Paris Opera: Rossini at the Garnier Gala

There's a reason why going to an Garnier Opera gala in June doesn't make sense - even if it is Rossini's 'La Donna del Lago' which NY Times writer George Loomis describes as "rare as it is irresistible."

This is my fourth gala event: Ballet Russes at Garnier last December, La Somnambule at Bastille, and last week, La Donna del Lago at Garnier.

It's equally a 'rare and irresistible' occasion to attend ANY opera at Garnier because the majority of operas these days are performed at Bastille. However, here are some things that you won't read about in the NY Times Review!

First, a little nit-picking: In the libretto, King James V is referred to as Uberto, not Giacomo!


And according to Wikipedia, this June 2010 is the first performance of La Dame del Lago at Garnier! (I am always suspicious of 'first' anything) so I'd like confirmation on that . . . thanks Rochester Girl!

You must really LOVE opera to consider Garnier in June. In the middle of a heat wave, the third level loge turns into a veritable sauna. I can't imagine how the singers fared in Franca Squarciapino's voluminous and metallic garb.

One might rename this gala event June Madness. In sympathy with the transport strike protesting potential changes in retirement laws, the set crew decided to go on strike. Judging by the comments re Ezio Frigerio's stage sets, Garnier's bare stage and the painted landscape backdrop may have been an improvement.

Every opera has its hero - and in this case, Juan Diego Florez's performance was heroic considering that he agreed to perform in spite of being unwell. The announcement was made at the start of the opera.

It was also ironic that an opera that emphasized love of one's nation should be tainted by a strike. (Of course, hopefully strikes are staged because one loves one's nation and wants to make it a better nation!)

If you're not a seasoned opera buff (which is definitely my case), is it really worth fidgeting the second half of La Donna del Lago for a few truly exceptional moments? I was curious to hear Joyce DiDonato, all the way from Kansas, Colin Lee, from South Africa and Juan Diego Florez from Peru performing as the 'three corners of the world' united in one opera. That, in itself is exciting. Even more exciting is to learn that one gala member flew all the way from Japan to hear Florez. This Florez fan has been following him round the world.

For me though, the real hero wasn't on stage. He happened to be one of our tablemates at the Gala 'souper'. This was the kind of person who would see a homeless person on the street, and, rather than walk by him, he'd do his best to find him a place to stay. Sadly, at the end of the evening he mentioned that he suffered from an illness that would very likely render him crippled in a few years. His attitude was optimistic: see as much of the world as he could in the time that he was allotted.

If opera serves any purpose, it underlines the tragedy in our lives. When Dad spent his last four years in a veteran's hospital after a stroke, we would often bring in opera DVDs. Only opera (in my opinion) can translate human suffering - and give comfort. So, when you're bored or squirming when you listen to opera, it may mean that you should attend opera at the air-conditioned Bastille - or maybe you just haven't suffered much in life.

P.S. (The photo of the 'Opera Gala Souper' was actually taken last December. This year, I didn't take my camera but the Souper was held in the Foyer. You won't find a better stage set anywhere than the building itself and the foyer is the 'piece de resistance')

Scandal in Van Gogh's Wheat fields

It couldn't be a better time to visit Vincent Van Gogh's final resting place in Auvers sur Oise: Blazing sun and blue skies, the kind of day which the driven painter would have clung to like a glowing talisman.

We are so lucky to have a guide who can claim this pastoral setting as his own childhood stomping grounds - but things change - even if people's attitudes don't.

Van Gogh had it right when he said that people are more important than things - even if those things happen to be paintings - or sculpture. The beauty (or horror) of art is the chemical reaction it creates in those of us who stumble upon it. One might even go so far as to say that no work of art really is complete until the viewer and the work have made a connection.

Our friend and 'trusty guide' led us along the dirt path to the fields where Van Gogh painted his famous scene of blackbirds. At the crossroads, we came upon this bizarre sailing craft. The craft, piloted by a headless sailor carries an overexposed woman (who has been modestly draped with the craft's flag - so as not to shock more sensitive souls).

From behind us came outcries of 'Scandalous!!!'. Two women and a man approached with their hunting dog leading the chase.
"I had to come up here to see this for myself," said one outraged women.
The two women approached gingerly. The dog barked at the immobile ship with the headless oarsman.

"Look, someone has taken the flag to cover the woman!" says the second woman.
They retreat from the accident scene. Then the man approaches after the two women have walked onward. He ever so gently lifts the blue sheet, and casts a glance upon the female occupant of the sailing ship. A dead calm, in an ocean of a wheat.

