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Joseph Cornell's Operas |
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Joseph Cornell's Operas, along with Emigrés and Grim Tales, is available in printed form in Trio available from Ravenna Press/Triple Press. THE OPERA OF ARTIFICE Wallenda did not enter in the ordinary way, you might well have expected that he, Karl Wallenda, wouldn't, the Flying one, he arrived by trapeze pausing at the top of the mast to receive our admiration which we gave unstintingly, the trapeze trembled in the colorful lights at the top of the opera in the space above the stage called the "flies," his costume was flashy which we pardoned -- this is theatre after all! we shouted to those who had brought fruit to critique performers not to their liking, this is opera! who is it who now comes floating onstage in a gondola from last night's commedia dell' arte? we wondered, it is Joseph Cornell scattering telegrams and cigar bands on the trompe l'oeil waves (so dear to us, artifice!), hello! we cheered, being fond of him and his art which is lovely, but what about Wallenda who had entered the top of the opera with so much élan? he was sleeping in midair, or so it seemed, might it not be a trick? we asked ourselves, knowing him, the subtlety despite the dash of his costume -- might not he be pretending to sleep on an invisible wire, or is gravity truly overruled in the opera house? but what of Joseph Cornell in the golden gondola? he was smiling as he fashioned, dreaming, this The Opera of Artifice which Karl, the Flying Wallenda, with attractive nonchalance had taught him to compose by a simple method: to step out with no fear of falling onto the air and, putting one foot in front of the other, walk, regardless of the counterfeiter death.
THE OPERA OF SECRET RELATIONSHIPS Someone let a cloud into the opera house, this is no place for meteorological phenomena! we shouted, incredulous despite the suspension of disbelief that held sway, Stieglitz, however, was charmed, he spread the legs of his camera and disappeared beneath the black cloth, I shall make a series of cloud portraits, he said, his voice somewhat muffled because of the cloth, beginning, he continued, with this one, who let that cloud inside? the impresario demanded, wiping tuna salad from his lips that had made of his mouth a greasy O, who? it wasn't me! said the doorman defensively, I was asleep, then who then? but none among us knew, Georgia came tiptoeing across the opera stage, one pretty foot after another, she held a shell, a whelk? yes, certainly, a whelk! roared a zoologist in the audience, she held it in her hands while the cloud nuzzled her, this is wonderful! Stieglitz cried in an exalted frame of mind, superb! the cloud whispered endearments into Georgia's ear gradually persuading her to take off her clothes and cover herself with it, the cloud, instead, oh! we whistled, this is more like it! this is better than the Folies-Bergères or Mesmer's magnetic salon even! Madame Curie, entered at that moment, radiant, wanting to dance for us, but we sent her packing, we have a cloud to contemplate, we told her, which was, the cloud, blushing rosily because of what was hidden in it, the nakedness of Georgia O'Keeffe, Stieglitz was enraptured, his camera trembled on its tripod in the invisible erotic current that had electrified us all, yes, all of us! we admit it! we were excited beyond hope by this opera which later became notorious, a succès de scandale, called by its admirers and detractors both, The Opera of Secret Relationships.
THE OPERA WITH CHOCOLATE-COVERED PEARS Sigmund was there but only for a short time, he had to go, he said, to lecture on hysteria at the University of Vienna, so he left us abruptly, but we were not in the least put out, because Igor was there, he had come, at the last moment he had consented to listen to the opera which was not after all to his taste, we knew it, not at all his sort of thing, we had known it when we called to invite him, but graciously he came bringing with him a Russian ballerina for the collection and bringing with him also a box of chocolate-covered pears that he placed on a taboret, he nodded then as if to say you may proceed with the opera, which had no name, Joseph Cornell had fallen asleep before giving it one, but just as the orchestra was about to begin the overture, Groucho did an untoward thing, no it was Harpo who did it with his klaxon, and Igor, displeased, left for Martinique not long after Freud, in fact, had left although we were not suspicious, not in the least, choosing to believe there had been no complicity, that Igor was not going to meet Sigmund in Vienna or in Martinique or at the haberdashery in town to buy silk ties, in any event he, Igor, left with the chocolate-covered pears, alas, though the Russian ballerina remained behind to dazzle us with one half of a pas de deux.
