The miracle in question was only performed to hasten the operation, under circumstances of present necessity, which required it. -Ben Franklin

Finished that belated, beloved, beleaguering NaNoWriMo contest at 50,267 words. What can I say: thanks to the divine. Amen to my mom and dad. Blessings to the organisers. Yiiipppeeehs and Yaya-cries to the other writers and GoGoGoGo to those who’re still slaving away at it! Exclamation mark time! Now I need to shake it all off and wipe my boots clean. A winner all the same.

Actually, I can’t believe I am writing again already! Worse: I am already thinking about the next novel! It happened in the car as I was listening to the intoxicating Jim Norton reading Ulysses…and I have plans for video and podcasts – on the last day, I even managed to record a novel excerpt as a podcast – you know how much I like La Voce. Divas. Verdi. La Callas. Aww.

What it meant: I am now estranged from Ms Flawnt. Fortunate for me, she is the forgiving type (though she doesn’t know it – that’s even better). Our daughter has begun to call me ‘mummy’ because, evidently, she has suppressed all memory that she has a father (that used to be me before nano). I haven’t been around much in SecondLife®…the chat’s too good there, too many distractions, and, as Mark Twain says, only swiftness in banging the keys counts. Hence, not much remains of this writer’s virtuality…one of the many things to be picked up again in December, and also, there is Black Friday to consider (less of a tragic, torturous event on the Old Continent, but still, who are we without regular, life-affirming, mind-numbing consumption).

Banging builds muscle, but...

‘Banging’ was my original title for this piece, but it’s perhaps not as relevant as its current title, ‘manifesting’. In previous reviews of my path through NaNoWriMo jungle, machete in hand, rubber boots on my feet, a turban slung around my head (aching from plot twisters), I have discussed gathering yer wits, digesting yer innards, listening to yerself…in the last week, I found that the hour of manifestion had come: I see manifestation as the ability to make something happen by drawing on all your resources, not just that clever little brain of ours, caffeine and nicotine drenched as it is in my case.

...only manifestation can make miracles happen.

On that last day, I needed a small miracle to finish: word count was good, but my characters were fighting with each other for my attention, besides my original heroine, another one, her opposite in every way, had appeared and captured the heart of my main character (MC), and even the MC’s lofty priority position was threatened by a character, who, in the course of several chapters, had shown staying power and an uncanny ability to hold the story together by its very presence. Even the location was in serious jeopardy: I had started in London, but about half way through the novel, my main cast relocated to a castle in the Scottish Highlands – should I lure them away from there for the grand finish (which I always imagined in a trendy city venue, or trust them? To put it shortly: I did not count on miracles though I felt I needed one. I was planning a major military operation dominated by me as field marshal, and I envisioned myself on a hill, leaning on a cannon, mumbling phyrrically: „Another victory like this and we’re done for.”

OK. Lemme put all this behind me. Rumour has it, that I’m being missed under Milk Wood, which is where I live. It’s time to return for timeless chat, banter and a small, measured amount of words every day, but not 1,667 (the required daily amount for NaNoWriMo). I have vowed to put the manuscript in a drawer for at least one month while I rebuild relationships with Ms Flawnt and with Little Miss Flawnt. I am daunted by the task of editing the beast. If you do, too, write to me and we shall whine side by side.

Virtually yours,
Flawnt Alchemi

A chocolate and peach fall wedding

I love the fall months when chocolate cosmos are locally available in the Bay Area.  Although they are not really “brown”, they are as close as you can get,  so it’s a real treat when the color scheme includes brown.  Check out these great pics from a wedding I did last month where I got to include these dainty flowers as well as some locally grown peach roses and white callas.  I used biodegradable cotton sateen ribbons and no floral foam of course!

The bride and groom were so pleasant to work with, and really excited about their big day!

Here the bride and bridesmaids are looking so cheerful.  I love those long brown bridesmaid dresses.

I couldn’t decide which peach was better, the more orang-y peach or pink-y peach, so I added a little of both as well as some really light peach-ish white roses.

Here’s the cake, that had cream frosting that went perfectly well with my peachish white roses.  There’s the extra boutonniere and throw bouquet I made for the bride and groom… boutonnieres rarely make it through a full wedding and reception full of congratulatory hugs.

The bride and groom were married at a quaint vineyard in Livermore: Deer Ridge Vineyards.  The Photography was done by www.schoenfeldt.com

In Local Green,

G&G

Bruns street wear

That Mother fucka always write in english and I don’t understand porra nenhuma.

O memorial do Bruns não para de crescer. Felizmente o cara tem o corpo fechado e não sofre nada, só os ferros entortam.

Azar ou sorte da bela Callas, que precisou de um transplante de quadro.

Abaixo a explicação da baixaria.

Oups...

Voltando do casório do nosso amigo, a menos de 30 metros de casa, um carro que estava em movimento resolve entrar no prédio à esquerda.

Mas antes, ele deu seta. Uns 0.32 segundos antes de virar de fato…

Meu reflexo foi desviar do carro e usar o outro parado como amortecedor enquanto eu tentava (e como tentei) parar a fixa. Não deu. Bati forte e caí em pé (!). Nada de batidas de cabeça ou mesmo corpos ralando no chão. Não aconteceu nada comigo. Já a Callas…

Ela entortou a frente e as fotos em p/b falam por si.

Inviável

O motorista do carro saiu, veio falar comigo, perguntou se estava tudo bem comigo, com a bike. Eu só respondia que estava tudo bem e que não havia acontecido nada. De lá eu saí com a bike no ombro e fui para casa, logo ali.

(dois dias depois…)

Um aviso do Multiply me avisa que o Mocó do Canna tem novidades. Entre elas um quadro Caloi 10 Triathlon recém pintado. Por acaso, quase na mesma cor que Callas original. A diferença principal é a geometria. Agora a roda fica mais embaixo da bunda (ui!) o que deixa a bike mais rápida e até mais no chão (primeiras impressões ainda).

Ressurgida das cinzas

Montamos a bike na terça e o resultado é esse aí.

Talvez você não perceba nenhuma diferença. Isso é intencional =D

Abraços,
Bruns

ps. “Agradeço a graça alcançada”. Thanks to Canna’s Mocó Inc.

 Pertenezco al grupo que dicen que “no está ni ahí” y desde el día en que cumplí 18 años decidí que cambiaría eso, siempre se puede hacer algo. Así que como primera medida, fui a una junta inscriptora para poder inscribirme en el “registro electoral”… en conclusión, de “pingüina” pasé a ser “ciudadana”, cual gusano se convierte en mariposa. Y desde ese momento, convertí mi título de ciudadana en ese bendito pase que ahora me da toda la autoridad del mundo para opinar de lo que sea, sí, incluso de política, pero siempre con mucho respeto. He visto muchos jóvenes que no votan y la respuesta es que ningún candidato los representa…. He visto adultos que no votan por la misma razón… y claro, después todos dicen que quieren que Chile sea visto como potencia mundial… ja! Como quieren eso si hay muchos chilenos que no son capaces de opinar incluso en forma anónima y que a la hora de criticar son los primeros en la fila. A todas estas personas que no votan, les digo con mucho respeto, que no sé que están esperando. Créanme, que no va a llegar el viejito pascuero con una bandeja de plata a llevarles un proyecto de partido político que se ajuste exactamente a sus gustos y preferencias… eso NO va a pasar… si no hay partidos políticos que los representen muévanse… aprovechemos, los “jóvenes”, esa fuerza y vitalidad que tenemos, somos inteligentes y contamos con muchas herramientas, el internet no sirve solo para jugar. Si hay alguien que no está de acuerdo “con lo que hay”, lo llamo a que se mueva, a que cree un blog, una página web o lo que sea, que busque un par de amigos y se enfoque en comunicar sus ideas, porque tirado en la cama NUNCA va a encontrar a ese “ideal político que lo represente”. Y a ese grupo, no menor, que se dedica a criticar el sistema y que en la instancia que tiene para poder opinar… duerme, o se va lejos para no tener que votar… le digo, con mucho cariño… haciendo una analogía con lo que el mismo Rey de España le dijo a Hugo, … “No votantes… por qué no se callan”

*Siento mucho no haber escrito en tantos días, pero la vida universitaria resulta, a veces, agobiante.

