Back on my beloved isle, on the finca with sister and youngest nephew Brendan. All is well here, and I am slowly catching up on sleep, unwinding by working in the garden and swimming in the big blue bathtub…
Orfeo was a triumph, ultimately – the giant rabbit popped out of the tiny hat in all its glory, in spite of massive hurdles, and thanks to everyone going above and beyond, in true chautauqua spirit…I hope we can do it again – the piece deserves more life, and of course there’s still more work to be done, as always…
John Conklin, our éminence grise and great collaborator, wrote a report on his return to new york that puts it much better than I can, so here it is (thanks, John):
“Over the course of three nights last week the Colombari production of ORFEO in ORVIETO emerged into Umbrian night. As the sky floating like an immense Baroque ceiling above the courtyard of the Palazzo Simoncelli gradually darkened, the faded pink and pale yellow wall began to glow, the flowering urn in the center of the space took on shape and color, the grass burned green in the theatrical light. The singers and musicians in their magnificent costumes – all rich as jewels in a golden setting – started to inhabit the space. It had begun – after so many months of preparation and planning. Karin’s elegant direction; Gina’s equally elegant musical adaptations; the nuanced work of the soloists (Stephen, Francesca, Stefano) – now joyous, now poignant; the vital intensity of the musicians; the dramatic force of Andrea as the narrator (speaking the words of Ovid, Virgil and Rilke) ; the beauty of Oana’s costumes; the revelation of Peter’s lights as they explored the mysterious depths of the columns and recesses of the courtyard – all now came into play. There were many memorable moments – the exuberance of the final scene of the opera itself (the singers joined in by the audience who had been carefully prepared by Gina and the irrepressible accordionist Sandro before the start), the laments of Orfeo, the narration of the death of Eurydice, the grotesque presence of Caron in his wrinkled white suit and crazy hat, oar in hand; the shocking finality of the sharp metallic clang of the iron gate at one end of the courtyard as it closed behind Eurydice; the ghostly almost inaudible but deeply present sound of Gina “playing” the rim of a wine glass as Eurydice was sucked back into the underworld; the mad drumming of Alessandro and rest of the musicians as a wild frightening cry of primal pain at the loss of Eurydice. The very wall of the courtyard took on a dramatic life. (at one rehearsal suddenly one of the rose blossoms shed its petals – tears for Eurydice?) Amid the arches and cornices and the climbing rose vines, words, phrases appeared (projected). Indeed the final image of the evening was the last words of a Rilke sonnet “Io sono” (“Ich bin” “I am”) on the wall.
This was not an easy trip – but then what journey from the depths of Hades to the light of day could be? Conflicts made scheduling difficult; a suitcase full of costumes (which were built in NYC) was (for a few really bad hours) lost at the airport; the delivered chairs for the audience were wrong (white plastic instead of the ordered – and eventually obtained – chaste black metal ones ) At first there didn’t even seem to be adequate electrical power for the lighting – but all this was overcome. Peter, Oana, Gina, Karin and her totally invaluable assistant director Nerina, all the other backstage workers, John Skillen of Gordon College (co -producer) – all coped with enthusiasm and optimism – and never looked back. Colombari should be proud.”
And so to family life on the island… the finca needs constant attention, so it’s never truly just R&R, but I love to caretake this place… the saddest news is that Mateo died last week. Beloved Mateo, without whom we wouldn’t be here, who spent every day here for 40 years, and who turned it into the place of beauty that it is… we can’t possibly keep it up in the same fashion (we don’t have the time, or the money for the water bills!) but we can husband it as best we can… after going to the cemetery to pay our respects (open coffin, as is the way here – oh dear…), we went to the plant place next door for basil, and ended up buying a whole load of things to plant in his honour… and of course every time Julia and Rob come over, Rob has some more cuttings of something for us… talking of whom, we had a lovely impromptu dinner last night when they and Nuria came over for a drink and stayed and stayed – luckily I had just made a large tortilla… then I raced off to town with Brendan to catch the Tuesday night music in the streets – diana and nuria joined us later and we danced our asses off to a group in the cloisters playing the songs of antonio machin… 50 years on they are playing the same music as they were in Sa Tanca (the old nightclub in San Luis) in the 1960s… here’s to the the Nonpareils of Biniparrell…
Brendan leaves Friday morning (in spite of his seeming discomfort at many things, I think he will be genuinely very sorry to go), followed a few hours later by the arrival of Olive – just time to change the sheets and clean the bathroom… good to have young about, otherwise it’s just the pair of us old crocks… la vida social del verano… onward…
