Charlene Baldridge
Photo by Ken Howard

Marriage of Figaro at Santa Fe Opera

Santa Fe, August 14, 2013 – We viewed the second of five operas on our Santa Fe Opera agenda – a very traditional, no surprises production of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro. Textually (da Ponte) this is the bittersweet comedy that in the canon of works derived from Beaumarchais stories continues the adventures of the young lovers, Rosina and Count Almaviva, who spoiled Doctor Bartolo’s plans to marry Rosina in Rossini’s The Barber of Seville.

Some years have passed. Rosina, now Countess Almaviva (Susanna Phillips) laments the fact that the Count (bass-baritone “barihunk” Daniel Okulitch) no longer desires her. Indeed, he fancies, among others, Susanna (soprano Lisette Oropesa), his lady’s maid, who is that day, with a promised dowry from the Count, set to marry his manservant, Figaro (baritone Zachary Nelson). It’s the same clever Figaro who aided Rosina and the Count’s elopement in the Rossini opera. The other libidinous male in the household is the young and inexperienced, yet randy, Cherubino (mezzo-soprano Emily Fons in the trouser role), who fancies every skirt in sight, the Countess’s, Susanna’s, and even those of the Gardener’s (bass Adam Lau) daughter Barbarina (soprano Rachel Hall). When it comes to love and lechery, there are no bounds of class.

Emily Fons as Cherubino, Lisette Oropesa as Susanna
All photos by Ken Howard

Doctor Bartolo (bass-baritone Dale Travis) and his housekeeper Marcellina (mezzo-soprano Susanne Mentzer) arrive. Marcellina intends to force Figaro to marry her because she holds an old promissory note stipulating that in the event he forfeits, he must wed her.

Susanna Phillips as the Countess

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Daniel Okulitch as Count Almaviva

To say that complications ensue is understatement. To attempt to explicate the twists and turns, lies, alliances, motives, and switches of identity would be foolhardy. Let us just say that all are properly chastised and wed at the end of the opera. The denouement takes a century to arrive; the path as twisted as that in scenic designer Paul Brown’s flower garden, which seems to cultivate nosegays already differentiated, profuse, ready for the picking, and thorny enough that they present difficulty of navigation to costume designer Brown’s period skirts. Thereby may hang a metaphor. No matter how twisted and briery the path, however, the trip is worth taking due to Mozart’s genius for melody and intricate ensemble work. The production is directed by Bruce Donnell, lighted by Duane Schuler and conducted by John Nelson. Susanne Sheston’s chorus is well heard and delightfully turned out.

Zachary Nelson as Figaro
Lisette Oropesa as Susanna

Each Nelson and Okulitch arrives touted as the nth degree of machismo and intense stage virility and vocal allure to match. Though Okulitch’s jackets were the envy of my male companion (I was impressed with the cut and fabric as well), I was underwhelmed by these paragons of masculinity. Neither has the rich operatic voice that calls one to jump in and luxuriate a while.

Phillips fielded a passable “Porgi Amor” and an interesting “Dove Sono.” Her noisy quaff and slamming down of the Count’s drink in Act II displayed her anger and determination, but as my companion remarked she should have lobbed her badly styled, unflattering wig into the garden as she made exit. The high point of vocalism was Oropesa’s “Deh Vieni.” She is a sweet, wily Susanna and quite literally leaves the men behind in the shrubs and garden houses.

Tonight we see the SFO and Metropolitan Opera coproduction of Rossini’s La Donna del Lago (The Lady of the Lake) with Joyce DiDonato and Lawrence Brownlee.

For further information about SFO productions this season and next, go to www.santafeopera.org

Oscar at Santa Fe

Oscar at Santa Fe Opera

Charlene Baldridge
Photo by Ken Howard

Monday, August 12, we saw the first in our weeklong glut of five Santa Fe Opera productions. A co-commission and co-production of Santa Fe Opera and Opera Philadelphia (where it will be seen in 2015), the world premiere of composer Theodore Morrison’s Oscar, with text by John Cox and Morrison, is based on quotations from the writings of Oscar Wilde. The final performance at Santa Fe is August 17.