Bride’s bouquet of Schwarzwalder calla lilies and green beargrass, finished with white organza, wire and pearls. Matching maids’ bouquets made with Majestic Red Callas and black beargrass and organza with crystal detail. Men’s buttonholes made to match.

It happens. Hiding: it is a thing.

“Love is so much better when you’re not married.” — Maria Callas

Maria Callas – Queen of the Night aria, “Der Hölle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen,” The Magic Flute (W.A. Mozart)

I finally have free time and I’m hiding from my writing today. I need to think about why. I think I know. But I need to admit it.

Hylocereus undatus, or Night-blooming cereus, sometimes called the Queen of the Night.

The nightblooming cereus is also known as the lunar flower, moon flower and luna flower. … The plant grows as a thin, almost dead looking stick from a single stem in the ground. They bloom just on one or two nights of the year. Pack rats often eat these blossoms before morning, so catching a glimpse of them can be fleeting. — The wiki.

And there you have it.

Well, that all went quickly, didn’t it?

Yesterday was the first day of the Michaelmas quarter at my son’s school. Hence summer is, for all practical purposes, already receding into the realms of fast-fading memory, at least in this household — cue that much-loved season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, coupled with the novelty of being able to engage in all the more innocuous forms of daytime activity free from extensive cross-questioning, Lego everywhere underfoot and the need to keep up with a five-year old’s pace, persistence and volume. Once again I can make a cup of coffee whenever I like, or pursue a train of thought, or simply spend a few minutes staring into space, listening to soft unemphatic rhythms of cats padding up and down the stairs — or, indeed, should I feel that way inclined, turn my attention to whatever’s been happening in the slightly wider, non-domestic world during the weeks I’ve been away from it. It’s time, in other words, for a bit of autumnal Blasting & Blessing.

First, no matter how broad a swathe of unbecoming emotional frailty I’m exposing by admitting that I notice, let alone care about such things, well — bless this, and this too. However improbably, someone out there not only enjoys the distinctive cocktail of cats, archaeology, complaints about David Cameron, encomia to little-known long-dead war artists and all-purpose reactionary interjections that constitutes the Fugitive Ink project — weird enough, when one stops to consider it — but also took the time to vote accordingly. Warmest thanks, both all of you. The encouragement matters more than it probably should.

What next? I know, let’s take this opportunity to blast the expensively-acquired constitutional deformity that is regional devolution. Lacking any particularly strong view on the complicity or otherwise of Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi in the Lockerbie bombing, I was largely unmoved by the decision to free him. Yet while I can well understand why most of my American friends expressed such shock at the concept of ‘compassionate release’, a certain ambient reluctance to keep convicted killers in prison here in Britain really should have come as no surprise. After all, if the United Kingdom could see its way to releasing 450 convicted terrorists, the majority of them presumably healthy and active, back into the communities in which they carried out their crimes — the UK government having been encouraged mightily in this enterprise, lest we forget, by successive US administrations, as part of some ongoing ‘peace process’ — then why on earth should anyone expect the UK to show reluctance in forwarding one sick man back to that longstanding arms supplier to the PIRA, the catchily-named Great Socialist People’s Libyan Arab Jamahiriya?

That, however bitter in tone, remains an incidental complaint. The real point, in contrast, is that there’s something deeply odd about a system where politicians within devolved regional assembly are able to make decisions with consequences for the foreign policy of the entire United Kingdom, safely insulated from the electoral will of the British people as a whole — just as there’s something jarring about Labour’s ‘nothing to do with us, mate’ reaction to Abdelbaset Ali al-Megrahi’s release. The quiet superiority of time-tested, long-standing constitutional arrangements relies, in no small part, on the grace with which they have learned to avoid embarrassments, scandals and confusions of this sort. Evolved wisdom, however, has, since 1998, been replaced by rationalisation. In revolutionising the traditional relationships between the UK’s constituent parts, the Labour government promised us, amongst all sorts of blandishments and threats, access to some sort of enhanced democratic accountability. Well, it certainly doesn’t look that way in London right at the moment. And no, the fact that the Scots don’t seem too impressed either doesn’t make me any happier about this wholly unedifying little parable of constitutional dysfunctionality. Shall we start countin the minutes until all of this becomes an argument for full-fledged Scottish independence?

On, anyway, to a cheerier topic — albeit one laced liberally with violence, moral equivocation and death, since even in posts headed up with a picture of a cat, Fugitive Ink really doesn’t do ‘lighthearted’ quite the way other blogs do.

Bless other people’s taste in music, especially when it doesn’t — at least initially — coincide with my own. At the beginning of the summer, a friend who, for some reason, reacted to my ignorance of nineteenth century Italian opera with pity and didactic zeal rather than e.g. the contempt that ignorance doubtless deserved, loaned me, first, a DVD of Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazon in their 2005 production of Verdi’s La Travia, and then a CD of Donizetti’s Poliuto, with Maria Callas and Franco Corelli heading up the 1960 La Scala performance.

Each, in its own way, was a sort of revelation. Of course, for someone who usually subsists on a steady diet of J. S. Bach’s sacred cantatas, the music seems light, inconsequential and (in the case of La Traviata) blighted here and there with patches of toxic over-familiarity. The stories are, in general, silly. There’s a heavy weight of disbelief to keep suspended, in a way that sometimes feels like hard work. But then the minute one lets one’s guard down, what a lot of genuine delight one finds here! Having harboured ungenerous suspicions regarding my friend’s admiration for the glossily curvaceous Ms Netrebko, these were dispelled by the growing realisation that there’s something to be said for an operatic soprano who can act and indeed charm as well as sing — although for what it’s worth, her expressive range turns out to be such that singing, acting and charm swiftly become indistinguishable. Villazon clowns and sighs with equal persuasiveness, while Thomas Hampson’s Germont Sr. is transformed from grumpy old kill-joy into a truly sympathetic figure, making much more psychological sense of this potentially overheated and stale confection than is often the case. Even the odd, modernised and minimalist staging ultimately fails to detract from the vibrancy, pace and conviction of the performance. Having opened the DVD case as a thorough-going Verdi sceptic, hoping to get quite a lot of ironing done while ‘watching’ a noisy array of amiable nonsense, I lived through those final scenes absolutely on the edge of my seat, ironing long forgotten, carried away by the power of drama about which I was no longer able to feel superior or cynical.

As for Poliuto, the surprise in this recording was the force with which it managed to convey the absolute charisma of two highly individualistic, uneven, in some sense flawed but certainly unforgettable performers. Too much of my experience of Callas, in particular, has consisted of what are basically three-minute songs, decontexualised both in terms of narrative and musical development, half-heard on Radio 3 while in the middle of doing something more important. Working through Poliuto again and again, however — because I’ve listened to it a lot this summer, listening to opera being one of the few forms of mental stimulation compatible with playing the make-believe games imposed upon me by a lively and loud young child — has taught me something not only about the basis of Callas’ star-power (her fame and popularity such cruelly mixed blessings, as indeed they may already be proving for Netrebko) but also about what makes opera beautiful, compelling and important — not formal perfection alone, certainly, because it’s the flaws and personal oddities, the gambles that might not come off but in fact do, that bring the whole conventionalised and otherwise sterile project alive, that ultimately make it matter. Altogether, anyway, that’s a fair amount of distance to have travelled, in the course of a rather house-bound and limiting London summer.

From the sublime, we move in one quick paragraph break to the realms of the ridiculous. Blast the notion that the Conservative party is, or ever has been, ‘progressive’. Leave aside for the moment — well, for as long as you like, because I’ve no intention of addressing it here — the extent to which such a claim might conceivably be justified historically, let alone the intellectual sloppiness that fails to distinguish between, for instance, driving confidently towards an intended destination and clutching frantically at the handbreak in order to avoid a catastrophic crash. No, what annoys me here is the culpably lazy, oh-why-not-what-harm-can-it-do willingness to mount the teleological treadmill that the language of ‘progress’ implies — that, coupled with the Conservative Party’s disconcerting willingness to speak of ‘progress’ while adopting stances that are anything but, by the standards of people who like that sort of thing, ‘progressive’.

Where’s the ‘progress’, for instance, in placing punitive taxes on the more demotic forms of alcoholic drink, rather than getting to grips with the closing-time criminality which is the real problem? Where’s the ‘progress’ in this — whether construed as a populist take on old-fashioned wage-and-price controls, or indeed a re-telling of this, minus the metric competence and marginally scary delivery? Where’s the ‘progress’ in the party leadership’s much-proclaimed ‘love’ for a socialist healthcare system, the malformed relic of a concept of social planning and provision in which virtually no one has really believed since perhaps some point in the mid 1950s, presumably ‘loveable’ for nothing other than the thoroughly blood-and-soil logic that, full of flaws and failings though it no doubt is, it is nonetheless our own?