THE CASABLANCA OPERA He was not one of the notable personalities, not he, but Humphrey was one, Humphrey Bogart in his coat and hat, he was there to see The Opera of Rick's Café, that exotic and dangerous and sexy venue where Sam played piano, in Casablanca with its alluring women, he was not in the opera, however, Sam wasn't, the piano was, it was essential certainly that the piano be there with the Letters of Transit hidden inside with the music, wistful and treacherous, please, Mr. Bogart, he said, the one said who was not famous, please tell me a secret, any secret at all that will make me notable, but Bogart merely shrugged, with his lip a little crooked as is his way, a quiet man, a seemingly ordinary man, the Marx brothers appeared suddenly through a trapdoor to undermine the solemnity of the opera but were efficiently removed by an unpleasant Gestapo man, there is power in verisimilitude, verily, in seeming, this is opera! we all said, pleased at the way things were turning out, Bogart who was a quiet man said nothing, he sat back in his seat, we heard its plush growl in the hush of the mezzanine, the Marx brothers returned, sheepishly, they went into the casino to play roulette, the spotlight on the piano riveted us, the Letters of Transit were hidden inside it with the music which could not be coaxed from the instrument in the absence of Sam, something is happening we don't fully understand, fear clutched at our throats, where is Sam and why the silence of the piano? we turned away from the action, Rick had taken Ilsa in his arms, we looked for the café girls, we went out into the lobby and talked to them, we invited them upstairs, we left then and there with the girls, wanting to forget, to forget Casablanca and "As Time Goes by" which was not played, and Humphrey Bogart sitting in his theater seat, chewing his lower lip and waiting for Paris, for Paris to begin again.
A DROMEDARY OPERA Lawrence! we shouted, most esteemed and heroic man of the desert wastes! he strode across the opera stage trailing long Arab robes, light glinting wickedly along his dagger's edge, which way to Akaba? he asked bewildered, shading his eyes to see us through the glare of the footlights, we didn't know, we don't know, we mumbled apologetically, Matisse waved a brush at him, this is the Côte d'Azure! he said bristling at this incursion into his painting, the Côte d'Azure? repeated Lawrence leaning against a papier-mâché palm tree, yes, the Riviera, sighed Matisse returning to his latest evocation of desire, the ocean-machine heaved and swayed, the mechanical gulls with exquisite Swiss movements wheeled about the opera's high cerulean ceiling, the sand was real enough, however, the wind-machine sent it hissing across the stage apron occasionally when a tropic breeze was wanted, it added verisimilitude to the opera though our teeth felt gritty, I was on my way to Damascus, he said, Lawrence said, I fell asleep in the shadow of my camel and woke up there, he pointed to the wings, and the camel? we asked with a sudden dromedary interest we could not explain, the camel was gone, ah! we would have much enjoyed a camel! Matisse put down his brush and began to question Lawrence about the war in Arabia, but Lawrence did not answer, he had forgotten the war and Akaba, his eyes fixed on the Mediterranean where a little boat slouched against the horizon, Lawrence was charmed, it is something like a camel, he mused and then again not, we yawned into our hands, bored at the unusual listlessness of this opera, we asked Joseph Cornell to pep it up else we fall asleep, but he had left the opera house to find a camel for the next act in what would come to be called A Dromedary Opera, patience! the impresario entreated us, we sat back in our seats and waited unwilling to leave the opera house because of the uncertainties outside and because we had our hearts set on a camel.
THE OPERA OF THE DROWNED Not all of those who were there were famous, but one was, Verne was certainly, Jules Verne was although he was dead, at the time The Opera of the Drowned was being performed Jules Verne was quite happily dead, but that did not stop him from coming to see the production which was brilliant, many said, I agree and so does Anne and George does too, Wallace, however, disagrees, to this day Wallace says this particular opera is abysmal, a waste of the composer's feeble ability, his slim talent, but one thing is certain and ungainsayable for me: Jules Verne did come to see it, The Opera of the Drowned, came and sat in the box reserved for the most famous, even the dead most famous, and I could not take my eyes from him looking at him through the opera glass that was a vade mecum of my life at that time, I was seeing so many operas at that time of my life with Anne, with George, not with Wallace if I could help it for he is not sympathetic, not in the way George and Anne are, all of us except Wallace looked at Jules Verne in his rococo box and could not help wonder what he was making of it, this opera that had as its mise en scène a submarine, of course this was what had persuaded Jules Verne to leave his quiet fame, his ungainsayable importance as a precursor to science fiction, a past practitioner of fantastic literature all of us except Wallace admire, I later asked him, Jules Verne, as both he and I happened together to present our checks to the pretty hat check girl and together receive our hats so uncannily alike, in fact, there was a little comic confusion with the hats of the kind so dear to vaudevillians, what do you think of the opera, M. Verne? he answered me in his language, which is or was of course French, something incomprehensible to me having not the language, but whatever he said, whatever the gist, his having said it proved ungainsayably that this Jules Verne was not a cardboard prop or mannequin as Wallace claimed, propped up in the box reserved for the illustrious as part of the opera production, no, not at all I said to George and Anne and Wallace later in the hotel barroom, Wallace, however, could not be shaken from his unattractive cynicism, he claimed it was not Jules Verne but an impersonator hired by the management to gull the gullible, I detest Wallace and told him so then even if he had taken as his motto the same one J. J. Rousseau had from Juvenal, his Satires: vitam impendere vero: to consecrate life to truth, even so I tell you Wallace is a liar and no friend to opera where to be gulled is a pleasure, the greatest possible pleasure, and artifice is why we go to see opera, isn't it?