I think Van Gogh would have understood.

Meanwhile, we stop to pay respects at Vincent and his brother Theo's gravesites and we meet a lovely group of visitors from South Korea - and, of course, South Korea is the #1 Country in the world - this is what I shout to them. Yes, that's true!!! Where else would you find so many beautiful smiling faces? Oh, Vincent, if only you were here!

Arabian Days in Paris

If ever there were a cure for window washing blues, the recent Orient-Hermes exhibit at the Institute of the Arab World and Culture would be the perfect antidote.

Tunisian-born Leila Menchari captures her childhood and travel memories in splendiforous window dressings. No wonder that Hermes chose her as their Faubourg-St. Honore window dresser for a number of years.

I have to confess that I've been lazy about getting to the Institute of the Arab World and Culture - but finally,thanks to the prodding of a charming esthetician of Sicilian/Tunisian heritage, our weekend visitors were treated to an exceptional exhibit.

Sadly, the institute itself was closed for renovation. But, good chance was with us because the 9th floor restaurant and stupendous view of Paris was most definitely open for visitors (at no charge - for the view). A ride up the elevators allowed us to marvel at architect Jean Nouvel's unique geometric 'light prisms' which double as decor and light filters opening and closing like camera apertures according to the intensity of sunlight.

I've yet to meet a Nouvel building in Paris that I don't love. And the Institute du Monde Arabe is no exception. Of course, how lucky that it should also enjoy one of the best vantage points to appreciate two other fine examples of architecture - Notre Dame's flying buttresses and the far-off domes of Sacre Coeur.

What I admire about Paris is the ability of the city to embrace creative brilliance in all its facets - it is a window on the the world.



During our visit of the Orient-Hermes show, we met a couturier from Fez who regaled us with her handstitched dreamy dresses - perfect for a gala! Helas! The prices were just out of reach for a summer budget in Paris, but maybe a trip to Fez is in our future?

One can dream - and sometimes dreams come true.

The Zen of Washing Windows in Paris

I've tried time and again to trash the myth of 'romantic Paris'. No one ever seems to believe that day-to-day life in Paris can be just as boring as anywhere else in the world so I'm determined to spend the next few days doing the most boring things possible - just to prove Paris is simply not romantic - and anyhow - the windows could really use a good cleaning.

The problem is - that, as soon as I decided to undertake this project - I realized that washing French windows is not a project to be undertaken with disdain. There are some who might even consider it to be heroic.

The typical 'pierre de taille' high-ceilinged apartment has equally high windows that require a sturdy, four-step ladder to reach the highest panes. Pity the debutante window washer who thinks that a bottle of blue tinted so-called 'window washing fluid' is going to be of any use with double-glazed windows encrusted with at least ten years of Paris pollution and pigeon shit.

(I told you Paris isn't romantic!)

After half an hour of smearing the blue stuff around in endless circles (this has to be the perfect example of samsara), I finally decided to use a more common sense approach> I filled up a bucket of hot water with a small dose of dish-washing liquid (or my French guests would have suggested white vinegar), and then wiped down the huge panes in broad strokes.

You've heard of weekend warriors who pay big time for their zeal, but wannabe window washers take the cake when it comes to payback time. Example: Says husband: "Why are you walking bent over that way?"
Answer: "Don't ask."
The husband can't tease too much. He has only a few days earlier fallen off of one of those handy, dandy cane chairs that are so useful for museum goers. Fortunately he tumbled onto the grass in the Bois de Boulogne, not far from the Shakespeare Garden. Are we getting more romantic yet?

The best way to finish off the windows to totally clear, transparency demands the use of rolled up newspapers. Is this the only way that one can find true clarity in life? By rolling up a coherent, meaningful essay into a messy jumble of carbon, creating friction with glass and liquid cleaning fluid?

Everyone that I've ever spoken to swears that newspaper print is by far and away the best way to get clean mirrors and windows.

The sun is shining and there is not a single cloud in the skies above Paris on this June day. I'm standing on the window ledge/balcony, one floor above the street and foot traffic. My body appears to be strangely out of place in this suspended state which suddenly feels pretty close to those outer body experiences people talk about when you've been meditating for a really long time. Well, okay, I'm not really outside my body, but my body's outside the window, and that's already far out.

A tour bus goes by and I wonder if the tourists are watching the woman washing windows and suddenly, my body has become part of the Parisian landscape and it no longer belongs to me but to Paris.

Is this what life is all about?