Let us pass swiftly on from this. Bless this for appearing, at long last, better late than never — I’m looking forward to it, especially after reading a very positive review by the reliably sensible David Sexton in the London Evening Standard. (Strangely, the review isn’t available on line, hence no link.) And while we’re at it, blast — mildly — the fact that this isn’t due out for a whole year, because while I doubt that it can match the perfect pitch of shaggy-dog-story indirection present in Barcelona, it’s still bound to be worth reading.

Finally — and this is very much one to file away under ‘guilty pleasures that turn out to be less guilty than initially anticipated’ — bless Rory Stewart’s memoir of his winter walk through central Afghanistan,  The Places In Between. Expecting to be mildly appalled, if perhaps entertained, by a well-connected yet resourcefully self-promoting Old Etonian’s reminiscences of what he did on his winter holidays — in case you’re wondering, I’d read this, wasn’t sure what I thought about it, so went off searching for context — I ended up absolutely captivated by the elegance, sanity and occasional eccentricity of this remarkable book, in which formal greetings, names and titles are set out with almost hypnotic regularity in more or less every chapter, while a curt but damning assessment of Western intervention in Afghanistan is consigned to a footnote at the bottom of page 272.

Loose ends are rarely tidied up here, complexities are left unsimplified. Perhaps this is why it rings true. In any event, so mesmerisingly persuasive is The Places In Between, indeed, that one ends up embracing as entirely correct even those features that at first felt a lot like editorial mistakes — the lack of detailed maps, for instance, or the absence of photographs, whether of crop-eared yellow-eyed mastiffs, the decrepit mass of a tumbledown caravanserai or the Minaret of Jam. The purpose of the walk itself is never really squarely addressed, let alone explained, but somehow this omission ends up lending the picaresque simplicity of the story a surprising degree of depth. Romanticism and realism turn out to be closely conjoined in this book. Some, I suppose, would shrug and say that this comes with the Orientalist territory. Alternatively, it might reflect some sort of wider truth regarding the nature of cross-cultural collision.

In any event, there’s a lot to learn here. Stewart’s treatment of Afghan religion — its thoroughly complicated history, resulting diversity and current all-pervasive significance — is particularly impressive, although probably unpalatable for those who like their accounts of Islam simple, nuance-free and negative. Above all else, though, The Places In Between is the sort of book that makes one wish to do something. My first response was to wish that I had an intelligent ten-year old godson to whom I could post a copy, suspecting as I did that this potent blend of adventure, clear-eyed observation and unabashed moral alertness is slightly wasted on the middle-aged, much-encumbered and all-too-often sedentary.

Later on, however, I suddenly developed an urge to walk somewhere. True, central London in early autumn lacks the magnificent strangeness, the obvious danger and daunting solitude, the physical and psychological challenges posed by Stewart’s journey through Afghanistan in midwinter — but our large grey metropolis not without its own small surprises, not without the possibility of glimpsing some flash of exoticism under the carapace of the familiar or tripping over the odd incidental insight. For most of the world, spring is the season of voyage, exploration and discovery. But for those of us who find ourselves now bound by the unanswerable logic of school term-time and holidays, it’s autumn that brings, along with that first chill in the air, a sort of rebirth, the encouraging freshness of yet another way of living.

Thực ra chẳng có cái quái j` là thù hận ở đây cả, chỉ là tên 1 cái duet trong Rigoletto mà tớ rất thích:
Về âm nhac, Rigoletto xứng đáng là kiệt tác của Verdi, với sự cân đối trong tất cả các màn, nhiều trích đoạn hay, với một cốt truyện hấp dẫn, gây ấn tượng dựa trên kịch bản của “Nhà vua vui chơi” (Le roi s’amuse) của Hugo. Thật không khó hiểu khi Rigoletto trở thành standard repertoire của hầu hết các nhà hát opera quan trọng.

Màn 1 và màn 3 vốn có nhiều trích đoạn nổi tiếng, thường xuyên được sử dụng trong các gala, festival, concert hay các cuộc thi thanh nhạc. Ngay vào màn 1 đã có một ballad  “questa o quella” đấy hấp dẫn của Công tước, sang đến cảnh 2 đầy mùi mẫn với 1 love duet của Công tước và Gilda, rồi đc chốt hạ bằng “Gualtier Maldé! …Caro Nome” – aria hết sức mơ mộng của cô nàng Gilda. Màn cuối ngoài cái quartet nổi tiếng “Bella figlia dell’amore” thì là quả aria “La donna è mobile” của anh chàng Công tước phóng đãng, phổ biến đến nỗi nó không chỉ còn thuộc về sân khấu opera nữa mà đã đi ra ngoài thế giới âm nhạc đại chúng.

Tuy nhiên màn 2 mới thực sự là quyến rũ và kịch tính nhất và cũng là màn tớ thích nhất. Aria mở màn 2 của công tước không thực sự nổi bật, nhưng liền tiếp là caballetta “Possente amor mi chiama” đầy sôi động với note Rế giáng kết đủ sức làm toàn bộ khán giả đê mê. Khi Công tước còn đang mải cưỡng đoạt Gilda bên trong, Rigoletto ở bên ngoài thì van xin cầu cạnh, rất tội nghiệp, cực kì gây ép phê. Cảnh cuối màn 2 , của 2 bố con Rigoletto được kết bằng duet “trả thù” nổi tiếng. Ở cái duet này, các anh chị liên tiếp show hàng bằng quả Mí giáng (với Sop) và la giáng (với bar) trên nền nhạc sôi nổi, dồn dập kiểu caballetta. YIH xin giới thiệu aria và duet cuối màn 2 cho bà con thưởng thức.

Download: aria/duet : Tutte le feste al tempio – Rigoletto – Verdi
Beverly Sills(soprano), Sherill Milnes (baritone), Julius Rudel (Conductor)
Recorded in 1978-1979

Bối cảnh: Gilda rũ rượi, ê chề bước ra khỏi căn phòng, nơi cô vừa bị chính người yêu mình, công tước Mantua, cưỡng đoạt và thú nhận sự việc với Rigolleto, cha cô. Rigoletto, đau đớn, bất lực trước tình cảnh đáng thương của con gái….

GILDA
Tutte le feste al tempio
mentre pregava Iddio,
bella e fatale un giovine
offriasi al guardo mio…
se i labbri nostri tacquero,
dagl’occhi il cor, il cor parlò.
Furtivo fra le tenebre
sol ieri a me giungeva…
“Sono studente, povero, ”
commosso mi diceva,
e con ardente palpito
amor mi protestò.
Partì… il mio core aprivasi
a speme più gradita,
quando improvvisi apparvero
color che m’han rapita,
e a forza qui m’addussero
nell’ansia più crudel.
RIGOLETTO
Ah!
(da sè)
(Solo per me l’infamia
a te chiedeva, o Dio…
ch’ella potesse ascendere
quanto caduto er’io…
Ah presso del patibolo
bisogna ben l’altare!..
ma tutto ora scompare…
l’altare… si rovesciò!)
(a Gilda)
Piangi, fanciulla piangi…
GILDA
Padre!
RIGOLETTO
…scorrer, scorrer fa il pianto sul mio cor.
GILDA
Padre, in voi parla un angel
per me consolator.
RIGOLETTO
Piangi, fanciulla, usw
Compiuto pur quanto a fare mi resta…
lasciare potremo quest’aura funesta.
GILDA
Si
RIGOLETTO
(E tutto un sol giorno cangiare potè)
-
GILDA
Vào mỗi ngày, chốn giáo đường tôn nghiêm
Nơi con vẫn đến nguyện cầu, chăm chỉ.
Một chàng trai khôi ngô, tuấn kiệt,
Đứng ở nơi con trông thấy dễ dàng
Dù cặp môi nín lặng, chẳng cất lời,
Nhưng ánh mắt cũng nói lên bao điều trìu mến.
Âm thầm lặng lẽ, đêm qua, chàng đã đến,
Để gặp con trong buổi đầu tiên
“Ta rất nghèo và chỉ là 1 gã sinh viên”
Giọng của chàng nghe sao dịu dàng quá.
Và không chút ngại ngần, chàng bày tỏ,
Những lời yêu thương say đắm nồng nàn
Rồi chàng đi… Bỏ lại trái tim con đập rộn ràng
Chìm đắm trong những giấc mơ ngọt ngào nhất
Bỗng những kẻ lạ, từ đâu xuất hiện
Bằng vũ lực, bắt cóc con,
Mang đến nơi đây
Ôi những sợ hãi , bạo tàn, đắng cay…
RIGOLETTO
(tự than)
Ah!
Ta đã cầu xin ngài, ôi Đức Chúa
những điều ô nhục, hãy dành hết cho ta
Vì con bé cần phải được thanh trong
thay cho những bùn đen ta đã lấm.
Ôi, cần lắm, một ngôi đền linh thiêng, thanh khiết
bên cạnh cái giá treo cổ tàn nhẫn thế kia.
Nhưng giờ đây, tất cả đều đã nát tan
Ngôi đến thiêng ấy cũng không còn nữa.
(vỗ về Gilda)
Hãy cứ khóc, con yêu, khóc đi cho cạn hết…
GILDA
Cha!
RIGOLETTO
…Để nước mắt đắng cay thấm ướt ngực ta.
GILDA
Cha ơi, những thiên thần như đang an ủi con,
Từ những lời cha vỗ về, thủ thỉ.
RIGOLETTO
Hãy khóc đi, con gái yêu thương…
Rồi cha con ta sẽ cùng thoát khỏi nơi đây khốn kiếp
Khi ta xong hết những việc ở đây…
GILDA
Vâng.
RIGOLETTO
(Tất cả đã đổi thay, chỉ trong một ngày, duy nhất!)
**********