Reed Luplau and David Daniels
Photo by Ken Howard

“Pain, unlike pleasure, wears no mask...” (From Wilde’s great De Profundis) is the quote that more than any other affected and early on set the tone for this listener; because this particular story of Wilde’s life is set during his last few years, when he was indeed sorrowful and, during his cruel imprisonment for gross indecency, brought low with humility, finally ennobled (at least in Morrison and Cox’s work) in the human sense.

Dwayne Croft as Walt Whitman

Any composer and librettist is blessed to receive such a meticulously prepared premiere. American opera companies, especially Santa Fe with its long tradition, are dedicated to this. Oscar conductor Evan Rogister’s involvement with his players, his principals and his company is extraordinary. His feet are planted firmly in the pit, and one can tell that he and all those involved are supremely dedicated to the text, the message and the music, beautifully orchestrated with melodic richness and an especially poignant use of the cello. Oscar is a wondrous, moving experience on all these levels.

Daniels and Burdette
All photos by Ken Howard

Kevin Newbury directs the production enacted on David Korins’ versatile industrial set, a feature of which is a not overused spiral staircase that rises from the traps with Wilde aboard. Lighting designer is Rick Fisher. David C. Woolard creates stunning and surprising period costumes, including Wilde’s delicious red velvet jacket and rust breeches and a series of disguises for the tacit and handsome dancer who portrays Bosie.

Choreographer Seán Curran affords dancer Reed Luplau a vocabulary all his own in his enigmatic portrayal of Bosie. Whether he and his personae, which include Death, are benevolent or not is left to the eye and heart of the beholder.

Renowned countertenor David Daniels portrays Wilde, using his miraculous vocal (God, what beauty!) and acting gifts to deliver a poignant portrait. On the eve of his final court trial, in an absinthe-drenched series of scenes, Wilde’s great friend Ada (“Sphinx”) Leverson (soprano Heidi Stober), a novelist who has hidden Wilde in her daughter’s nursery, urges him to flee England in a yacht Harris (much-admired tenor William Burden) has arranged.

William Burden as Frank Harris
David Daniels as Oscar
All photos by Ken Howard

These scenes, rife with melody, a trio and duets, are the opera’s best. Wilde, who says there is no consolation like that of returning to childhood, thinks of his own sons and also a conversation with his mother, and decides to remain and fight.

Act II is set in Reading Prison and introduces the unbending, sadistic prison governor, Col. Isaacson (impressive bass Kevin Burdette, also cast as the trial judge), his more benevolent warder, Thomas Martin (baritone Ricardo Rivera), and the prisoners, who sing a wonderfully composed, obligatory chorus. It isn’t until Harris effects Isaacson’s removal that Wilde, confined in solitary, is allowed writing materials that allow him to write his great epistle, De Profundis. After his release he wrote the poem titled The Ballad of Reading Gaol.

David Daniels, Heidi Stober and William burden

Some may find Oscar and its denouement melodramatic and overwrought. I found it inspirational, redemptive, moving, musically fine, and well realized. The opera presents a picture of the tempered and more humane Wilde, whose work, just under the surface, was always profound and wise and way ahead of its time. Just consider A Woman of No Importance, The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Importance of Being Earnest, or De Profundis. Now we have Oscar to complement what we already know about the man from works about him, including the film Wilde and Moisés Kaufman’s stage play Gross Indecency: The Three Trials of Oscar Wilde.

Charlene
Photo by Ken Howard

The Best Laid Plans

I'll be posting my Santa Fe Opera reviews here because I cannot access Charlene and Brenda from afar. One of life's little mysteries, likely to do with the fact that I forced the willful Brenda to bring an umbrella, and a good thing. So check back here tomorrow for the first review.

