The
dovecote or dovecot?
Or is someone keeping pigeons in an opera house?
Dear Guy,
After all the turmoil I created in my previous letter(s)
about how your love for dance started I like to remind you that your first
theatrical love was probably the opera.
I know that you think that the only similarity
with your father is a physical one, with unmanageable hair as the principal
component, but I can assure the other readers of this letter: "There is
more!" It is not a secret that you would have preferred inherited rather a
part of your mother's beauty than her sometimes insufferable personality traits.
She hated opera as much as she disliked red cabbage and that says it all. With
her, you discovered Edith Piaf, Juliette Greco, Salvatore Adamo and the Lecuona
Cuban Boys; not the heroines of Puccini, Verdi or Wagner.
During one of your holiday stays at your godmother
you brought her almost to distraction since you didn't want to go to bed until you've
heard the last note of Verdi's Rigoletto. At that time, probably because they didn't
make the link, nobody told you that your father had sung in the Royal Gent's
Men's Choir, were Gent's stands for, from Gent!
At the age of fourteen, you first attended an
opera performance in the Royal Opera House in Gent, chaperoned by one of your
mother's few friends. As a revenge for mammy's indifference about your dad's decease
it could count as statement. At that time you did not notice the dramatic
inaccuracy of Rodolfo, one of the main characters in Puccini's " La bohème",
singing about how cold Mimi's hands were - she's the other main character - addressing
the audience from the front of the stage instead of her, standing at least ten
meters behind him. Later you always referred to this preposterous situation in
your own acting or when you where staging some performances. But then, during
that very moment through the music you discovered how love should be expressed
...Love, according to Puccini and Guy! Something comes up to my mind while writing
this; remember how, not so much later during an Eastern holiday's camp you gave
your gloves to a much older girl (...), with icy hands. You decided to suffer instead
of her, as your first personal weltschmerz (world-weariness) experience.
Not so sure anymore if it was at sixteen you
decided to take a season subscription to the Opera House in Gent? Anyway during
that period of fighting for your independence and rebellion against your
mothers way of living you had that irresistible urge to compensate The Beatles,
The Rolling Stones, the Black Sabbath's and Deep Purple's of the world with what
you considered in that time something more consistent for your juvenile artistic
and emotional needs. You chose a seat on the second balcony in a side box to
see the stage, a part of the activities behind the stage drops, and a full
overview of the orchestra. While I know, that now you are analyzing the light colors,
the staging, the props use and the director's or choreographer's vision, in
that time you were floating on an emotional bubble of Bel-Canto "beautiful
singing" and, yes also, the alleged sensuality of the ballet.
Before the doors opened and during the
intermissions you always observed the presence of two policemen walking around seemingly
uninterested and looking bored. That reminded you of stories, which origin
can't be determined anymore, but describing your dad, volunteering for this
duty rather than walking the streets or doing desk work. Once the performance started he left his
colleague and took a place in what you consider the most sacred place of an
opera house, now called disrespectfully "the listening seat balcony"
but in ancient times was known as the dovecote or dovecot. It should be written
with a capital D to indicate the difference with a "duivenkot" as the
place where pigeon-fanciers are keeping their pigeons. I believe the opera
visitors also called it "le Pigeonnier" obviously with a capital P.
One evening you decided to look up from your
seat. During Mephisto's Golden Calf aria in Gounod's "Faust"
your eyes diverted from the stage to the Dovecote and yes there he was, sitting
on almost the last row, next to a wall opposite to your seat. You were wondering
why his eyes were closed, he could not see the stage anyway. Probably it
intensified his listening experience. You were disappointed, he was not looking
at you, showing his approval that you inherited his love for opera music. Before
the end of the aria his effigy disappeared and your eyes were fixing an empty
seat. A waltz 'Ainsi que la brise légère' accentuated that sacred moment and
the breeze of the dance took your thoughts as in a reverie.
From that day, before and after a performance, you
saluted unnoticeably that seat. You always had the feeling he was there, watching
over you. You were sad to leave the place for the summer closing, leaving him
there alone while waiting to hear his music again, and when a new season
started your excitement was intensified by the feeling that you will meet with
the ol' man.
Guy, I think it's high time to buy a ticket. Someone
is waiting for you to share a music lover's experience, and maybe more, with
you in the Dovecote. Don't forget to comb your hair.
Yours,
Guy.
-