Duet: Sì, vendetta, tremenda vendetta
Bối cảnh: Rigoletto đang an ủi vỗ về con gái sau chuyện xảy ra, chợt thấy đám lính gác đang áp giải Monterone, một nạn nhân đã bị Công tước xứ Mantua làm hại. Monterone ngậm ngùi thốt lên rằng, dù Công tước đã bị nguyền rủa, nhưng ông trời vẫn không trừng phạt cho những tội lỗi xấu xa của hắn. Tình cờ nghe thấy lời than thở, lửa hận trong lòng Rigoletto chợt bốc lên…

RIGOLETTO
Sì, vendetta, tremenda vendetta
di quest’anima è solo desio…
di punirti già l’ora saffretta,
che fatale per te tuonerà.
Come fulmin scagliato da Dio,
te colpire il buffone saprà.
GILDA
O mio padre, qual gioja feroce
balenarvi ne gl’occhi vegg’io!..
RIGOLETTO
Vendetta!
GILDA
Perdonate, a noi pure una voce
di perdono dal cielo verrà.
RIGOLETTO
Vendetta!
GILDA
Perdonate,usw.,
RIGOLETTO
No!
GILDA
Perdonate,usw.,
RIGOLETTO
No!
GILDA
Mi tradiva, pur l’amo, gran Dio!
per l’ingrato ti chiedo pietà!
RIGOLETTO
Come fulmin scagliato da Dio,
te colpire il buffone saprà.
—————
RIGOLETTO
Đúng, phải trả thù, trả thù tàn khốc!
Điều duy nhất ta thèm khát bây giờ
Thời khắc trừng phạt ngươi đến rồi
Cái thời khắc cuối cùng của ngươi đó
Như lưỡi tầm sét từ cánh tay của Chúa
Tên hề này quyết quật ngã quỵ ngươi.
GILDA
Ôi cha tôi , niềm vui nào đáng sợ
Đang lóe lên trong ánh mắt của cha!
RIGOLETTO
Thù này phải trả!
GILDA
Hãy bỏ qua, cha có nghe, trên kia
Lời Chúa dạy, rằng hãy biết thứ tha
RIGOLETTO
Thù này phải trả!
GILDA
Xin hãy tha cho chàng!….
RIGOLETTO
Đừng hòng!
GILDA
Xin hãy tha cho chàng!….
RIGOLETTO
Không!
GILDA
Chàng phản bội ta, ta vẫn yêu, lậy Chúa
Xin rủ lòng thương cho kẻ bội ước kia.
RIGOLETTO
Như lưỡi tầm sét từ cánh tay của Chúa
Tên hề này quyết quật ngã quỵ ngươi.
———-
Dịch bởi Yes_Iam_here @ nhaccodien.info

Download:
1.Sì, vendetta, tremenda vendetta – Rigoletto – Verdi
Maria Callas (soprano), Tito Gobbi (baritone), Tullio Serafin (conductor)
Emi/ Recorded in September 1955
2.Sì, vendetta, tremenda vendetta – Rigoletto – Verdi
Joan Sutherland (soprano), Sherrills Milnes(baritone), Richard Bonynge (conductor)
Decca/ Recorded in June 1971

The contrast of these callas provided a perfect opportunity to emphasize the lines and shapes

of these beautiful flowers.

Marianna deve andare all’opera. Dico deve, perché i suoi genitori hanno deciso di acculturarla, preoccupati a vederla sempre con nelle orecchie le cuffie dell’ipod e giù di Britney Spears. Gliel’hanno detto, che ci deve andare, come le dicono che deve andare dal dentista a mettersi l’apparecchio, e lei con lo stesso spirito ci si appresta: con l’entusiasmo di chi va al patibolo, o per lo meno ad una seduta in sala torture. Così passa da me, dalla zia putativa, con un muso lungo che tocca i ginocchi.

“Mi portano a vedere Rigoletto.” dice depressa, incrocia le braccia sotto il mento e con lo sguardo, in giro, bazzica la mia collezione di cd di melodramma, occhiandoli come se ogni dischetto fosse un suo nemico personale. Quando viene da me, di solito, si frega mp3 di Madonna e George Michael, Christina Aguillera, Duffy, gli Articolo31. Non capisce proprio come possa piacere l’opera ad una che, per il resto, dimostra, in fatto di musica, ottimi gusti.

Se c’è qualcosa che apprezzo della mia infanzia è il fatto che i miei genitori non hanno fatto niente perché diventassi colta. Mi hanno lasciato razzolare per casa così, come capita capita, senza curarsene troppo o darsi degli obiettivi. C’erano i libri, lasciati a portata di mano senza controllo alcuno, c’erano le conversazioni, orecchiabili liberamente; ecco, di dischi ce n’erano pochini, ai miei la musica non piace granché: più che altro venivo lasciata parcheggiata davanti alla tv, se volevo ascoltare qualcosa, e il qualcosa era il più delle volte lo Zecchino d’Oro. Musica classica, a casa mia, non se ne ascoltava: i miei erano stati tirati su in famiglie che gliela avevano imposta come parte doverosa dell’educazione, con il bel risultato che al sentire il trillo di un soprano tutt’oggi gli si intorcola lo stomaco: le sanno tutte a memoria, le arie, con le parole giuste e nota per nota, ma al solo intuirne accennare una scappano via. Per cui la musica è stata una scoperta tutta mia.

Me la ricordo ancora, perfettamente, la prima volta che ho sentito cantare l’opera. Avrò avuto cinque anni, se li avevo: era una domenica pomeriggio, lo so perché guardavamo Domenica In. Ad un certo punto Pippo Baudo ha annunciato che sarebbe andato in onda un film, credo di Zeffirelli, La Traviata. Mia zia, lesta lesta, si è avvicinata allo schermo – non c’erano i telecomandi al tempo – per spegnerlo, perché allora c’era credo un canale solo, quindi cambiare non era possibile.

“Nooo! Ci sono i bei vestiti!” ho detto io, perché la prima immagine era una signora mora con addosso una meravigliosa crinolina blu, tutta a balze.

“Ma guarda che è noioso, cantano!” ha replicato la zia, preoccupata.

Niente da fare: “Voglio vederlo!” ho quasi gridato, e mi sono piazzata di fronte alla tv, con le sopracciglia aggrottate e un broncio combattivo che non lasciava presagire nulla di buono, come a dire: “Provatici a schiodarmi da qui, se credi!”.