THE OPERA OF THE WALTZING ICEBERGS The icebergs waltzed to a Sigmund Romberg operetta tune, this is more like it! we shouted, this is why we have stayed so long in the opera house, in wait for the beautiful, the strange, the icebergs waltzing, now who is it who comes riding the back of one of these ice-blue camels of the thickening ocean? Frankenstein in pursuit of his monster with Mary Shelley after them frightened to have insinuated this, quote, modern myth, end quote, into the unconsciousness, I'm truly sorry! she said, stopping a moment on her headlong rush to lace her boots which had come unlaced, were always doing so, sorry for unleashing nightmarish metaphor on the world, we were deaf, however, to her appeals, liking Frankenstein and also his monster these many years, now the Titanic steamed onto the stage, four stalks of smoke seemingly frozen above its stacks, befogged, we resented it and said as much, we resent it! we shouted, making a blizzard of our opera programs, the impresario was nonplused, why? he asked, picking up his high hat from the floor knocked there from his head by a deftly shied plaster-of-Paris snowball, what is it you so bitterly resent? the Titanic, we replied, that it should have found its way into this opera, it has no place here! but, he said, precedents exist for the commingling of various and even impossibly distant times -- the imagination is muscular and takes anachronisms in its stride -- also nonsense -- so long as some thread to follow can be found such as icebergs, but we were in no mood for tragedy at sea preferring instead the spectacle of Frankenstein and his slipshod creature shambling over the ice floes with Mary Shelley tripping after them, boots unlaced and crying after them: stop! but they could not stop and would not, no, not even when we promised them hot drinks and mink lap robes, not while the opera went on irresistibly to the music of Sigmund Romberg among the magical properties of Joseph Cornell whose oeuvre holds us even now in thrall.
THE OPERA WITH GOLDEN CARP The stage was empty, it is time for The Waste Land Opera, the impresario announced, doffing his high silk hat, we wanted nothing to do with it, we want nothing to do with it! we shouted, ready to shy the custard pies Buster Keaton had left for us or perhaps it was Harold Lloyd, we weren't sure, because of the darkness in the theatre, which was general because of The Waste Land Opera being performed there despite our protests, remember the riots at the Ballet Russe and the flight of Igor to Tangier! we threatened the management with direct action, even insurrection, we had with us a contingent of devil-may-care soldiers who had campaigned in the Philippines, ho! we aren't kidding, you must withdraw this bleak and disheartening opera at once, we want extravaganza, we want excitement, fast and furious, we want pretty women in dishabille to tempt our minds from the anxieties of existence! it is no fun, this life, and this opera you have mounted promises little in the way of comic relief, who is coming now? we turned our attention to the man in the pith helmet, it was Colonel Goethals returned from digging the Panama Canal, with a shovel in his hand presented to him by Theodore Roosevelt he began to dig in the most arid and sterile section of The Waste Land Opera, Here is no water but only rock, Rock and no water, that part, Tom stormed out of the prompter's box, shaking sheaves of manuscript, what is the meaning of this outrage! he fulminated, uproarious, he screamed bloody murder because of the mutilation of his libretto, Colonel Goethals was insouciant, doesn't he look dashing in his ditch! we said to each other, leaning across our seats, oh! we were enjoying ourselves now that water was beginning to issue from who knows what secret place beneath The Waste Land Opera, Houdini poked his head out of the water, not now, Harry! we cried adoringly, come back again in another work more suitable to your quicksilver talents, the diva strode into the oasis which had opened sweetly on the river that had all but destroyed Joseph Cornell's dark opera and from the chalice of her throat poured golden carp that flashed their scales in the sun.
