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Die Walküre

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This week we saw the Washington National Opera‘s performance of Wagner‘s Die Walküre at the Kennedy Center. Or, I should say, we saw most of the production. Despite our best efforts, Wagner defeated us.

Last year, we saw our first Wagner production, Parsifal performed by the Kirov Opera Company, also at the Kennedy Center. As relative novices to the world of opera fandom, we certainly weren’t representative of the usual Wagner-going crowd. We chose Parsifal in order to see the Kirov company perform, as well as for the music itself. Certainly Parsifal is not, erm, the most engaging story ever told on the stage. At that performance, we wavered early on and nearly left at the first intermission: the combined effect of the sonorous score, the slow and dull plot, and being seated behind an entire row of overly perfumed ladies of a certain age almost got the better of us. We rallied, though, and moved to the handicapped seating area, which was thankfully empty. From there, we stayed for the remaining two acts, enjoyed the music, and, in the end, patted ourselves on the back for our dedication and endurance.

Compared to Parsifal, we imagined that attending Die Walküre would be a cakewalk. Well, not quite a cakewalk, but it had a lot more going for it: a more lively score, a more engaging plot, and Plácido Domingo singing Siegmund. All of these bonuses notwithstanding, the sheer length of the performance and extremely slow pacing combined with our end of the week fatigue to mean that we were ready to call it quits midway through. We chose to leave at the second intermission, having seen the stunning sets, heard the famous Domingo, and taken in the excellent performance by the orchestra. We were simply too tired to stay until the end and then face the metro trip home, and we didn’t want to try to slip out in the dark midway through the third act. As a result, we forewent hearing “Ride of the Valkyries” at the beginning of Act Three. The teaser in Act Two, when Brünnhilde first appears to the twins, will have to serve as our experience of hearing the piece performed live.

At this point, I think we’ll get back on the horse with another Verdi (we saw a touring production of La traviata at the Opernhaus Zürich in 1997) or maybe a Puccini, and slowly build up to facing Wagner again. Or, you know, just rest on our laurels with Parsifal and call it a draw.

Die Walküre

Jasper Johns exhibition

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The current exhibition at the East Gallery is a selection of Jasper Johns paintings, among them some of the most well-known of his works (e.g. the paintings with the names of colors painted in colors other than those which they signify). I went a few weeks ago with a friend, and will return at least once more in order to see the accompanying exhibition of prints. I had always liked his work just fine, but the exhibition—organized by theme rather than in a strictly chronological manner—immersed me in his vision in a whole new way.

In this exhibition, and the Joseph Cornell retrospective earlier this year, I was fascinated by the reproduction of certain images and concepts throughout the works. With both Johns and Cornell, I find myself loving the themes, both in terms of content and in the fact of their existence. I suppose it makes them more human to me, linking them to the way that each of us circles around themes and repeats motifs and patterns in our own lives. It’s endearing to find such a clear expression of this aspect of modern life in such compelling works of art.

At least, it was for me: while at the two exhibitions I was surprised to hear other viewers describe the works—and the habit of returning to favorite themes over time—as disturbing or jarring. With Johns, several friends commented that the disconnection of the signifier—e.g. ‘red’—from the color it signifies was jarring and difficult to enjoy. It’s not only the simple disconnection, I suppose, since we’re used to seeing all color words printed in a neutral black; it’s the replacement of the signified color with one that doesn’t match (e.g. ‘red’ painted in blue) that is disconcerting. Or, it was to others: I found it wonderfully energizing. Granted, I’ve spent a bit more time considering postmodern linguistic theory than just about everyone I socialize with out here, so it was a treat for me to see those ideas made real in such a vibrant way.

Until I saw a photo of Johns at work on these paintings, I would have imagined their creation to be nonstop fun (he doesn’t crack a smile, and his stance and self-presentation in early photos are so Germanic he appears Austrian). I, for one, smiled enough for both of us throughout my visit.

Jasper Johns exhibition

Lesser Scaup

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Earlier this week, I added a bird to my lifelist: the Lesser Scaup. I saw a group of them bobbing in the Tidal Basin, looking knackered (quite frankly). There didn’t seem to be any hens; I had initially thought that the slightly dingier ones were hens, but Peterson’s clarified that they are distinctly brown. According to my Birds of Virginia guide, they are resident year-round throughout the state, so my initial assumption that they were migrating through was likely incorrect (although they still could have been recently returned from their winter vacation).

At any rate, I had seen scaups in Oregon, but I didn’t (at the time) know what to look for to tell the greater from the lesser. On these ones, the slant of the head was clearly noticeable (I knew what to focus on this time around), and they were close enough to the shore that I could estimate their size with greater accuracy.

Lesser Scaup

Friendship Day dinner

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Having gone through a couple of disastrous Valentine’s Days over the past 13 years, my partner and I don’t really celebrate the holiday. We usually go out for dinner and celebrate Martin Luther King Day instead, both because we find it to be a much more valuable commemoration and because it’s closer to the anniversary of the start of our relationship.

At any rate, this year we decided to do something a little different: we went to a church dinner. The town Church of the Brethren was having a spaghetti dinner on Saturday night, donations only, that included live music. Our friends were game to join us, so we dubbed the evening a Friendship Day celebration and away we went.

The dinner itself was actually very nice, with tasty food and a warm atmosphere. The folks putting it together had worked hard on all the details: there were flowers, candy dishes, pink and red lights, and all the servers were wearing lace-trimmed heart-shaped aprons. If the Peace Pole outside the front door hadn’t been enough to sway us, this last—seeing a middle-aged man cheerily taking orders in a lace-trimmed heart-shaped apron—led to the consensus at the table that ‘these are good people.’ The music was by Don’t Tell Bob, an area band who played a mix of spirituals and folk songs that leaned toward what I would call bluegrass but may have a different designation out here.

All in all, it was a nice evening. As he commented when we got home: it was the kind of thing we would have been mortified to be seen at with our parents as teenagers, gone to in our early twenties because we couldn’t afford anything else, been too busy out living it up a few years ago to be bothered with, and that we now both genuinely enjoyed now.

So, I hope you had a warm and happy Friendship Day. I know we did!

Friendship Day dinner

the ice storm goeth

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We must have been perfectly prepared for the storm: in line with Murphy’s Law, we didn’t even get any actual ice. Snow, sleet, freezing rain, slush, some wind. That’s it.

Nothing like what we remembered from Indiana 17 years ago. Which was, you know, good. I’m sure my foresight will be duly rewarded on some other occasion, hopefully one that doesn’t threaten life or limb.

the ice storm goeth