Zia non ha fatto neanche l’atto di tentare, conoscendo il mio caratterino e convinta com’era che, al primo entro dell’orchestra, me la sarei data a gambe per conto mio. Invece no, sono rimasta ipnotizzata, manco mi avessero tolto il fiato di botto. Di quello che cantavano non capivo una cippa, è ovvio, ma la musica, la musica, era una cosa che non potevi smettere di ascoltare: era bella, bella, bella, ma proprio bella, come la signora che cantava, e io una voce così non l’avevo sentita mai: pareva venire giù direttamente dal Paradiso, perfetta, eppure anche così calda: anche se non si capiva cosa dicesse, ero in grado di intuire subito quando era felice, e quando triste, e che quel Germont lì doveva mica essere simpatico, se la trattava male così.

Non sono mai diventata una melomane, e nemmeno una esperta d’opera, me ne mancano le conoscenze tecniche: non ho studiato musica seriamente, so leggere a stento un pentagramma, non so di preciso cosa sia una coloritura, un fraseggio; quando sento chi ne sa confrontare le varie versioni di un’aria, discettare con competenza sui pregi dell’interpretazione ed individuarne i difetti sto in silenzio e non metto bocca, perché non è roba mia. Ascolto l’opera come altri possono andare al cinema o al Luna Park, cioè per divertimento puro, che non vuol dire per ridere, ma per essere travolti da quello che cantano. Ecco, forse il termine giusto è che io l’opera non la ascolto, la sento, come qualcosa che vibra dentro anche se non sai esattamente spiegare dove, o perché.

Quando Violetta Valery canta Libiamo, brindo con lei, e quando poi la sento singhiozzare disperata sull’ultima lettera del mancato suocero: “E’ tardi, è tardi!”, be’ io sono lì che a momenti piango io pure, e l’istinto sarebbe montare sul palco e prendere Alfredo a calci in culo, ma non per salvarle la vita, eh, solo per chiarirgli quanto è cretino. Se Leonora intona Tacea la notte placida mi sdilinquo, non parliamo poi di o mio Babbino Caro del Gianni Schicchi, la cosa più bella che abbiano mai composto, a parer mio; tifo per Tosca smaccatamente, ché quando zompa da Castel Sant’Angelo quasi quasi mi vien da dire: “Tiè!” ai Gendarmi, e a tutto il Potere Costituito, anche se proprio non capisco mai cosa ci trovasse in quel Cavaradossi lì, che come pittore m’è sempre sembrato una ciofeca, e come eroe un mona, si fa sgamare in un un niente, quasi quasi è meglio Scarpia, che ha il fascino del Male e poi, come baritono, di solito è pure meno cicciotello…

Ma adoro anche le smagate protagoniste mozartiane, le Zerbine che son le uniche a pigliar per il sedere persino i Don Giovanni, perché, da furbe contadinotte, san bene che un amante nobile passa, ma l’importante è tenersi poi sempre di riserva un marito bifolco; le Susanne fedeli ma non stupidotte, degne mogli dei Figaro; le Fiordiligi e le Dorabelle che si scambiano i morosi, seguendo i consigli di una servetta scaltra, perché apprendono che, al di là di tutte le pretese virtù, in fin dei conti sia gli uomini che le donne son poi tutti uguali, e uno vale l’altro, via. E mi piacciono, sì, mi piacciono alla follia gli spadoni di cartapesta del Trovatore, che per essere maneggiati da Manrico devono essere smaccatamente falsi, patacconi da scena sventolati come nei vecchi film di cappa e spada, perché il Trovatore è così, un giocattolone in cui il coro si muove come la cavalleria negli western, e a Manrico gli perdoni persino la congenita monaggine e il preoccupante mammismo perché ti rendi conto che è un personaggio romantico fatto e finito, compiutamente popolare e, grazie a Dio, pensato per aver in sottofondo una bella orchestra piena, non Edipo ed il suo complesso. Mi piacciono, uh se mi piacciono, i Rigoletti e le Gilde, anche se non riesco mai a trovare alla fin fine antipatico il povero Duca di Mantova, perché a me gli impenitenti mascalzoni han sempre fatto sangue, persino quando non sono più scattanti paggi del duca di Norfòlk ma, appesantitisi per l’età, come Falstaff non possono far altro che rammentare con grazia la smilza giovinezza gaudente. Mi piace Verdi, che è come la pastasciutta: semplice ma allo stesso tempo incredibilmente raffinata, tanto che la puoi servire dove ti pare, in versione extralusso da ristorante chic o nello stand gastronomico della fiera di paese, ed è sempre buona. Ma poi perdo la testa per Puccini, e Leoncavallo, e Bizet; e se Wagner, lo confesso, invece mi lascia freddina, mi faccio proprio prendere dall’entusiasmo per Gluck, e ancor meglio per Haendel, il cui Aci e Galatea è persino all’origine del mio nick.

Cerco di spiegargliela così, a Marianna, l’opera, come un film in tecnicolor, come un grande gioco per tutti, non una esangue ed intellettuale messa in scena per colti e raffinati esperti dal sorriso congelato in smorfia di sufficienza. Sì, lo so, sbaglio, non le faccio cogliere magari le finezze, taglio via con l’accetta, farei inorridire i veri intenditori. Ma i Micheli non sono a portata d’orecchio, stanno dando pareri sulla tecnica per le cabalette altrove, o decodificano bicchieri di whiskey, e se io svacco anche un po’ nessuno mi sgrida. Così, invece di presentargliela come una penitenza o un dovuto ma forzoso omaggio alla cultura che si deve immagazzinare per far figura in società, gliela racconto come pare a me, l’opera, e mentre le spiego la trama e illustro l’evolversi della complicata vicenda fra Gilda, Maddalena, la contessa di Ceprano e i vari cornuti che il Duca dissemina allegramente nel corso di tre atti, le faccio sentire i mozziconi d’arie, il Ca-ro-no-me-chel-mio-còr che cambia come una cartina di tornasole a seconda di chi lo intona, perché con la Sutherland è proprio il sospiro di una sedicenne persa nel primo amore, trillante e zuccheroso, e cantato dalla Callas è invece una cosa che già senti piena di passione pericolosa, un t’amo e sono capace di ammazzarmi, che, per quanto dolce, avverti un brivido e capisci già che va a finir male.

Marianna ascolta, ed è già tanto. Il broncio non sparisce, ma almeno diventa più dubitoso. Alla fine mi chiede, molto perplessa ma possibilista: “Ma tu dici che mi diverto, anche?”

Sì, Marianna. Anche sì.

PS: Quasi quasi, dopo il successo con la nipotina, inauguro una sezione di Badilate di Cultura dedicata all’opera. Non da esperta, eh. Diciamo “Opera for dummies”. I veri esperti non mi massacrino: sono invitati a collaborare, ovviamente.

 A random selection of bride and bridesmaid’s bouquets that I’ve put together over the last year or so. Mainly roses mixed with other beautiful goodies.

Table arrangement made from speargrass, moss, chincherinchees, spray carnations, chrysanthemums, mini callas and alstromerias.

Bride’s pageant-style bouquet of white singapore orchids, white calla lilies, white longiflorum lilies, beargrass, speargrass, tropical foliage and fresh green hydrangea. Stems bound with vine cuff.

Nikt nie chce uchodzić za chama albo, co gorzej, prostaka. Nawet autor niniejszego bloga. Znajomość oper uchodzi (w pewnych kręgach przynajmniej) nadal za probierz kulturalnego wyrobienia. W przypadku dzieł literackich można przeczytać bryk lub streszczenie i od biedy uchodzić za znawcę. Z operą jest trudniej. Bryków nie ma. Wychodząc naprzeciw ogólnemu zapotrzebowaniu, postanowiliśmy zamknąć tę dotkliwą lukę.

Dzisiaj:
Józef Verdi. La Traviata.

Na początku należy zaznaczyć, że chodzi o kobiety podejrzanego autoramentu, alkohol i życie towarzyskie. Czyli nic dla dziatek i osób z kręgosłupem moralnym. Pozostałe osoby prosimy o pozostanie na sali. Będzie miło.

Tytuł
La Traviata znaczy „ta, która pobłądziła, zboczyła z drogi”. Jest to eufemizm, chodzi o kobietę upadłą, co też jest eufemizmem ponieważ chodzi o kurtyzanę. Co zresztą też jest eufemizmem, bo wiemy dobrze o kogo chodzi. Ponieważ rzecz dzieje się w czasach politycznej poprawności zwanej wówczas jeszcze moralnością mieszczańską, Verdi nie mógł prosto z mostu. Może tak i lepiej.

