to be brand new, minted with the help of generous government support. Without Canadian content regulations for broadcast media, we would never have the wealth of talent that we now have. Without the Canada Council, performing arts companies likely would have been unable to compete with television and popular radio.
I identify with the hockey players just as I identify with the cultural workers. I don’t believe in erecting class barriers between parts of society. As Barack Obama has said, we must work together. It’s not just about the economy, but the very fabric of society, which is woven from our diversity.
NDP Leader Thomas Mulhair (photo: Nathan Denette/Canadian Press)
I’m hoping the NDP will aggressively champion the arts in the same way that the Democrats have bravely championed labour recently. Do we contract out our culture? That’s what we do when we allow our televisions to be filled with foreign productions, telling stories without any connection to our lives. Mulhair needs to show the cost benefit of arts funding, the clear payback in language that the conservatives can’t refute.
But we need to stop speaking the language of the board, which is only couched in profit and loss. That’s Romney’s thinking. We need to be willing to spend on our cultural industries not because of profit models, because they are a good investment, but because we believe culture matters.
The extent of the community response to my abrupt firing from Factory Theatre on June 20th was unexpected and overwhelming. More than 4200 people signed a petition demanding my reinstatement and the board’s resignation. 250 prominent artists stated their intentions to boycott the Factory, both as artists and as audience members. Hundreds more have written personal letters of support. All this has made it very difficult for me to simply move on to the next chapter of my creative life as per my original release on June 21st. Thus, while the protest action has been a community initiative, I have remained deeply engaged in the issues and the debate.
It is clear, however, that the avalanche of community response has made absolutely no impact on the direction set by Factory’s current board of nine directors. In August, I made overtures to the board in the hopes of finding a positive and respectful way to break the impasse, to restore community confidence and to help move the theatre forward. These too fell on deaf ears. A month ago, bowing to public pressure following the collapse of key productions from the season, the Factory board agreed to pursue mediation to try to resolve the issues. While mediation has taken place over the past two weeks, this attempt has been unsuccessful and has now ended.
What became clear to the public in the months following my firing, was that the dispute between myself and the board was not about artistic or financial issues, but rather a disagreement re pathways towards a future renovation of Factory’s heritage site. What has happened since is that divisions have emerged within the theatre community over the impact of the boycott, the loss of key productions in the season, as well as future possible artistic directions as put forward by the board. While debate of the larger issues remains vital, I believe further divisiveness around the Factory itself will only have a detrimental effect on the future of the company.
Thus, while I am extremely grateful for the huge outpouring of support I have received from the community, I wish to now state firmly and unequivocally, that under no circumstances in the foreseeable future will I consider returning to the Factory Theatre, either as artistic director or in any other capacity.
Having removed myself from any equation in Factory’s future, it is my view that, in order to move forward creatively and to restore community trust, the Factory now needs to seek not only a strong new artistic director, but also a new board of directors who can work effectively with our artists and community stakeholders to fulfill the company’s potential. In accomplishing this, I hope the Factory Theatre will continue to be a strong and vital force in the Canadian theatre ecology.
In parting, I’m confident the record of the past 15 seasons of all-Canadian plays at the Factory will speak for itself-the strong diversity and inter-generational mix of our programming, the many premieres and the constant stream of new voices. I’m grateful for the privilege of collaborating with so many powerful and original artists from coast to coast. I’m proud of the role I played in the rescue of Factory Theatre from complete collapse in December, 1996, and in the purchase of Factory’s heritage property two years later. I’m also proud that I was able to help develop a vision for the future of the Factory site, and that this design proposal is now part of the public record. I very much regret the loss of Michel Marc Bouchard’s TOM AND THE COYOTE and George F. Walker’s DEAD METAPHOR from the current season, not only for the playwrights but also for the artists attached to those shows. Despite my troubled relationship with the board of the directors over the past year, I am thankful to the many supporters, volunteers and donors over the years who helped make the work possible, and above all, to the thousands of audiences members whose friendly faces I got to know in the Factory lobby after the shows.
My relationship with Factory is now a historical one. I will be focusing on new creative projects through Canadian Rep Theatre in the near future. Please stay tuned.
I tried to run away myself To run away and wrestle with my ego—Joni Mitchell
One can imagine, somewhere between selfless slavery and imperial command, a middle way. There’s a place one can imagine in the tao of the performer, a balance between vocalizing that’s all “me me me” and respect for ensemble.
The relationship between ego and voice concerns me right now because I’ve been thinking a lot about
virtuosity and the virtuoso, both in older periods and now
how to reconcile ego in my work as a writer, composer, keyboardist and performer
finding personal meaning in performance
I am living a kind of lesson this week and because ego is so much a part of this I am determined to talk about this in the blog as well.
On Sunday the choir resumed its regular activities at Hillcrest Church in Toronto. Some Sundays I am tenor soloist, other Sundays I am the organist.
I am not sure whether I began my musical journey as a singer or as an accompanist. That’s probably very uncommon, because most people begin their musical lives alone, singing or playing (or both). But while I did some singing in school, I was accompanying at home at an early age, coming from a big family that included some older siblings who were singers.
