February 2014 by Opera 21

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Fe br uar y 2014

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magazine Collaborative, submission based magazine for the 21st Century Opera Enthusiast Editor-in-chief Jennifer Choi operaswag.wordpress.com Editor Kim Feltkamp kimberlyfeltkamp.com Contact Opera21 opera-‐21.com Email: contact@opera-‐21.com

Announcement The theme for the upcoming issue is race and ethnicity in opera. Guidelines for submissions can be found on our website. Deadline is March 31, 2014.

O21 Table of Contents

Volume 2 | No. 1

Infection and Society in Opera Kevin Ng

Operatic Insanity Ilana Walder-Biesanz

Disease in Opera: Punishment for Otherness Gregory Moomjy

Opera Rarities Lawrence Axelrod

Verdi

Infection and Society in Opera By Kevin Ng Although Violetta and Mimi’s death scenes are among the best known in opera, infection remains a relatively rare cause of death in opera. Perhaps that is due to the relatively unglamorous nature of disease. It’s far more efficient to have the soprano throw herself off the nearest castle than to have her slowly waste away in a bed. Nevertheless, the few operas that do address the issue provide valuable insight into society’s perception of infection and, perhaps, the morals of infected individuals. Violetta and Mimi both die from pulmonary tuberculosis, known as ‘consumption’ in the 19th century. This inflammation of the lungs is caused by the Mycobacterium tuberculosis, a slow-growing bacterium that infects the cells of the immune system. In some cases, the bacteria can spread through the bloodstream in what is termed “miliary tuberculosis,” which is nearly always fatal. The bacteria itself is spread through aerosol droplets and since tuberculosis frequently results in chronic coughing, it is highly contagious. Tuberculosis is the rare example of disease that was associated with the rich as well as with the poor. Since it was transmitted through the air, it was particularly prevalent among the poor. In addition to increased close contact, malnutrition and alcoholism are also known risk factors for the disease. However, the upper classes were very taken by this apparently melancholic and sensitive mode of dying, and tuberculosis became known as the “romantic disease.” In many

ways, Violetta represents the ideal consumptive – fragile, beautiful, and utterly tragic. Indeed, little is made of her actual symptoms in the libretto. Without Grenvil explicitly mentioning “la tisi,” Violetta’s fatigue and eventual collapse could be associated with any other disease. In 1882, German physician Robert Koch discovered the link between the tuberculosis disease and the Mycobacterium tuberculosis bacteria, which were extracted from the mucous coughed up by infected patients. In his now famous lecture Über Tuberculose, Koch explained that the bacteria, which could be spread through coughing, spitting, or speaking, in fact caused the disease. This discovery, of course, rather dampened the consumption craze of the upper classes, and since then has been associated with the lower classes. Puccini’s La Bohème, which premiered 14 years after Koch’s discoveries, represents a far less idealized version of the disease than Verdi’s La Traviata. Mimi has hardly sung a dozen words, in fact, before she has a coughing fit. As the evening progresses, the libretto references her paleness, fatigue, and chills. In fact, Rodolfo specifically states that “povertà l’ha sfiorita” (poverty has withered her). Mimi’s music in the final act is a far cry from Violetta’s; the critical pulmonary nature of the disease is emphasized by her short, quiet phrases. This is completely different from Violetta’s sustained lines in “Addio, del passato.”

Though Violetta and Mimi are the two most well-known victims of bacterial or viral infections, they are by no means the only ones. Britten’s Aschenbach (Death in Venice) succumbs to cholera, a disease caused by the Vibrio cholerae bacterium. More recently, Hungarian composer Peter Eötvös’ 2004 opera, Angels in America, deals with AIDS, a condition caused by HIV infection. Of the four operas, this last one most directly addresses social conceptions of infection and disease. Why then, do composers include infection and disease in opera? As mentioned earlier, there are more convenient and glamorous ways to kill off characters. Disease is indeed much less targeted than a stabbing, for instance. Nevertheless, it might be worth noting that pulmonary TB, AIDS, and cholera can all be linked to lower socioeconomic classes. Even though viruses and bacteria obviously do not infect preferentially by class, all three diseases were exacerbated by poor hygiene practices and cramped interactions. In addition, AIDS and TB were viewed at the time as sexually transmitted diseases and even