Pomysł.
Libretto napisał niejaki Francesco Maria Piave. Piave był zdolnym i pracowitym wyrobnikiem. Verdi zamawiał, Piave dostarczał. W sumie dostarczył dziewięć razy. W nagrodę Verdi traktował go nie najlepiej. Piave nie wymyślał, Piave był rzemieślnikiem i pracował zgodnie z instrukcjami mistrza. Akurat święciła triumfy Dama Kameliowa, nie tylko jako powieść lecz przede wszystkim jako sztuka teatralna. Mistrz pozazdrościł synowi Aleksandra Dumasa sławy i zamówił u Piavego „coś podobnego, najlepiej też o kobiecie lekkich obyczajów, ma się dziać w Paryżu i skończyć smutno” Piave nie dyskutował lecz usiadł i napisał libretto do Traviaty.

Historia
Akt I
Paryż, połowa XIX wieku Salon niejakiej Violetty Valéry, jeszcze się dowiemy co to za jedna. Wszyscy się pysznie bawią. Gospodyni też. Akurat przedstawiono jej niejakiego Alfredo Germont. Młodzieniec wydaje się być poczciwszy niż jej aktualny amant, baron (przepraszamy za słowo) Douphol. Baron wznosi toast za miłość. Toast przechodzi mu w dłuższą arię.
Violetta dostaje ataku uporczywego kaszlu i już wiemy, że broń, która pokazana została w pierwszym akcie musi nieuchronnie wystrzelić w ostatnim. W przerwie pomiędzy ponawiającymi się atakami kaszlu, Alfredo (poczciwiec) wyznaje jej swą miłość. Najpóźniej w tym momencie nawet najbardziej nierozgarnięty widz powinien móc przewidzieć jak to się skończy. Violetta próbuje ostudzić zapały młodzieńca, ten nie daje za wygraną. Ponieważ lowelas-poczciwina nie chce się odczepić, pożycza mu kwiat Kamelii, prosząc aby zwrócił nazajutrz. Naprawdę. Po wyjściu gości gospodyni spekuluje czystym sopranem na temat ewentualnych uczuć. W końcu jednak przychyla się do poglądu, że skromne radości dnia codziennego i udogodnienia wynikające z dobrodziejstw profesji też są w końcu coś warte. Kurtyna.

AktII
Odsłona pierwsza
Trzy miesiące później. Alfredo i Violetta żyją sobie szczęśliwie w małym domku na prowincji. Sielankę finansuje chwilowo ustatkowana oblubienica z potajemnej sprzedaży majątku ruchomego. Alfredo, wiedziony ambicją, udaje się do Paryża w celu zdobycia środków do życia. Pod jego nieobecność pojawia się tatuś ambitnego młodzieńca. Starszy pan Germont, kierując się troską o dobre imię rodziny, nakłania Violettę do porzucenia kochanka i powrotu do nierządu. Violetta, wychodząc ze słusznego założenia że jej koniec jest bliski, z bólem serca przystaje.
Violetta wyjeżdża, Alfred powraca. Violetta powiadomiła go listownie o swej decyzji. Rozpacz. Ponownie pojawia się tatuś i wzywa marnotrawnego syna do powrotu. Ten jednak odnajduje zaproszenie na party u niejakiej Flory Bervoix i postanawia jednak podążyć do Paryża śladami ukochanej. Nie podda się tak łatwo. Taki on. Kurtyna.

Odsłona druga
Violetta, w towarzystwie nieodłącznego Barona (przepraszamy) Duphol na balu u Flory B. Goście przebrani za torreadorów i cyganki. Tańce i napoje wyskokowe. Pojawia się Alfredo i siada do karcianego stolika. Licytację przerywa kąśliwymi uwagami pod adresem byłej kochanki. Baron gotuje się wewnętrznie. Ku ogólnemu zdziwieniu Alfredo wygrywa i postanawia opuścić bal zabierając ze sobą Violettę. Ta, mimo gorących próśb kochanka, odmawia. Alfredo podejrzewa romans z (przepraszamy) Dupholem. W ataku zazdrości rzuca naszej biednej (i chorej) heroinie pieniądze w twarz, dając przy tym towarzystwu do zrozumienia, że jest to opłata za coś zupełnie innego, powszechnie wiadomo za co mężczyzna płaci kobiecie nie będącą jego żoną. Przynajmniej wówczas wszyscy wiedzieli. Violetta mdleje, Baron wyzywa, tatuś zazdrośnika pojawia się nie wiadomo skąd i znów wtrąca swe trzy grosze. Kurtyna.

Akt III
Luty, czas karnawału. Violetta na łożu boleści. Wcale nie czuje się dobrze, co jest w końcowym stadium suchot zrozumiałe. Z listu starszego pana Garmont dowiaduje się, że zraniony w pojedynku baron wraca do sił, Alfredo zaś musiał opuścić kraj. Nie ma to jak dobre wieści.
Alfredo, uświadomiony przez nękanego uzasadnioonymi wyrzutami sumienia ojca, pojawia się w sypialni umierającej i zaczyna w swej naiwności snuć plany wspólnego szczęścia. Pojawia się ojczulek Garmont i korzystając ze swych uprawnień rodzicielskich błogosławi rozkwitające uczucie. Violetta zaklina oblubieńca aby poszukał sobie innego obiektu zainteresowań ponieważ ma zamiar za chwilę skonać. Alfredo prosi aby nie umierała. Violetta chciałaby ale nie może. Szlochy publiczności. Kurtyna.

Uwagi, które należy rzucić od niechcenia po zakończeniu spektaklu.

1. No, Callas to jednak całkiem inna klasa (na temat odtwórczyni roli tytułowej).

2. Gdzież mu tam do Placido Domingo (na temat odtwórcy roli Alfreda).

3. No, Zefirelli to z niego raczej nie jest (na temat jakości pracy reżysera).

4. Pamiętam, w 2005 roku w Salzburgu, gdy śpiewali Netrebko i Villazon! Nie-za-po-mnia-ne!!! (tak ogólnie)

Obsada (w skrócie):
Violetta Valéry (sopran)
Flora Bervoix (mezzosopran)
Alfredo Germont (tenor)
Baron (przepraszamy) Duphol (baryton)
Tatuś Germont (baryton)

Ważniejsze arie (również duety):
1. Libiamo ne lieti calici (Alfredo, Violetta, Chór)
2. Un di, felice, eterea (Alfredo, Violetta)
3. Ah, fors’è lu (Violetta)
4. Sempre libera (Violetta)
5. De miei bollenti spiriti (Alfredo)
6. Addio del passato (Violetta)
7. Gran Dio! morir si giovane (Alfredo, Violetta)

Trivia:
Opera miała być początkowo zatytułowana „Kamelia”. Stanęło jednak na tym, że będzie to Traviata. Prapremiera odbyła się 6 marca 1853 w Teatro La Fenice w Wenecji. Publiczność wygwizdała „za pokazywanie dziwek na scenie” a recenzenci zjechali niemiłosiernie. Verdi załamał się, zmienił tytuł opery na Violetta a Piave przeniósł akcję na dwór Ludwika XIV. Co się spodobało. Pierwotna wersja wróciła do łask w czasach późniejszych.

Pra começo de conversa, eu comecei a gostar de ópera por conta desta moça ai. Lógico que meu primeiro contato com ópera foi por mera curiosidade. Sou do tipo de  pessoa que não se permite dizer que não gosta de algo, sem antes ter experimentado…( especificando: música).

E “La Traviata” de Verdi ( ou A Transviada em portugês) foi a primeira que ouvi, simplesmente porque tinha canções famosas, fáceis de identificar.

É o caso desta aqui:

Maria Callas, dona de um alcance vocal asustador; Sim! assustador, porque você se assusta com a facilidade que ela chega em notas tão altas. Fato que fazia com que seu leque de repertório musical fosse muito amplo.

No particular: temperamental e perfeccionista. Teve ínumeras brigas com reporteres,  casou-se 2 vezes e foi infeliz em ambos.

Mas esta é Callas que canta tritezas como ninguém. E deve ser por isso que La Traviata continua sendo minha ópera favorita, mesmo depois de ter ouvido e visto tantas outras.

Informal posy of pale pink oriental lilies, pale pink hydrangea, pink calla lilies, rose lisianthus, chocolate succulents and speargrass.