THE EIFFEL TOWER OPERA Now, Houdini! we shouted, sitting back in our seats to await his entrance onto the opera stage, but he did not come, he is indisposed, the impresario announced, because of his mother, who had shortly before passed on, Mr. Houdini has enrolled in the Institute for Psychical Research, he hopes to bend spoons solely with the power of his gaze, he hopes, the impresario continued, fiddling with his high silk hat, he hopes, I say, to establish communication with the dead, we were disappointed, the opera music went on a while unaccompanied, it behaved well under the circumstances, the musicians had put down their instruments in order to eat anchovy sandwiches, we closed our eyes and waited for something to happen, it was Alexandre Gustave Eiffel who relieved the terrible boredom, installing a tower of quite ingenious construction onstage, it is mental, he told us in confidence, an entirely mental creation, as such it requires little if any maintenance, we cheered, we threw him kisses so grateful were we to have this fabulous object to look at, we soon forgot all about Houdini who was at that moment in Paris, his fingertips resting lightly on an inverted wine glass as if waiting on the edge of a piano score to begin, to begin what? we whispered, fear chilling us, I was about to answer: death, when it became unnecessary, because the tower lit up suddenly and splendidly with thought and we were, what is the word? transfigured, one among us, however, cried out against the, quote, anarchistic and anachronistic, end quote, nature of Joseph Cornell's Operas, but we turned a deaf ear, toasting Mr. Cornell who sat reserved in his box, inscrutably listening to this, The Eiffel Tower Opera.
TARZAN AT THE OPERA Tarzan came, he came in the window, upsetting the African violets, she did not mind, Miss Toklas did not mind and neither did Gertrude Stein, whom we called Gertie but not to her face, the one that was painted by Picasso, to her face we called her Gertrude or, after Matisse, Mademoiselle Gertrude or even Miss Stein, even Ernest did, but Picasso never, and I did not hear how Tarzan addressed her as he came in through the window on the rue de Fleurus to listen to this opera, the one Joseph Cornell was composing, next time use the front door, Miss Stein told Tarzan, turning to a tray of canapés held by dear Miss Toklas whom we all called Alice to her face because she was so nice, she didn't mind about the violets, Gertrude Stein didn't, but there are better ways to enter a room, she said, than a window, besides which, she said, windows are for light to come and go or for Miss Toklas' pies to sit on their sills and cool, or occasionally for elopements -- but then there needs to be a ladder and not a vine even, as was the case in this case, a vine brought with one, with Tarzan, so very thoughtfully.
THE OPERA OF THE SPANISH-AMERICAN WAR The Spanish-American War was there in the opera house, a brass band played on the boat to Cuba, Teddy Roosevelt wore a uniform smartly tailored by Brooks Bros. of New York, persuaded out of permanent retirement, Madame Tussaud was in the opera house too, why? we were unable to discover the reason, Erik entered with a musical score, death, however, was not admitted to the opera house, it was left outside in the tropic sun to rot, in Cuba and also in the Philippines, what is the reason for this opera? we asked ourselves, suddenly disquieted, the music faltered, the musicians could not play the Satie score, where are our marches? they asked bitterly, this is too difficult, this is war! Teddy growled, Madame Tussaud had boiled wax in a kettle, President McKinley turned his attention briefly from the Spanish-American War to have his likeness made, ah! now we knew why Madame Tussaud had been invited, we congratulated each other having understood at last, we hate a mystery desperate as we are before the bewildering and multifarious universe, Joseph Cornell introduced Albert Einstein onto the opera stage, we watched as he unraveled his sweater, to find my way out of the labyrinth, he said, but this is impossible! we screamed, Albert is in Zurich during the Spanish-American War! the impresario looked to Joseph Cornell for an explanation but he offered none, this is not the Spanish-American War, the impresario said finally, this is The Opera of the Spanish-American War! much relieved we cheered, some tossed hats into the opera's dark corners, some others, however, questioned the, quote, abandonment of reality as it is commonly understood, end quote, the cyclorama went from red to black as fear possessed us.