though the transfer of Mycobacterium tuberculosis is not strictly spread through the act of sex, courtesans, such as Violetta, would no doubt have been particularly susceptible. Most importantly, we must remember that we view these diseases in a far more scientific, clinical way today than the composers would have in their time. At the time of composition, the mechanisms of transfer and disease would have been largely unknown; the “randomness” of infection mentioned earlier was more a physical manifestation of fate or destiny. This precise sense of unpredictability is what leads audiences to feel sympathy for the character. For example, why must Violetta die just as Alfredo returns and they renew their love? At the same time, it is used as a distancing method. Britten and Eötvös, in particular, use disease as a physical display of their characters’ sense of isolation from society. Far from being just another sort of fatality in opera, these infections go a long way in providing an extra layer of complexity to their hosts and their societal circumstances.

Kevin is a second year university student who dreams of a career in the opera world, which is why he is currently studying cell biology and doing chemistry labs. You can find him at nonpiudifiori.wordpress.com.

Puccini

Donizetti

Operatic Insanity By Ilana Walder-Biesanz Lucia arrives on stage, hair disheveled, eyes crazed, dressed in a blood-stained wedding gown, and proceeds to execute some of the trickiest coloratura in opera. The mad scene is the most visually and musically iconic section of Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, and of most other operas that contain one. Insanity makes for good drama. However, it is by no means a constant presence in the operatic canon: insanity in opera is a trend that has come, gone, and changed in the last few centuries.

Wagner’s patron King Ludwig II was clearly psychotic. Verdi, after a rather feeble attempt to portray madness in Nabucco, gave up, scrapping his proposed King Lear because he found the subject “too stressful.” Italian composers also had to be careful around the topic of insanity after the psychiatrist Cesare Lombroso’s influential 1864 study Genio e follia, which found connections between lunacy and genius and argued that hereditary insanity caused artistic creativity. This phase of physical illness is followed (with some overlap) by a more realistic treatment of insanity in psychoanalytic opera. Madness goes from being a form of beautiful freedom (exemplified by the stunning coloratura of most bel canto mad scenes) to a living hell of painful atonality. Insanity is no longer necessarily confined to a particular scene; characters slowly descend into it rather than suddenly “snapping.” This shift coincides with the rising popularity of Freudian psychoanalysis. As individual psychology becomes a widespread topic of research and discussion, librettists and composers (as well as artists in other media) become more concerned with accurately portraying it. Strauss’s Elektra (1909) and Berg’s Wozzeck (1925) serve as perfect specimens of this phase. Janáček’s operas also contain psychoanalytic portrayals of insanity, usually as a protest against social prejudice. In his Jenůfa (1904), Kostelnička madly drowns Jenůfa’s illegitimate baby to enable her to marry Laca, and in Káťa Kabanová (1921), the title character gradually goes insane and

Three Phases of Operatic Insanity In a letter to the Psychiatric Bulletin, Neil Brener suggests that opera can be split into three phases with respect to its treatment of madness. The first is the phase of the mad scene, beginning with Handel’s Orlando in 1733, appearing briefly in Mozart’s Idomeneo, and reaching its height in Donizetti’s operas, of which at least five contain impressive depictions of insanity. In this phase, insanity serves as an excuse for virtuoso displays on the part of both the composer and singer. By the mid-1800s, opera moves into a phase that shies away from explorations of madness and prefers to use physical illness as a metaphor for passion. Lucia and Orlando give way to Violetta and Mimi, and the few mad scenes from this period tend to be parodies (e.g., “Cheerily carols the lark” in Gilbert and Sullivan’s Ruddigore). Brener suggests that perhaps madness was too much of a threat in real life to be dealt with comfortably by the composers of this era.

commits suicide after confessing publicly to an assignation with her lover.

although women still predominate. This is in part due to the role that insanity can play in protesting social prejudices (of which women are usually the victims).

