The Victoria and Albert Museum, London
I went to the Opera exhibition at the V and A museum, an exhibition that tries to cover the history of opera, far to large a subject for the time and space available. The museum has used clever techie stuff to beam the appropriate piece of music into the headphones of the person looking at a particular piece of information, picture or video, as they walk round. I was left desperately wanting to go to the opera to see something by Puccini, Verdi or Mozart's Magic Flute.
My first visit to the opera was in Paris, when my father took me to stay with his diamond merchant friends, who took us all to see Carmen. We walked into a warm, womb-like semi circular space, with plush red seats and red walls lined with boxes where the wealthy sat in glorious isolation. There was a low murmur of conversation and a rustle of programme pages turning as we walked to our seats. I was shivering with excitement, just listening to the orchestra in the pit tuning up and when the music began I was ecstatic. This was the beginning of a life long love of opera.
Later, when I was a music student, I used to hitch hike to London and go straight to Covent Garden to pick up a ticket to the opera from the box office, left there by my Uncle. I would sit in my scruffy student clothes in the back row, entranced by the music.
In my early twenties, when I went to live in Ferrara, Italy, some friends took me to the opera. Every town in Italy has an opera house and every opera house is full when they perform the well loved Italian operas. On this cold, foggy night the good people of Ferrara dressed up in their best clothes and glittering jewellery, then milled about in the foyer, chattering, the women inspecting each others dresses.
Once the orchestra struck up everyone quieted down until the first aria, when they sang along with the soloist. They burst into applause when it ended and demanded that the aria be repeated. This was nothing like the rapt silent concentration of the British audience in Covent Garden. Throughout that opera in Ferrara the audience sang along with the soloists, who frequently had to repeat their arias.
The last time I went to the opera was in Gran Canaria, where I could afford a restricted view ticket, four years ago. The performance was surprisingly good, with excellent soloists, fabulous costumes and scenery and even some wonderful dancers.
My first visit to the opera was in Paris, when my father took me to stay with his diamond merchant friends, who took us all to see Carmen. We walked into a warm, womb-like semi circular space, with plush red seats and red walls lined with boxes where the wealthy sat in glorious isolation. There was a low murmur of conversation and a rustle of programme pages turning as we walked to our seats. I was shivering with excitement, just listening to the orchestra in the pit tuning up and when the music began I was ecstatic. This was the beginning of a life long love of opera.
Later, when I was a music student, I used to hitch hike to London and go straight to Covent Garden to pick up a ticket to the opera from the box office, left there by my Uncle. I would sit in my scruffy student clothes in the back row, entranced by the music.
In my early twenties, when I went to live in Ferrara, Italy, some friends took me to the opera. Every town in Italy has an opera house and every opera house is full when they perform the well loved Italian operas. On this cold, foggy night the good people of Ferrara dressed up in their best clothes and glittering jewellery, then milled about in the foyer, chattering, the women inspecting each others dresses.
Once the orchestra struck up everyone quieted down until the first aria, when they sang along with the soloist. They burst into applause when it ended and demanded that the aria be repeated. This was nothing like the rapt silent concentration of the British audience in Covent Garden. Throughout that opera in Ferrara the audience sang along with the soloists, who frequently had to repeat their arias.
The last time I went to the opera was in Gran Canaria, where I could afford a restricted view ticket, four years ago. The performance was surprisingly good, with excellent soloists, fabulous costumes and scenery and even some wonderful dancers.
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