THE OPERA OF COSMOLOGY We became restless, the present opera failed to revive our diminishing capacity for wonder, winter had entered the opera house and with it sleet, our eyes were heavy with an iron heaviness we felt also in our feet, our eyes were slowly very slowly closing, oh! we said sadly, we can no longer resist! Svengali turned the switch and the rotating disc became gray, then white as the black spiral sped, he had nearly succeeded in putting us all under, against our will, our will lay with the pretty girls in the French Quarter who were trying on scarves, go away! we shouted to Svengali, leave the stage at once! we wish to see, we wish to take joy in these operas, however unreal to some -- but not to us! we shouted antagonistically, for there were many outside who vilified us for living so long in the opera house in the marvelous shadows beyond the footlights, they stood outside in coats left over from the war, hands in their pockets clutching stones, now we were on our way to being lost because of the strength of Svengali's hypnotic influence, his terrible somnolence, sleep! he whispered, just then Fred Astaire arrived with a suitcase full of dance-step diagrams, he turned on the phonograph, the orchestra having fallen asleep among sandwich papers and empty bottles of beer, he turned on the phonograph, the music crackled and the silence retreated, we began to move our feet, less heavy now that music had gotten into them -- light now, in fact, we got up from our seats and began to dance in the puddles of melted sleet, even Svengali could not help but dance a mambo with Fred, feet rising and falling sprightly on the diagram spread out on the stage floor like a map of the archaic heavens, drawn by the lively music the girls left the French Quarter and wove colorful scarves into The Opera of Cosmology which had come to be -- in despite of the sullen crowds standing outside and afraid, in despite of winter which had departed from the opera house now that Lemaître's gigantic rushing chandeliers were entering the opera's moonlit night to our unspeakable delight!
THE OPERA OF MODERN TRAUMA Sigmund came again, we have no need of you! we cried, our nervousness has abated, so go, go until we call you! so he went without, I hasten to add, the least ill will, left smoking a cigar, leaving us till later, a cloud of smoke remaining to mark his brief visit, but who should come next but Caruso himself, he was most welcome, you, Enrico, are welcome to the opera, he walked on stage, no! we said, please! we begged, take a seat, sit with us here in the opera house and enjoy the silent properties, the handsome stage furniture, the sleeping extras wearing the smart uniforms of Rough Riders, and here comes Teddy, his monocle flashing with green gaslight, his spurs ringing on the lobby's marble floor, hello, Teddy, hello! recently returned from Africa, he went off in search of undiscovered fauna in a corner of our opera, the opera that is called The Opera of Modern Trauma, how do you like it, Teddy? but he had withdrawn behind a flat hand-painted by Van Gogh with junipers and monkeys, now here is Frank, Frank Lloyd Wright arriving in a rickshaw from Tokyo after the earthquake of 1923 knocked it flat, all, that is, but his Imperial Hotel, it stood the test of a convulsive nature, it stands as a monument to his genius, and we hope you like this, The Opera of Modern Trauma, Mr. Wright, enough to build us an opera house that will withstand cataclysms of the imagination even, we whispered becoming anxious once more.
THE OPERA OF DESIRE Hubble came with a telescope, with which to view the most distant skies, he said, the skies, however, were obscured by a palpable darkness at the top of the opera house, above the farthest platforms where the trapeze artists loitered unseen by us but apparent to our imaginations, we liked his tweed knickers and told him so, they become you! we shouted, for his attention was on the instrument, he was smitten! what he had seen in the eye-piece beguiled him completely and brought him to the edge of a swoon, it was Lola Montes, she who had been the lover of Franz Liszt and also of King Ludwig of Bavaria whom the world called Mad, she now became the object of Edwin Hubble's desire, she is delicious! he said in an aside overheard by the impresario as he smoked a cigarette with the handsome young tenor waiting to make his entrance into Jules Massenet's opera Werther, it is all, the impresario said, about desire, Werther bit his hand, yes! he cried anguished, yes! desire is a force akin to gravitation, the impresario continued, it is it that causes the stars to chase each other forever outward, the stars in their red shifts, he knows, Edwin knows, and so did Liszt and the King of Bavaria, and once even I, the impresario, knew, but -- the tenor reminded him -- Liszt died young and Mad Ludwig drowned himself in the Starnberger and Lola Montes became a circus exhibit, but ah! the impresario answered, they flew, you know, until the end they all of them defied gravity such was the strength of their desire -- who, we wondered, who then is Hubble peering at through his telescope, Lola Montes having long ago died? from his opera box Joseph Cornell said: her remnant of light still desiring.
THE MINOTAUR OPERA Now it is your turn, we told Henry Ford, to contribute to The Opera of Early Twentieth Century Technology, but he shook his head, I am no orator, he said crankily, and I cannot carry a tune in a bucket, he pulled on his goggles and gloves and motored in a Model T out of the opera house to a picnic in Yosemite with John Burroughs at the end of the infrastructure, we didn't much care for Mr. Ford and stamped our feet to protest this interruption in the entertainment, the impresario hid himself in the wings, oh, we were enraged! we would have slashed the upholstery had not Joseph Cornell climbed from his box at that moment, we waited to see what impulse would animate his hands, what genius move him to strange creation, would Picasso? no, not he, he went away, an appointment with a minotaur, he said with a look of significance we did not believe, oh no, he was on his way to a brothel to paint nudes! he winked and was gone, we were on our own for a while, what to do? what to do to pass the time entr'acte? to sleep is good, we knew, closing our eyes, I shall fashion you a dream, he said, Joseph Cornell said, we were happy, because of the rarity with which he broke his long silences, sleep, he said seductively, and ready yourselves to receive it, the dream, it was then we heard, issuing from the darkness of the opera, Marconi tap out a long and difficult narrative, in dots and dashes, which we could not fathom, a story of we knew not what, but the roar of the minotaur -- that we understood, its ruinous voice in the depths of the opera summoning us, fatally.