Insanity as a Gendered Problem We tend to associate mad scenes with female voices, but mad scenes exist for castrati, tenors, and baritones as well. In a letter to the Annales Médico Psychologiques, R. Ropert reminds readers that madness in literature was originally a primarily masculine problem, especially in classical and medieval texts. This is reflected in early operas that adapt these works, such as versions of the Roland/Orlando story (composed by Lully, Handel, Vivaldi, and Haydn) and adaptations of Orestes’ story (such as Glück’s Iphigénia en Tauride). By the late 1700s, insanity becomes an almost exclusively female affair. Donizetti’s Maria Padilla contains (as far as I can tell) the only bel canto mad scene for tenor, in contrast to at least half a dozen famous soprano mad scenes. Why is the soprano voice favored? Ropert suggests that the supposed celestial quality of high voices plays on the idea of religious ecstasy, so mad sopranos best express the liberation that accompanies madness in bel canto plots. Of course, the fact that female characters are the ones going mad also reflects the social constraints women historically suffered from. The women are the ones who stand in need of the freedom madness can offer. Insanity also conveniently puts troublesome women out of the way by removing them from the male world into which they may have transgressed. The nearly exclusive focus on female madness ends with the bel canto era. Once we reach the psychoanalytic phase of opera, men have a chance to go mad in operas again,

How Realistic are Operatic Portrayals of Insanity? Clearly, insanity has a lot of symbolic weight to carry. But that’s not necessarily incompatible with a realistic portrayal of madness. Crazy people obviously don’t usually sing coloratura arias, but if we ignore such meta-theatrical considerations, the mad characters’ behavior and symptoms could be consistent with diagnosable mental illnesses. It would take far more than a single magazine article to explore this character by character, but we will look at the most famous of all insane heroines, Lucia di Lammermoor, as a case study. In an article in the Annales Médico Psychologiques, J. Verdeau-Pailles catalogues Lucia’s symptoms and arrives at a diagnosis. The intensity and sudden onset of her symptoms point to a “spectacular psychotic crisis,” with delirium serving as a response to intense mental stress. Key symptoms include “sudden onset, precipitation by an external event, depersonalization, affective perturbation, intellectual inhibition, anxiety and depression, aggressive impulses, disorientation, [and] amnesia of a short and definite duration.” According to VerdeuPailles, “The disorganization of her psychological life follows a ‘downward spiral’ that becomes irreversible, leading to her psychological and physical death.” He insists that this is in accordance with what Janet and Freud classify as “hysterical delirium” and what Follin calls “hysterical psychosis.” He

admits that modern diagnostic manuals do not recognize this condition, but insists that it is a clinical reality and cites a literature review to that effect. Lucia has been assigned a rather outdated diagnosis which, even if it is accepted, is not perfect. That hysterical psychosis would lead to death, especially as quickly as it seems to in Lucia’s case, is unlikely. However, we should make some allowance for Donizetti and other mad scene composers. Given the dramatic, musical, and symbolical functions insanity already fulfills in opera, it would be a bit much to demand clinical accuracy as well. Besides, realism in general has never been one of opera’s selling points.

Summary Since the earliest operas, insanity has played a musical and dramatic role in the art form. However, portrayals of insanity have shifted with the centuries, losing popularity after a mad scene phase and then experiencing a resurgence with a more pessimistic and socially oriented bent in the psychological opera phase of the early twentieth century. There were some crazy men in the earlier and later years, but the bel canto high point of madness belonged almost entirely to women. The portrayal of their insanity may not have been strictly realistic, but it was undoubtedly dramatically compelling.

