Well that sucks…

Apparently Netflix is too cool for opera. Which would explain why I was greeted with this when I just logged in to check my queue. There goes a good portion of Opster Project freebies. What gives, guys?

Making Music. And Babies.

In the absence of a production photo, my past two reviews for The Volume have featured headshots of several musicians involved in each concert. There was the Faust in their Class block of soloists from ASO’s Schumann’s Scenes from Goethe’s Faust (the highlight of an otherwise underdeveloped gem), and then today there was the double-feature review of the NY Phil’s Contact! and Chamber Music Society of Lincoln Center’s all-Ravel program. With two great programs, it seemed silly not to highlight both through the conduits of Sean Shepherd and Sasha Cooke.

However, looking at these two reviews side-by-side (or at least in close proximity), it sort of looks like wedding announcements. The boy girl/boy girl symmetry intimates, on whatever minute level, the possibility of matching these artists up. Maybe that would be better imagery, like the Spaghetti Baby lawyer in Ugly Americans. Perhaps readers would be less immune to Hanan Alattar’s fierce beauty if it was combined with Michael Spyres’s boyish good looks and infantized (with, apparently, really long and creepy hair):

Or think of how compelling the Faust tale would be if Andrew Schroeder’s Doctor and Twyla Robinson’s Gretchen were morphed onstage, an ocular representative of their child born out of wedlock (and later killed by its mother when Faust dumps her):

Though I think hands-down the cutest coupling was Sasha and Sean. And damn would that kid be musical:

Start filling out the Juilliard apps now.

Saturday Night Special

Ways of Seeing

Before going to the NY Phil’s Contact! last night at the Grace Rainey Rodgers auditorium, I figured I’d spend a few hours soaking up some culture in the rest of the Met Museum. I love museums, mostly as I know next to nothing about art, isms and the like, which means I can just shut off and absorb and not have to think like a critic. Yes, I went to the Met on a Saturday afternoon, and yes I went to the Met on a grey afternoon which means even my corners of solace were mobbed by tourists with cameras strapped around their necks and multifarious city guidebooks (including some from Time Out–noice!) in a myriad of languages. But, fueled by an $8 glass of wine and a $3 Crumbs cupcake from their American Wing cafe, we soldiered on through some favourite European spots into the modern wing. Which is where I was reprimanded by not one, but two guards on two separate occasions.

I consider myself fairly low-key, especially at museums. I walk, I don’t touch things, I take the odd photo if I find something particularly striking, but I generally only take them if there isn’t a giant No Photo sign. But I’m also young, which means I know nothing about art (or classical music). And I have an invisible neon sign on my forehead that invites trouble, just like Larry David. The first guard told me I was standing in front of a piece for too long and that I needed to “Move along.” Uh….okay? I thought the thing about museums was that you could go and spend the whole day looking at one piece. Hell, I spent 90 minutes staring when I saw my first Pollock. I thought she was joking at first. She wasn’t. So, Anish Kapoor, I’m sorry but I didn’t get enough time to contemplate your installation. I’ll try to sneak in another minute or so next time. Equally weird was the guard who told me I couldn’t point at a painting as my partner and I were discussing pointillism, noting the rippling effects of light created in the tiniest brush strokes.

So let me get this straight, Met: You want me to come to your museum. You’d prefer it if I paid full price instead of giving you a dollar or finding a button on the sidewalk outside and slipping that on. You then want me to buy as much stuff from your gift shop (which I once worked at) as I can carry. But I can’t look at or reference the stuff you have on display?

At least you guys give good concerts. Maybe we should just casually date again. No more weekends, just really dead quiet Wednesday afternoons from now on. I think I should start seeing MoMA and Brooklyn Museum on the side again, too.

However the Met was nothing compared to the post-Contact! errand running at the Strand. While not a literal translation, the interaction between me and the store was perhaps best illustrated by Julie Delphy in 2 Days in Paris (linked since embedding is disabled). I know you Stranders are hurting less than museums and other arts institutions, but you’re still a perfect example of what’s keeping people away. Hundreds of people would kill for your jobs, you few and proud bibliophiles who can sling paperbacks and tote bags for a pretty sweet salary. Just because you’re well-read doesn’t mean the world owes you anything, so stop acting like it–especially with people who want to buy your wares and continue to subsidize your paychecks. Since you have every book in existence in your flagship, check out Anthony Bourdain’s Kitchen Confidential for a swift reality check.

And arts managers, do the same. If you don’t care, if you don’t want to be in your job, give it to someone who does, because they’re going to accomplish way more. Lead, follow, or get out of the way.

Morning at the Opera

One of the things I love about BAM is William Christie, as I recently wrote in Time Out. One of the things I hate about BAM is how short-lived the William Christie runs are. I can’t believe I missed not only Purcell’s The Fairy Queen, but also the double-bill of Dido and Aeneas and Charpentier’s Actéon.

I’ve also been reading a lot of books about seemingly impossible tasks (such as this project), most recently Jasper Rees’s A Devil to Play. I’ve never played the French horn, never even attempted to play it, but I do love its pastoral sound. I love how it evokes stags running through the woods, hunting spaniels and horses in chase. Minus the horns, the idea of the hunt in classical music still works in Actéon, which starts with a lovely Choeur des Chasseurs. Centering around Diana and the revenge she exacts on the man who catches her bathing*, hunting permeates the entire one-act opera.

And because it’s only one-act, there is some consolation to missing Actéon at BAM: It’s all on YouTube courtesy of Les Talens Lyriques.

*That kind of skit so doesn’t work in New York. I can’t remember the last time I showered in peace. Nothing against the Boyfriend Fiancé. It’s just that nothing’s sacred.

The British are Really Flipping Funny

Look to your left at the text in the red box.

I mean, I get what they’re saying in their oh-so-polite, proper English way. But I’m (whether I care to admit it or not) an American with a filthy filthy mind. So when I see the Royal Ballet has a section for Adult Gifts, I think…Nureyev nipple clamps? Coppelia c-ck rings? Pointe shoe packing pouch? Swan Lake Squeel? Vaganova vibrator? Nutcracker…well, that’s just too obvious.

They’re sitting on a goldmine.