THE OPERA OF SEXUAL TRANSPORT Mesmer appeared, very suddenly, oooh! we cried as one in our astonishment, the rapidity of his materialization taking our breath away, which returned after a moment, as it must, inevitably, if not, then death, but death, as earlier remarked, is forbidden in the opera house -- to resume: expelled from the eighteenth century after much ridicule (in part, because of a robe encrusted with alchemical symbols, in part because of his magnetic violation of young women) Franz Anton Mesmer appeared on the stage of Joseph Cornell's latest opera, The Opera of Sexual Transport, to the accompaniment of a glass harmonica, which ravished us! welcome, he said, Mesmer did, to my Magnetic Salon! what now? we asked one another, susceptible as always to the marvelous (to celestial gravity transmitted by an imponderable fluid or ether to your nervous systems, said Mesmer having read our minds), we were ready for anything -- we're ready for anything! we shouted encouragingly, as long as boredom may be eluded for yet a little while longer, what do you propose? we asked, I wish, he said, to illustrate the principle of animal magnetism, do so and at once! we exclaimed with a light collective heart, the house lights were extinguished then lit again, in the interval we slept while a huge ape entered (we know not how) the Magnetic Salon, attracted, no doubt, by animal magnetism) -- the ape emblematic in the middle ages of lust, nominated in our time "King Kong," now civilized he wore, the gorilla did, a tuxedo, top hat, and yellow spats and spoke seductively of rough intimacies behind french doors, oh! the women opera-goers were brought to the edge of a swoon, some toppled over into unseemliness while we men felt something hot rise in the ductwork of desire, what you are experiencing, said Mesmer, is your true nature, unedited and unabridged by consciousness, those of us who could, clapped, M. Mesmer bowed and flounced his alchemical cape dramatically behind him, exhausted we needed rest (and knew it) and a cigarette, always attentive to our needs Joseph Cornell sent the pretty cigarette girl among us, we eyed her gratefully and when we looked up next, Mesmer was gone and with him his simian illustration, where gone we could not any of us say -- somewhere perhaps where pent-up desire might be loosed in a Magnetic Salon -- and Joseph Cornell? withdrew a while into his antechamber to dream his next opera.
THE OPERA OF CLASS STRUGGLE Fred was there and Ginger was there and also Stalin, he was there, smiling kindly at us, smiling broadly under his bushy Georgian eyebrows, Fred and Ginger danced together in a whirl of black tails and taffeta while Stalin sat on the red sofa and crossed his legs which were not so elegant as Fred's and not so shapely surely as Ginger's, he crossed and uncrossed his peasant's legs pleasantly while the orchestra hid in the fernery where, to and fro, flit several gold finch, and all was beautiful this time and all was beautiful at this particular jeweled moment that could not be, The Opera of Class Struggle raged in the fernery, sprawling note by note onto the shining parquet where the dancers danced, it may not have been taffeta, I cannot in all honesty swear to its having been taffeta that flounced about Ginger's pretty legs, but the sofa was red and the finches were gold and there was no hint of malevolence in Stalin's smile.
THE OPERA OF EARLY TWENTIETH CENTURY TECHNOLOGY The Wright Bros. came next, we were delighted they had decided to appear after all in The Opera of Early Twentieth Century Technology, they tipped their derbies at us from their aeroplane as they went round and round the opera house in it to the music of Erik Satie, whom we adored ever since The Opera of the Spanish-American War had made him famous, for us if not the world which at that time was largely elsewhere -- and weren't we pleased not to be in it, the world? especially now that Orville and Wilbur were circling the ceiling in a yellow aeroplane catching, as it did, in the scissoring klieg lights! who brought this whale into the opera house? the impresario demanded in a rage, who? sorry, said the stage manager sheepishly, it belongs to The Moby Dick Opera, well that opera is not now but next week, so out with it, it is in the way, remove it at once! half-a-dozen stage hands in striped jerseys tugged the whale outside, come back again when the ocean backdrop is finished, the impresario shouted forgivingly, it's still wet in the properties room, then we'll give you our undivided attention, yes! we promised, then, but now all eyes were on the Wright Bros. who were still wheeling about the ceiling of the opera house to Erik's gay music, a little tune like his Gymnopédies, now just look what Calder has done, hung one of his colorful mobiles in the opera, see how it folds and unfolds on its hinges in the air, sharing it with Orville and Wilbur who don't mind, oh! to have seen such beauty in our time! we all said thrilled, throwing hats and flowers onto the opera stage, author! author! we shouted, Joseph Cornell shyly appeared and bowed, and that is how The Opera of Early Twentieth Century Technology entered the repertoire where it persists, because of the beauty of its effects which consoles us for having lived all our life in the opera house.