Poems about art

July 16, 2009

To the left is Wotan, a sketch I made after seeing a homeless man on the west side of Balboa Park about a decade ago. Of course he's named for The Wanderer in Richard Wagner's Ring Cycle.

He reminds me of Robert, the homeless man in my story "The Sudden Unexpected Sweetness of the Orange," which was recently read at the Avo Playhouse by Veronica Murphy of Write Out Loud.

I promised readers of my Theatrescene column, Curtain Calls, that I would post an example of the poetic form known as a conceit. Mine follows

Address to an Artisan

Crocheter, weaver of cloth,

you sometimes fashion words as well.

Fashioner of words and phrases,

of tangibles and intangibles,

how does one fashion life?

You, often maker of knobbied stuff,

you weave a lifetime’s threads.

Weaver at the inner loom,

the warp and woof of what you weave

by far surpass your intricate words.

The woven cloth and mitered phrase —

you do create a thousand arts.

Creator of intangibles, your textured life —

the row-by-row — fails still to show

what master thread interlaces all.

And while we're speaking of form, here's my award-winning sonnet:

For a Young Poet

You ask my words to move like weighted boughs

luxuriant with summer’s fecund blooms;

to give you shade sometimes and to avow

that autumn’s words more wisdom bear than June’s.

My words invoked crawl slowly forth like snails

that overnight have journeyed on my wood,

in darkness leaving me a mucous trail

crisscrossing truths I thought I understood.

To pull my leaves apart in search for truth

would be to find them bloodless as your own;

their rending would not wisdom give your youth,

nor knowledge of the summers I have known.

Our roots for now commingle, each in each,

and I learn more from you than I can teach.

Poems about art

New New Older Woman

July 3, 2009

Hello now

I've decided to post a New New Older Woman column occasionally, along with the old New Older Woman posts from long ago issues of the former Uptown News. There is now a new San Diego Uptown News as well, so things could not be more complicated. We won't go into that other than to say I am writing for it and you may access it on the Web.

Summer Camp, Hillcrest 2009

By Charlene Baldridge

Young people with laden backpacks

and tawny dogs walk the streets of Hillcrest.

Why, I do not know.

Perhaps it is almost July.

They camp by Washington Mutual, now called Chase,

across the street from the Crest Café.

Late Saturday night, when the moon was a thumbnail,

and I was feeling unrest as well as hunger,

I came out to find my car surrounded by black

and white and flashing lights.

Leaning against the wall outside the Brass Rail—

nothing like it on a Saturday night in Hillcrest—

I asked a man who leaned there too

what it was all about.

We’ve been tryin’ to figure that out, he said.

His breath was a story unto itself but he said

You be safe, ma’am, as I moved away.

The cops began to leave, and I eased over to my car.

Soon everyone was gone, and as I cut through

the Chase lot towards home, I saw them,

the young men with laden backpacks and tawny dogs,

walking north, along the narrow alley towards University

and perhaps another campground.

Hello then: June 1996 Uptown Newsmagazine

For my own transition to independence in 1992 I moved into a charming Craftsman four-plex in what was then called Golden Hill. It was what I could afford, and I loved the idiosyncratic layout of the apartment, on the second floor, up a long flight of darkly stained stairs. I loved the eclectic, creative, thriving mix of the neighborhood, and made friends with the homeless couple who slept on the church porch down the block.

For a house-warming gift my children gave me a solid-core door and a dead-bolt lock. On the other hand, one of my friends gave me a session with a psychic healer. Which provided the greater protection, I may not know; however I have since learned that there had been a murder in my apartment, and that's why it remained empty for so long a time before I moved in.

I choose to believe that it remained vacant while it waited for me and that somehow my presence dispelled any lingering evil.

"Didn't you know?" my informant asked/

"No," I said. "I sensed that bad things had happened here, but I always felt safe and embraced."

A year ago, when I quit the security of my paying job and announced I intended to write full time, my children really became alarmed. Like my accountant, they fail to understand this leap of faith. They haven't read the line from Adrienne Rich's Transcendental Etude that inspires me daily: "...there comes a time--perhaps this is one of them--when we have to take ourselves more seriously or die..."