Nabucco, tercera ópera de Verdi, es una ópera en cuatro actos con libreto de Temistocle Solera, basada en el Antiguo Testamento y la obra Nabuchodonosor de Francis Cornue y Anicète Bourgeois. Fue estrenada el 9 de marzo de 1842 en La Scala de Milán. En España se estrenó en 1844, en el Teatro de la Santa Cruz de Barcelona.

Nabucco fue el primer éxito decisivo de Verdi. Sus melodías, armonías y ritmos se vinculan todavía nítidamente a Donizetti, son simples en estructura, pero de un efecto dramático innegablemente fuerte. Cada nota parece tener auténtica sangre teatral que entusiasma de manera irresistible. La pieza maestra de la partitura es el coro «Va pensiero», una melodía pausada, nostálgica y llena del más profundo sentimiento, en que violentos arrebatos alternan de manera espléndida con atribulados susurros.

El compositor alemán Otto Nikolai (autor de Las alegres comadres de Windsor) había cosechado prometedores éxitos en la Scala de Milán. Entre los libretos que se le habían ofrecido para ulteriores composiciones se encontraba también el proyecto de Solera para Nabucco. Pero Nikolai no se interesó. Merelli, el empresario de la Scala (hoy diríamos el director artístico), un nombre que casi merece el título honorífico de profeta de Verdi, insistió al joven compositor italiano para que pusiera en música aquel argumento. Mostró con ello una confianza fuera de lo común, pues Verdi había triunfado con Oberto pero también había fracasado totalmente con Un giorno di regno. Además, le había afectado profundamente la muerte de su joven esposa y de sus dos hijos, de manera que atravesaba una profunda crisis anímica. Merelli impuso formalmente el libreto al compositor; cuando éste lo arrojó sobre la mesa al regresar a su casa (Verdi relata el episodio en un breve esbozo autobiográfico), se abrió solo y Verdi leyó la frase «Va pensiero sull’ali dórate…». En el mismo instante se le ocurrió la melodía para estos bellos versos. Y escribió la ópera en un arrebato creativo sin pausa.

El 9 de marzo de 1842 se estrenó triunfalmente en la Scala de Milán. La melodía del coro, se convirtió en la canción de súplica y combate de todos los patriotas italianos que se identificaban con el pueblo hebreo en su hora más difícil y se esforzaban por liberarse de la dominación extranjera. La misma melodía sonó en el entierro del maestro, casi sesenta años más tarde, y para entonces ya se había convertido en un himno nacional. En el estreno, el papel de Abigaille fue interpretado por Giuseppina Strepponi, quien se convertiría en compañera sentimental y luego esposa de Verdi. Se dice que la dificultad del papel causó el decline vocal de la cantante.

El éxito de la ópera perdura hasta estos días. Es grabada y presentada en los teatros de ópera con cierta frecuencia aunque no es fácil conseguir una soprano dramática de agilidad que pueda medirse con la despiadada tesitura de la malvada Abigail.

Sinopsis de la ópera

Acto I – Jerusalén

Dentro del templo. Los Levitas y la gente se lamentan por el desgraciado destino de los judíos, luego de haber sido derrotados por el Rey de Babilonia Nabucco, quien se encuentra ahora en las puertas de la ciudad. El cura principal Zaccaria anima a sus seguidores. Los judíos han capturado a un importante rehén para mantenerse a salvo, la hija de Nabucco, Fenena, a quien Zaccaria unió en matrimonio con Ismaele, sobrino del Rey de Jerusalén. Sin embargo, Ismaele promete a Fenena su libertad, pues tiempo atrás en Babylonia él había sido tomado como rehén y fue ella quien lo liberó, pues estaba muy enamorada del joven. Ambos están organizando su vuelo cuando Abigaille, una supuesta hija de Nabucco, llega al templo encabezando una gran tropa de babilonios. Ella también está enamorada de Ismaele, y amenaza con contarle al padre de Fenena de su plan de escape con un extranjero; y al final, Abigaille declara que mantendrá silencio si Ismaele renuncia a Fenena. Pero él se rehúsa a aceptar el chantaje. Nabucco, a la cabeza de su ejército, irrumpe en escena, habiendo decidido saquear la ciudad. En vano Zaccaria, blandiendo una daga sobre la cabeza de Fenena, intenta detenerlo; Ismaele interviene y entrega en mano a Fenena, sana y salva, a su padre.

Acto II – El malvado

En la corte de Babilonia. Abigaille se ha enterado de un documento que revela su verdadera identidad como esclava: por lo tanto, los babilonios se equivocan al creer que ella es una heredera al trono. Nabucco, ocupado en una batalla, ha nombrado a Fenena como princesa regente de la ciudad, lo cual provoca que el odio de Abigaille aumente. El sumo sacerdote de Belo, aliado de Abigaille, le dice que Fenena está liberando a todos los esclavos hebreos. Abigaille aprovecha la oportunidad y se contempla tomando el trono de Nabucco.

MARIA CALLAS: “BEN IO T’INVENNI SALGO GIÀ”–1949-Teatro san carlo Napoli- Vittorio Gui

Zaccaria, mientras tanto, anuncia alegremente al pueblo que Fenena, enamorada de Ismaele, se ha convertido a la fe hebrea. Abdallo, un antiguo consejero del rey y de Fenena, le revela a ella las ambiciones de Abigaille y le avisa que debe volar para escapar de la ira de su hermanastra. Pero no hay tiempo. Abigaille llega junto a sus magos, el sumo sacerdote y una multitud de babilonios. Pero inesperadamente, también llega Nabucco, coloca su corona firmemente en su cabeza y maldice al Dios de los Judíos. Luego amenaza con matar a Zaccaria. Fenena revela su conversión al judaísmo, pero el la fuerza a arrodillarse ante él adorándolo no como un rey sino como un dios. El Dios de los Judíos le lanza un rayo y Nabucco, aterrado, cae en agonía, mientras que Abigaille se coloca la corona sobre su cabeza.

Acto III – La profecía

Los jardines flotantes de la corte de Babilonia. Abigaille en el trono recibe honores de todas las autoridades del reino. Nabucco intenta en vano recuperar el trono, pero es detenido por los guardias. En el diálogo siguiente entre ambos, Abigaille, tomando ventaja de la inestable condición mental de Nabucco, le hace poner a él su sello real en un documento que condena a los judíos a muerte. En un momento de lucidez, Nabucco se da cuenta de que ha condenado también a su amada hija Fenena y ruega por su salvación. Pero Abigaille hace pedazos el documento que afirma que ella es una esclava y se declara a si misma como única hija y por lo tanto, heredera al trono. Luego ordena a los guardias encarcelar a Nabucco.

DIMITRA THEODOSSIOU & LEO NUCCI: “DEH, PERDONA”-Will Humburg-Vigoleno, 29.06.2008

A orillas del Eufrates, los hebreos invocan su patria lejana y su tierra y, una vez más Zaccaria intenta consolar a su pueblo con una profecía que los alienta en su fe.

 “VA PENSIERO SULL´ALI DORATE”-Metropolitan Opera House, James Levine 2001.

Acto IV – El ídolo roto

Desde su prisión Nabucco ve a Fenena arrastrada hacia la muerte junto con los otros judíos. En su desesperación, se vuelve hacia el Dios de los hebreos, convirtiendo su fe.

RENATO BRUSON: “DIO DI GIUDA”-Teatro alla Scala, Muti

Cuando Abdallo y un grupo de soldados aún fieles al rey ven como Nabucco recupera su fuerza y sus sentidos, deciden revelarse liderados por el antiguo rey. En los jardines flotantes se está tocando una marcha funeraria: los hebreos condenados a la muerte están llegando. Zaccaria bendice a Fenena, un mártir. Pero Nabucco irrumpe la ceremonia, el ídolo Belo cae al suelo destrozado, y todos los prisioneros son liberados. Una vez más Nabucco se sienta en el trono. Abigaille, muriendo a causa del veneno ingerido a conciencia, pide el perdón de Fenena y predice su casamiento con Ismael. Zaccaria profetiza el dominio de Nabucco sobre todos los habitantes de la tierra.  

Nabucco-Bechi-Callas-Neroni-Sinimberghi-Gui (CD01 , CD02)

La Callas jovencísima crea una Abigail inigulada y, presumiblemente, inigualable, con el veterano pero poderoso Nabucco del gran Gino Bechi. La función es en directo, con un sonido suficiente, pero con un ambiente electrizante.