OPERA WITH MOON SNAILS He had caused Algiers to appear in the opera house, a little of it, the part of it inside the old city walls, the Kasbah, Joseph Cornell had caused it, we did not know how and marveled, a thin music wound like adders through the crooked streets, we loved the red fezzes, the Arab women, the spiced and orangey air, the boat from Marseilles bumped against the dock and sighed, Méliès arrived to make a film of the Kasbah, because of the scarcity of dreams, he said unwinding his watch, Berta Kukelvan -- the actress -- was with him, her wrist in plaster, they had just finished Le Voyage dans la lune, the cardboard rocketship stood in a corner of the opera next to a section of the lunar precipice, it is all of it a dream, said Méliès, happily, Joseph Cornell murmured his assent and hung paper lanterns, we watched nervously as he climbed the slender ladder into the darkness, the moon next if you please, requested Méliès adjusting his Kinétograph lens, the moon, alas is torn! the impresario replied, the rocket had struck it and Berta Kukelvan had tumbled out injuring her wrist on a picnic hamper, thus the plaster cast which had made us wonder in secret, she disappeared now into the depths of the Kasbah in order to, as she said, immerse herself in her role, we wished her bon chance! waving our programs encouragingly, the sun fell behind the rocky hills of Africa, we were afraid of the strangeness of it all, what shall we do until the light comes again? we asked ourselves, the ocean that slid back and forth between Algeria and Spain rattled over stones, hissed in retreat from the beach, roared down the black jetties, we smoked to make a little light in the night, it was then Méliès turning his camera towards the shore cried out to us -- look! look, my friends! he cranked his camera ecstatically, the beach! the beach shone with moon snails blue and coolly lunar, an unexplainable stage effect provided by Joseph Cornell for his opera of the Kasbah, for which Méliès thanked him, as we too do thank him for this dream.
THE OPERA OF LEVITATION It happened a little before sleep, Miró had decorated the opera for Joseph Cornell who wished this time to compose the score, he did, Joseph Cornell did compose it, it was a silence and something more difficult to express, the music he'd heard once in the operating theatre as he went into a black world, Miró leaned a ladder against the darkness at the top of the opera house whose ceiling was obscured by storms, the slender ladder left over from The Kasbah Opera which had enchanted us with accidental moon snails, now Miró's red disk and chill blue sky enchanted and disconcerted too but not unpleasantly: like going up the tower -- Eiffel's, we told each other while an invisible wire of desire threaded through our mouths and bellies, our bones became light so that we rose helplessly giddily in our seats, Joseph Cornell allowed the richly embroidered silence to unfold into the opera's far corners, then exhausted by creation he folded himself into the prompter's box in order to renew himself for the work ahead, Miró turning to us asked for our admiration and we gave it to him gladly, we love a strange tableau, we said, and the music this music we also love it, it gives us rest, a space in which to listen to memory, to the sweet music of our glands and ducts, I took the floating diva's hand in mine and looked at her fingernails, at the moons rising there, and was happy.