There came a time in my life when I had to become my unvarnished self or die. When this time arrives, we must do what pleases us, what brings us joy. It is time for our soul work. We must write and speak the truth without fear. Further, we must no longer be affected by our children's worry or disapproval. We strove to understand them in their transitions, allowed them their cross-dressing, drug experimentation, their dubious friends, their testing of our limits and their unaccountably late hours. Now it is time for them to do the same for us, to seek to understand us and allow us to become more our selves.

How can they possibly understand the urgency of age? The need to do, to taste, to see, to fulfill all that was suppressed so long in caring for them and in setting a good example.

At some level, their tacit and spoken disapproval still hurts: the forgotten birthday, the silent phone. but I wouldn't trade this life on my own for the approval that would have been mine had I stayed in my emotionally sterile marriage, settled into my comfy recliner anesthetized by booze and the television and awaited death.

As a new older woman I own my right to do what my soul dictates, to lead the life it demands of me now as I am finding the courage to become more and more myself. I am learning not to depend on the approval of others. It is I who must approve of and care for me, emotionally and physically.

Quote of the month: "I always take the darker path. Not because it's dark but because there's a secret there that you can share when you get out."--Amanda Plummer, The New York Times, April 29, 1996.

Long Distance Calling

LONG DISTANCE, or a half hour with Jesus

March 1996, Uptown Newsmagazine

Ursula’s letter laments that our friend Joe died alone while traveling in New York. In response, I write that Joseph’s ICU nurse, knowing death was imminent, was with him all night and held his hands as he let go of life. In truth, we all face that moment alone, even though someone’s arms may be around us, and someone’s hands may hold ours.

Ursula also writes she envies my freedom to do what I want; and then in the same paragraph she writes she’s put her retirement off till the year 2000 because she wants the security of her job and its medical plan as well as the financial remuneration that allows her to continue traveling to exotic places. I tell her to stop beating herself up. If travel makes her happy she should continue working so long as the company allows her to do so.

“What are you going to do?” asked my tax accountant when she toted up 1995’s income and outgo.

“You must understand,” I replied, “that this is a leap of artistic and creative faith.”

“I’m an accountant,” she said. “I don’t understand ‘leap of faith.’” Then she added wistfully, “I almost wish I did.”

   If security were more important than fulfillment, I’d still be working for someone else and making ten times what I earned during the past year. If security were more important than freedom, I’d have remained in a long-term relationship with a man who was absent emotionally.

Friends are my most precious gifts these days. Erik lies on the floor, propped up by pillows, while we watch the video of “Moonstruck” he’s brought over. He reaches out several times during the film and squeezes my ankle affectionately. I realize suddenly that there is more intimacy and love in his touch than I received during the final ten years of my marriage.

Do you address fear in your work,” asks my friend Tom, “admit to it?”

Perhaps not. Perhaps I paint my life and myself too brave, too resilient. In many ways I am frightened. I do worry over the future, but I have to put up that brave front; it is all I have to protect myself against the possibility of failure.

What is failure? Isn’t it the time for expression that matters?

I admit that in the middle of the night and I am alone, fear sometimes assails me. I waken and murmur prayers of thanksgiving—for friends, a warm apartment and for the beauty that surrounds me. Surely something that feels so right, that brings such happiness will eventually sustain me.

I face uncertainty. Who doesn’t? What could be more exhilarating? I weigh each opportunity as it is presented, then choose to pursue the prospect or not. My decision is influenced less and less by how much money I’ll earn and more and more by what will satisfy me creatively and feed my soul.

   This morning in Balboa Park, a man stood near the Moreton Bay fig tree across from Old Globe Way. His attitude was that of a man talking on a cellular phone; his attire told me otherwise.

After I’d passed I could hear his voice. “So, you say I’ve got a half hour with Jesus? Put him on.”