What this has meant to me is that my musical journey has included long stretches of service, playing for others, understanding music as a kind of support function. It’s the reason I was drawn to film music, where music is disciplined like a child (the phrase “seen and not heard” absurdly comes to mind) to know its place, unlike the function of music in opera or the symphony hall. I am reminded of the title of Gerald Moore’s autobiography, which could have been my personal motto, to whit “am I too loud”?
I only started vocal study after my 40th birthday, after I started to notice how much fun it was to sing along with various cast members when I was a music-director of a musical. People started telling me that I should sing, given that I was usually louder than anyone else, even if it wasn’t necessarily pleasant sounding.
Hm, there I go: judging.
When I sing I am always unable to measure up, because of course inside my head I still hear the voice of my older brother, as he sounded to me when I was a teenager, and he was a professional.
But even though I am haunted by my past, let’s get back to 2012.
As I started to say, before I segued off into neurotic free-association, the choir resumed at my church this past weekend. I sang a solo.
I have usually been a very modest singer, the person who thought he doesn’t sound very good, and only starting to sing very late in the game, after having spent almost his entire life at the keyboard reading vocal scores and coaching singers, rather than standing up and singing them myself. As a result I have been very careful, perhaps too careful, always mindful of my limits. Humility isn’t only a by-product of service however. It’s also a good fundamental philosophy when one is not hugely trained, not certain of one’s technique.
While humility was my usual approach (and those who know me may be tempted to say “you call THAT humility?” ..but nevermind), this past Sunday I took a completely different approach than usual. I think I got a little carried away. I missed singing. Not only had I not sung in the church for several months, but haha I confess, I hadn’t sung for months even during the week. No practice. No vocalising. While I’ve been prudent in other years, inspired by humility to practice and make sure the voice and the high notes are still there, I didn’t do any of that in 2012. I played a lot of piano, bemused and bewildered by Beethoven and the performances of Stewart Goodyear. Instead of singing I played through the Beethoven piano sonatas several times.
And so, perhaps a bit too cocky, and missing the sound of my own voice in my own head, I attempted something this past Sunday on our first service since the summer, that was ill-advised, namely a piece from Elijah. It’s not even very high. But after a service where I’d been singing a lot of low-lying hymns & anthems, and unable to resist the impulse to pump out a loud sound and revel in that sensation (after months away), I forgot the fundamentals.
Voices usually employ two registers. There are exceptions (thinking of voices that are at one extreme or the other, using only their very high or very low register), but voices are normally a blend, with a careful management of the middle, that tricky place where the two registers overlap.
Tonight I had a singing lesson, a wonderful reminder of how it’s supposed to work.
Sunday? I suppose the way I sang the solo was also a singing lesson of sorts, and one that I am pondering this week. When the high note cracked because I’d used too much low register, I had to keep singing to the end even though I wanted to run away, or at the very least say to David Warrack (our kind & generous Music Director) at the piano “um David is it okay if we start over”?
Ha…
There may be some in the congregation who didn’t notice, but this wonderful place is so supportive and loving that they gave me generous applause afterwards (although they were also applauding David’s usual excellence).
As I pondered how I felt, this generous response to the egg I had laid in the church, I thought about ego. I have ridden this horse for years, the wild bucking bronco of performance, loving the adrenaline rush and the satisfactions of doing it well and getting not only applause but kind fellowship with a congregation, who take you to their collective bosom as though you were a member of their extended family: which we are in a very real sense. The horse didn’t precisely throw me. It’s more that the horse stepped on my foot, for one moment reminded me that I am not quite as glorious as I think I am.
Carol Baggott-Forte, vocal pedagogue
At the lesson tonight Carol & I talked about some of this. Carol is Carol Baggott-Forte, a wonderful singing teacher whom I met long ago. I studied with Carol briefly in the early 1990s, and now happily our paths have crossed once more. The timing seems serendipitous.
I am not my voice, even though the association is so automatic when one sings well. It’s redemptive to remember that we make something when we sing, that it’s a choice and a creation, because we allow ourselves to become the voice, to become the sound when it’s working well.
Carol quoted something from her mentor Cornelius Reid who said –as I roughly paraphrase—“if you destroy the voice you destroy the psyche. Heal the voice and you heal the psyche”. There I stood with Carol, so glad to hear and see her comforting presence, and enjoying a very real kind of healing.
The vagus nerve, which has the same root as the word “vagabond”. Verily this nerve doth wander.
I hope to see her again, even though she’s not usually in Toronto. I am taking some things to heart that she said in the lesson. For instance sometimes we worry too much about whether the sound is “pretty” (whatever that means) or “big” (ditto). Carol talked about the vagus nerve, which is implicated in those magical moments when we have a lump in our throat from emotion. How indeed am I to avoid identification with the instrument that’s housed inside me, when this site of intimate emotional events suddenly throws all attempts at expression into a kind of chaos.
So I have to allow the voice to make whatever sounds it wants. I didn’t recognize myself at times during the lesson. That’s probably good, because with Carol’s help I wasn’t doing the usual things I do. And I mustn’t judge. Just let the sound happen.
As Scarlett O’Hara might have said, if Tara were a church, and the American Civil War, a particularly rough service: “next Sunday is another day.”
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