THE OPERA OF TIME'S TOPOLOGY Jules Verne returned and with him the Time Traveler, but he is from another's imagination! we shouted, another's story, Wells', H. G., dear to us in childhood and even now as we ponder time travel (the problems of which these operas have vanquished), we met in the past, Verne explained, mine, which the Time Traveler visited in order, as he said, to pay his author's respects to his literary forebear, me, we liked each other instantly, what an idea! we scoffed, what a travesty! we sat back in the blue plush seats of the opera house Frank Lloyd Wright had built for us, sat back and closed our eyes and prepared once more to set out each of us in the small boat of dreaming, in the ensuing darkness (a kind of night that enfolded the opera house) Verne and the Time Traveler performed we know not what -- perhaps, someone later speculated, an intimate dance in which the borderland between reality and fiction was further obscured, I should like to add something meaningful to the discourse on time, I said to myself, but cannot other than the obvious: that I am aging as I remain here year after year, if "year" is meaningful in the opera house where time is not and space is illusory, I wonder if I will breathe my last into the rich romantic dust? suddenly I opened my eyes and saw Verne crumble inside his clothes, the Time Traveler had brought the future with him, it laid waste to Verne who was already dead, looking at our hands, their flesh, we called to the impresario, help us please help! a lovely piece of stage furniture finished in vernis Martin (a brilliant lacquer developed in the reign of Louis XV by the Martin frères) slid onto the stage, distracting us, I treasure it even now, that moment, knowing I had then a glimpse into the secret method of Joseph Cornell whose operas these are, knowing vernis Martin lies across the page in the big encyclopedia from Jules Verne -- an aleatory process, chance had opened a hidden door in the cabinet and the Time Traveler entered, returning to the Eloi and Weena, his adored one, or perhaps somewhere else, who knows, for who among us does know time's topology? and how, I wonder, did I know what lay on the pages of that encyclopedia? I who had never laid eyes on it, was I a spectator at the opera or an actor? I was once again afraid.
THE VENETIAN OPERA Compose for us next A Venetian Opera! we cried, we longed for the city of canals because we had come to know this about ourselves: we will never leave the opera house, the beauty of the decorations suits our dreams, outside is snarling and the noise of iron fists beating against the door, no, we cannot go out, we are afraid -- we admit to our fear, readily! -- and so we remain in our plush seats in thrall to art, to a lavish illusion, A Venetian Opera if you please! so as not to miss it in our lifetime, Venice, we begged Joseph Cornell to give us it, not all of it but the canals, the gilt-and-marble palazzos, the softly pigeoned squares, that much only, oh, he did! Joseph Cornell who has given us much pleasure did fashion it! lanes of light lapped against Goldoni gondolas with pretty women recumbent in them cool as sherbet, we were glad of the spectacle and watched until nightfall when orange-and-violet rags were dragged across fine wires simulating sunset, the canal water darkened and frisked under the wind-machine, how lovely and desirable is this Venice! but wait! a vaporetto snarled to a stop undoing the lyric mood, Lenin stepped out onto the pier, his beard a dagger, shouting sternly -- comrades! you are living in a fools' paradise, the world is outside in the street, no, no! we shouted back, we were once outside and now we're glad to be inside, the impresario looked to Joseph Cornell for a stage effect, he produced Isadora Duncan, a revolutionary artist, and also a small orchestra -- dance with me, Vladimir Ilych! she said, but he would not, she dropped her drapery to seduce him if she must, our faces flushed, but still he would not -- nyet! Lenin said with loathing for us, for art, for Isadora's splendid nakedness -- nyet again! he shook an uncomradely fist and returned to the vaporetto, it whisked him into The Opera of the Revolution, we threw roses into the canal and at the feet of Isadora -- we are yours! we cried, and also yours, Joseph Cornell, for giving us these operas (although perhaps unreal), is there not a kind of truth in them (if not truth, then perhaps something other) to be upheld?
THE FINAL OPERA Houdini came at last, we were happy to see him after so many missed cues and abortive entrances, his poster stuck up outside on the wall of the opera house had long since turned blue -- so we had been told by the stage manager who left the opera house each day returning in the evening when the house lights were turned on and we resumed consciousness in our plush seats, we never left, did not wish to go, captive to Joseph Cornell's uncanny tableaux, Houdini entered from the miraculous cabinet which the Time Traveler had passed through on his way to Weena in the loveless future -- he, Houdini, stood now before us, shyly, our sympathies engaged we called: Harry! make us marvel, bring us helplessly to the very edge of our seats! poet of escape, demonstrate for us an existential freedom: escape death, its muscular hand, its sometimes sweet blandishments! that I cannot do, he said sadly, please! we pleaded, he shook his head no, we looked to Joseph Cornell whose opera house had banished it, death, for us, but we longed to leave, to go out in the street with men and women unmoved by opera's artifice, the cyclorama darkened, the wind-machines scattered autumn leaves and love notes -- a brilliant stage effect! I have escaped everything, Houdini admitted, but this, then what hope for us? we thought, our hearts a moment before so gay now sunk as fear possessed us, the impresario wheeled out a guillotine from the properties room, the blade spoke of finality, of a door opening one way, Houdini caressed it, we held our breath to see if he would open this door and put his head through it for us, Sousa raised his baton in expectation, Houdini sighed and took off his clothes in order to enter without hope of concealment the final cabinet, we knew he would not come again and wept -- for him and also for us. |
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