Sources Ashley, Tim. “Out of their Minds.” The Guardian. 5 July 2002. Available online at http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2002/jul/05/shopping.artsfeatures. Brener, Niel. “Madness in Opera.” Psychiatric Bulletin 1990, 14:563. Ropert, R. « À propos de la folie à l’opéra. » Annales Médico Psychologiques 161 (2003) 213–214. Verdeau-Pailles. « La folie de Lucie de Lammermoor. » Annales Médico Psychologiques 161 (2003) 220–226. Wilson, Alexandra. The Puccini Problem. Cambridge Studies in Opera. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009.

Ilana Walder-Biesanz is an engineer, actress, and mezzo-soprano. She recently graduated from Olin College with a degree in systems engineering, and is currently pursuing a graduate degree in European Literature at the University of Cambridge on a GatesCambridge fellowship. She tweets about opera (and occasionally other topics) as @ilana_wb.

Dvorak

Disease in Opera: Punishment for Otherness Gregory Moomjy

Disease in opera is perhaps a cliché, and it is almost an exclusively female phenomenon. The image of the diseased heroine uttering her final, despairing words and collapsing to her death has been a popular trope on opera stages for centuries. However, on closer inspection, disease, whether it be mental or corporeal, may stand for a lot more than it represents. The plot of Bellini’s La Somnambula may seem laughable at first, but believing that the opera is about somnambulism is extremely superficial. Likewise, examining Dvorak’s Rusalka sheds a disturbing light on the opera’s fairytale aspects. Rusalka may offer the opera world’s most famous case of laryngitis, but at its heart, the illness itself is a dark commentary on otherness and gender relations. Opera as a genre is all about singing. if a character, Rusalka’s story Therefore, to say nothing of the lead, dramatizes the is voiceless, it is quite In an Opera female experience significant. News article, Fred Cohn of lack of control argues that Rusalka’s is a keystone of over her own silence the terrible bargain that sexuality and she has made with the witch. Their destiny. Jezibaba, pact is important not for what Rusalka wants to achieve—the love of the prince—but what she has to do, which is to become human. In essence, she wants to become something she

is not. Her lack of vocal expression becomes the most obvious manifestation of her separation from the human world, the illness that isolates her from others. It is not the only “disease” that plagues her among the humans; at the prince’s court much is made of the frigidity of her embrace. If we view sex as the consummation and ultimate expression of love, the constant references to her coldness become an extension of her otherness, namely her lack of sexual ability. This is what ultimately attracts the Prince away from Rusalka and to the Foreign Princess. The Prince’s betrayal of Rusalka leads directly to the opera’s second instance of disease. Because of Rusalka’s impotence, she was unable to maintain the Prince’s fidelity, which bestows a curse upon her and emphasizes her otherness to an even greater extent. Thanks to the curse, she is in a state of permanent liminality; she is neither human nor water nymph. She explains her despair to her father in her second act aria in the aforementioned terms; in effect the curse has made her a pariah and eventually leads to her shunning by her sisters and the other water nymphs. In Act III, the nymphs damn Rusalka because she sought to be human, and therefore decide she should be an outcast. The ending may seem like a romanticized view of love when the Prince, now cognizant of his mistake, begs Rusalka for a kiss as a token of her affection. But even though he is not afraid of death, the fact is, his imminent demise is 8

Bellini

brought about by Rusalka’s curse. Her inability to achieve full status as either human or fish has made her a danger to others. The opera drives at a rather disconcerting notion: that the circumstances we are born into are often paralyzing. Rusalka’s story dramatizes the female experience of lack of control over her own sexuality and destiny. Because the Foreign Princess was able to give the Prince what he desired, she is able to validate herself in the world of men, even if it is only fleeting. Both women jockey for a position of power in a patriarchal system. The Foreign Princess, whose only purpose is to come between the two lovers, admits to Rusalka, “I may have his hand, but you have his heart.” Unfortunately, in this game of gender politics, neither woman can win the man wholly. The mere fact of being a woman creates difference, or in effect, an irreversible “disease” banishers both women to a space of undefined nothingness. Much like Rusalka, La Somnambula also deals with otherness and gender roles, albeit under far more human conditions. This opera can seem silly when viewed with a superficial modern-day lens. The fact that an entire village could be ignorant of the affliction of somnambulism is, quite frankly, ridiculous. However, by putting ourselves into the mindset of the characters, that of 19th century Swiss farmers, not only does it become possible that they would not have heard of this problem, but the true nature of sleepwalking in the opera becomes apparent. Somnambulism fulfills the same function as Rusalka’s lack of voice; by afflicting Amina with an unknown illness, Bellini marks her as an outsider. Her struggle to prove her innocence after she is discovered in the