Nabucco-Gobbi-Suliotis-Cava-Prevedi-Gardelli (CD01 , CD02) 

Todo un clásico de la discografía, con la estrella fugaz  de Suliotis en una Abigail a lo Callas, y un Gobbi muy mermado vocalmente pero dramáticamente irreprochable. Bravos Cava y Prevedi como Zaccaria e Ismaele. La dirección de Gardelli es contundente, con unas masas de la Ópera de Viena espectaculares.

Nabucco-Manuguerra-Scotto-Ghiaurov-Luchetti-Muti (CD01 , CD02)

La versión de Muti posee dos grandes puntos a favor: la excelente dirección del maestro italiano (quizá el mayor especialista verdiano de los últimos 30 años) y el Nabucco de un Manuguerra vocal y dramáticamente poderoso. La Scotto flojea con una zona alta tirante y un grave dudoso. Ghiaurov está correcto pero no del todo cómodo.

Nabucco-Cappuccilli-Dimitrova-Nesterenko-Domingo-Sinopoli (CD01 , CD02)

De las versiones de estudio quizás esta sea la más equilibrada. Sinopoli dirige con brío y contundencia a un equipo sin puntos débiles donde destacan la buena labor de Cappuccilli (excelente otra vez en un papel demasiado dramático para su voz), Nesterenko (con un Zaccaria vocalmente sanísimo) y la Abigail de la Dimitrova (correctísima en todos los aspectos, que ya es un gran mérito).

The second wedding I did this weekend was for Melissa and Hieu and it was held at Our Lady of the Woods Parish with a reception at the Riviera Country Club in Orland Park. Surprisingly, they had similar colors to the other wedding I did this weekend–but a totally different look and feel was achieved! 

Melissa’s bouquet was fantastic! It was huge and beautiful and full of color and texture. I loved it, she loved it–everyone loved it! The maid of honor and bridesmaid bouquets were made of white hydrangea, white callas and green cymbidium orchids-they also turned out fabulous. The calla bouts for the men in the bridal party were sleek and sophisticated and complimented the girls’ bouquets well. 

For this reception we did 3 types of centerpieces: #1) a bubble bowl with ti-leaf wrap inside and a mixture of white hydrangea, white and purple stock, white and green dendrobium orchids and Bells of Ireland; #2) a trio of cylinders with clusters of white Vendela roses, green button pomps and purple hydrangea; #3) and the final style was something the bride came up with herself: 8 square votive holders with candles arranged in a geometric pattern. All of the centerpieces looked great in the space and worked well with the deep purple overlays on the tables.

For the gift card holder I created my “signature” floral-rimmed large cylinder vase. We also added votives and vases for the bouquets to the head table along with the tossing bouquet.

Melissa and Hieu’s cake was totally unique–covered with raspberries by the bakery and then I added white dendrobium orchid accents to it. It smelled and looked delicious! 

I am thankful that the stars (and planets) aligned to make it so. First, I rediscover my love for the song Where Do I Go?, and purchase the music to prepare it for my music ministry at church. Second, an inspired new Broadway production opens on March 31st. [Enjoy a rehearsal video of Aquarius.] Third, my beloved niece and God-daughter catches the bug, adopting the show as one of her favorites, and embracing it’s milieu (a gal after my own heart).

Finally, to top it all off, after years of talking about HAVING to perform in the show, I discover that the local theatre company ACLO is putting it on in the fall, and thankfully get cast (the details of my exact role are still being ironed out in callbacks). I have had a blast doing a variety of shows over the past 5 years, and many have been great growth opportunities, but not since I was in West Side Story at Broadway By the Bay in ‘04 have I been in one of my Top 5 shows!

Productions

Our production runs September 12 – 27 in the historic Kofman Theatre in Alameda, CA. And, I’ll have the privilege of seeing the Broadway production on August 2nd, hopefully with all the current cast members.

My love affair with the show seems to have really gotten going in ‘89, when I attended a CCM production, at my University of Cincinnati. I had just graduated from high school and was a freshman in the College of DAAP. The show knocked me over. It was one of those truly life-altering experiences, where you feel your very fiber is transformed in some way. I had plenty of insecurities back then, particularly about my body. This show gave me permission to strip those away, embrace the gift of my body, and celebrate it. It was as if a huge layer of fear had been pealed away. Of course other layers still remained, but this was a huge step in the right direction. To this day, I can remember how effective the charming but forceful Sam Samuelson was as Claude (I had seen him as a fantastic Joseph there too), and how Beth Blankenship embodied the mother-nature-scaled presence required for Aquarius, with her rock-solid belt and larger-than-life persona.

I spent countless all-nighters in my home studio working on graphic design projects, singing along with the Broadway soundtrack (White Boys, Walking in Space, Sodomy, and Easy to Be Hard were the most overplayed). The original Off-Broadway production opened in October ‘67 at the Public Theater. It was then overhauled and moved to Broadway in April ‘68. Enjoy an exhaustive history of the show and all its deets on Wikipedia, or this tribute site.

My roommate in my first West Coast apartment in Noe Valley (‘93) proved to be the Kathy Bates of Hair fan-dome. He had at least 25 international Hair record albums…in German, Spanish, and seemingly endless languages. Enjoy this excerpt from an eccentric Hebrew production. The ‘05 Actor’s Fund benefit recording provided a much needed fresh take on the musical. Although the album is not spot-on, it included one of my favorite new artists Jennifer Hudson singing a soulful rendition of Easy to Be Hard. A VERY unlikely Sheila, she nevertheless delivers a great (although a bit too slow) “studio” version.

Gavin Creel

The new Broadway production features the finest male musical theatre performer of his generation, Gavin Creel, as Claude. This performer can do no wrong, in my mind. I discovered him via the Broadway cast recording of Thoroughly Modern Millie. Honestly, I would never have imagined him a candidate for the role of Claude, as his ultra-tender tone, and tendency towards pop-inspired melismas don’t seem like an obvious choice for this fresh-off-the-farm character. But, I’m thrilled such a great artist is engaged in such an acclaimed production, and now nominated for another Tony! This video shows him in beautiful form in more familiar territory.

Controversies

The show explored the prominent themes of the hippie movement, and ‘60s: race, drugs, nudity and sexual freedom, pacifism and environmentalism, religion and astrology, literary themes and symbolism. Theatre writer Scott Miller explained why the movement embraced these themes:

“Contrary to popular opinion, the hippies had great respect for America and believed that they were the true patriots, the only ones who genuinely wanted to save our country and make it the best it could be once again…. [Long] hair was the hippies’ flag—their… symbol not only of rebellion but also of new possibilities, a symbol of the rejection of discrimination and restrictive gender roles (a philosophy celebrated in the song “My Conviction”). It symbolized equality between men and women.”

These themes brought about much controversy, in their divisiveness. A Mexican production survived only one performance, and was shut-down by the government for being “detrimental to the morals of youth” (Wikipedia). Claude, in essence, battles out the opposing moral sides of the primary love vs. war dilemma of the era, in having to decide whether or not to resist the draft, as his friends had.

The original Off-Broadway productions did not have the oft-discussed nudity. But, all “twenty seconds” of it were integrated by the new director Tom O’Horgan in its original Broadway reincarnation. The concept was “inspired by two men who took off their clothes to antagonize the police during an informal anti-war gathering” (Wikipedia). The familiar controversy over this nudity has reared its head yet again. The verdict is still out on whether our ACLO production will include it, or not. Apparently, concerns voiced by the school that owns the theatre may put a kabbosh on it. For some cast members that will provide relief, for others disappointment. We shall see!

Surprising Associations

I was shocked (and tickled) to discover this telegram from the legendary diva Callas, to the original Broadway cast. Who in a million years would have pictured her in that audience? Not moi!

Amusingly, Leonard Bernstein remarked that “the songs are just laundry lists” and walked out of the Broadway production. Perhaps the true freedom portrayed in the show wasn’t in his vocabulary and scared him, as he was a man that lived, in essence, a double life.

Disco diva Donna Summer appeared in a German production! She is shown here singing Aquarius.

What’s Next?

The new Broadway cast album goes on sale May 26th! And, check out a scene
American Soldier, lyricist Jim Rado’s new show.

In the coming weeks my role in the ACLO production will be determined. They are two roles that could not be more different. I can’t wait for more to be revealed, and to begin rehearsals!