Count’s bed is a struggle to be reincorporated into society. Amina’s sleepwalking also is the catalyst through which gender tensions are explored. Elvino’s reaction to discovering his fiancé in another man’s bedroom could be construed as normal, except he doesn’t give her a chance to explain herself. Furthermore, her disorientation in the final scene of Act I is a clear indication of her innocence. Elvino goes further; not only does he end his engagement to Amina, but he begins a relationship with her rival, Lisa, and proposes marriage to her all too quickly. His immediate silencing of Amina, along with his quick replacement of her, indicates a men’s tendency to devalue and revalue women. He no longer desires a woman whose reputation may be marred by her apparent indiscretion. Sleepwalking in Bellini’s opera blurs the line between disease and indiscretion. Amina’s disease is the impetus for her actions, but in the provincial minds of the townspeople, her actions are inseparable from her disease. Even the Count’s second act aria, where he defines somnambulism for the townspeople, falls on deaf ears. The situation reaches its climax at Elvino’s wedding to Lisa, which is interrupted by Amina’s second sleepwalking episode. Amina literally has to almost die in order for her voice to be heard; the townspeople are only able to believe what the Count has been saying when they actually witness it. Her final sleepwalking scene functions as a deus ex machina; the jubilation of her final rondo, “Ah! non giunge,” is only possible because the townspeople can now recognize their mistake. They wake her up once she reaches “terra firma” on the other

side of the bridge, and Elvino once again proposes marriage to her. Although Amina has a voice, unlike Rusalka, it is ineffective if no one listen to it, as they do here in this opera. Her perspective is only validated when others decide it may be. The tragedy of the story is Amina is unaware of how her fellow villagers have wronged her. She is, in effect, still “sleepwalking.” All is made right when her marriage proposal is reinstated and the villagers once again take control of her, directing her to “Come to the church” for her wedding. Amina suffers not only from a physical disorder, but a psychological one in

which she is numb to her powerlessness as a female. Rusalka realizes her predicament, but can do nothing to change it, whereas Amina doesn’t even recognize it. In both cases, disease is viewed as a marker of difference, of otherness. In turn, both women have differences that are perceived as disease. When the women show desire, they are punished by an unforgiving society that isolates them. Luckily, Amina is reincorporated into society, but only because her fellow villagers deem her appropriate again, whereas Rusalka sadly disappears back into a dark oblivion.

Gregory Moomjy is a Musicologist who graduated from Fordham University. He has contributed to several music publications including BBC Music Magazine. He has written program notes for Gotham Chamber Opera. He is studying for his Masters at Columbia University Graduate School of Journalism.

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Operatic Rarities Lawrence Axelrod Those of us who perform or listen to a lot of music run across little-known compositions or composers with some regularity. In the best of these cases, we wonder why they are never heard or seen. They seem like solid compositions or composers who have something to say. What I have noticed is that these unusual corners of taste are very personal - one person’s undiscovered pearl is another’s lump of coal. Whether they are our taste or not, these choices can show us interesting corners of music history that reveal bits of real quality and beauty, or sometimes simply demonstrate why “the greats” are just that. Opera has a huge cache of these littleknown and little-performed works. Sometimes this neglect is because of unwieldy story lines or convoluted libretti. Other times, the neglect is because of aspects of the story that are impossible to put on a modern stage in any credible way. And then (according to taste of course) there are those operas which are very striking and unusual, and because of these qualities, we can forgive awkwardness in certain areas. For me, one of these works is The Devil and Kate by Dvorak. (Cert a Káca in Czech). It is the composer’s op. 112 and was premiered on November 23, 1899 at the National Theater in Prague. I have loved Dvorak’s music ever since I was young. One of the amazing things about him is that he had significant successes - and significant failures - in every musical medium throughout his long career. For me, this fact makes him distinctly human; his greatness is

approachable and immediate. He wrote ten operas. Ten! And yet his dramatic sense, so acute and incisive in abstract works, was often far off the mark when it came to libretti in opera and oratorio. The Devil and Kate (along with Rusalka) are exceptions. One of the things I like about The Devil and Kate is that it is a broad, nationalistic comedy with a few serious elements thrown in to give the story some body. The premise is not at all politically correct: the title character, Kate, is supposed to be unattractive, very bossy and demanding. For these reasons, she is not able to find a husband in her town. These qualities make for a great comedic role for the mezzo playing Kate, who participates in a lot of physical and situational comedy. Toward the beginning of Act I, a stranger appears who starts asking about the local Princess and her steward, arousing much suspicion. He is actually an emissary of Lucifer named Marbuel. Then, there in the heroic tenor, Jirka, a shepherd, who has just been abused by the steward for a minor infraction. Marbuel opens a hole in the floor, through which he and Kate disappear. Jirka, feeling he has nothing left to lose, jumps in after them to rescue Kate. And Act I ends with a great blend of humor and drama. The second act continues the blend of broad humor and comedy - it is set entirely in hell! What a boon for a director and an opera company with the ability to do some fun stagecraft! The comedy continues when we see Marbuel carrying Kate on his back into hell; she has refused to walk on her own! The 11

dramatic end of the plot is furthered when we hear Lucifer and Marbuel discuss that the real object of his trip above was to get the Princess and her steward. In and among these two plot strands, there is a Dance of the Tortured Souls, which is really just a fun, rousing Slavonic Dance, lightly disguised. Even the devils don’t want to deal with the likes of Kate, yet, stubborn as always, she refuses to leave. Jirka and Marbuel figure a plan to bribe her. Then, Marbuel dances with her, leading her outside the gates of hell, which are then slammed shut, to the rejoicing of all the devils. The third act begins with the dramatic element holding sway for the first time - the Princess, whom we meet for the first time, sings a magnificent aria, reflecting on her life and regretting her misdeeds. Though a huge switch in tone from what has come before, this aria lets Dvorak’s knack for melody and lyrical expression fly. The dramatic and comedic elements combine in the plot’s denouement. Jirka informs the Princess that the only way he might be able to save her from hell is by freeing the serfs in her kingdom. This done, Jirka tells Kate that Marbuel will be coming back, and that she can

have her revenge on him. When Marbuel does appear, Kate steps into the room, causing him to scream and fly away, leaving the Princess in peace. The grateful Princess makes Jirka prime minister, and gives Kate money and a fine house as a reward, assuring her the possibility of finding a husband. The opera ends in general rejoicing by all. Having its roots in fairy tale (like Rusalka), the plot of The Devil and Kate is simple and, to our 21st century mentality perhaps, a bit hokey. This fact, and the fact that it is written in Czech, are the two biggest reasons for the opera’s neglect, I feel. If done with a light touch and sensitivity, however, the opera could be a charming and successful antidote to the endlessly recycled warhorses that hold sway now. Dvorak, whose orchestration skills are often underappreciated, gets to run wild with the suspenseful music when Marbuel appears. Of course there are also beautifully lyrical spans, fully demonstrating the composer’s facility with melody. This opera is due for a big-stage production. Though it is done with regularity in the Czech Republic, the only U.S. performance I know of is St Louis way back in 1990.

YouTube links: Overture: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ALlQHLw5ZYg The Devil’s Dance: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXXidTnOF6A The Princess’ aria from Act III: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ex6ZjJWSr_Q Lawrence Axelrod is a composer, pianist and conductor in Chicago. He also leads the successful tour company Opera Adventures, which offers trips both domestically and abroad to see opera. Next stop is Vienna in April 2014! Please visit www.operaadventures.com for more information.