Morning Ramblings

I’m rapidly coming to the conclusion that spending large amounts of time in the library stacks significantly increases the chances of having extremely academic and/or thought-provoking conversations with near-strangers. After my shift this morning, I went up by the 2nd floor stacks to browse the literary criticism section and ran into a student I’d seen frequently in the mornings, studying in the same spot. Considering that he probably recognized me as “that girl who always shelves books here in the morning” and we have managed to wave to each other in the mornings, a proper “hello” and conversation was in order. Coincidentally, he happened to be a graduate student studying English literature. After the revelation that we were both English majors, the conversation plunged off the deep end of intellectual literary geek-dom. The conversation jumped from discussing favorite UW English professors, to classes (I’ve been strongly recommended to go with the Chaucer class over introduction to Middle English) to various bits of literary criticism and philosophy. We partially discussed his ideas for a thesis, which was some focus on Romantic literary criticism (purposely vaguely described as I don’t precisely remember what his full topic was). The Romantics (Blake, Coolidge, Wordsworth and company) take a far more holistically soulful approach to literature and literary criticism than Aristotle’s Poetics would encourage.

The bulk of the discussion: Aristotle takes a psychological approach to affect. Tragedy and comedy physically affect the senses… I feel like he would have taken readily to the field of psychology in how concretely he viewed the effect of art on the psyche. To the Romantics, art transcends physical affect. The analogy he offered me- literature appreciated in its most pure form is like a white light and literary criticism is the prism that divides white light into the different colors. One can view each branch of criticism (formalism, culturalism, etc) as a different color, or a part of the whole.

For some reason, this analogy particularly resonated with me. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been asked far too many times to defend why one would pull apart a perfectly good piece of literature to pieces analyzing it from a particular vantage-point. At times, I’ve even wondered the same thing myself; isn’t analyzing a Shakespeare play from a strictly formalist viewpoint deliberately ignoring other important aspects of the play? I love the explanation this analogy gives. Isolating one “color” gives an overall greater understanding of the work as a whole. Maybe I’m starting to over-use the analogy as a crutch, but it certainly provides a succinct explanation to the practice different studies of criticism. Also, two mornings ago, a patron tried to educate me on Latin roots while I was shelving. Go figure :-)

Carmen

This morning, a conversation in the library regarding the Seattle Opera reminded me that I never blogged about my post-Carmen watching thoughts. I’ve played a fantasia arranged for flute and piano as well, studied this particular opera in music history, read the libretto, even dressed as Carmen twice for past Halloweens… needless to say, I was ecstatic to finally see this opera live. Unsurprisingly, the music, singing, costuming and sets were all fantastic.

Carmen’s outfits through the opera were perfect: striking, bold, saucy. I’ve seen clips of productions with drabber costumes, which is always a large letdown for one who loves costuming and playing dress-up. I was absolutely in love with the chemise, petticoat, spanish scarf tied at the waist and flower-in-hair combination she wears in at her first entrance, extremely bohemian and simple, but playful. (This, in fact, winds up being the basis for my impromptu Halloween costume this year). The ciggerette girls had great outfits as well, white flouncy petticoats and dresses that were both playful and ephemeral. The sets created the illusion of a very gritty, lively Seville that adheres well to the opera’s verissmo style.

It goes without saying that Bizet’s music is gorgeous, and the orchestra played it magnificently. It definitely makes me wish that I had seen a live production -before- I attempted to interpret the themes in my recital freshman year. The “danger” motif sounded far more ominous live than in a recording. Also, my flute-bias led me to hone in to all the flute solos, which McGill played beautifully. My particular favorite was the intermezzo solo: controlled and lush, it seemed to drift out into the concert hall. To my vocally-untrained ears, the singing seemed polished and full of dramatic power. Along with that, the cast’s acting seemed a touch more dramatic than several productions I’d previously attended, which I loved. After spending so much time delving into nuances of the habanera in order to play it convincingly in theme and variation form, I had initially feared that hearing it performed live would be a letdown. From my vantage point at least, it looked and sounded spot-on: powerful, sultry, caviler and technically solid. Similarly, the emotion in the card-reading scene struck me as particularly touching/depressing. I had a few minor staging quibbles; Carmen’s entrance seemed underwhelming and I’m still on the fence about how I feel about the lack of a crowd in the ending.

Though, and this ended up being one letdown to the whole experience, I did wish I sat closer. There have definitely been performances in the past where I sat in the orchestra front and felt cheated of seeing the entire spread of the stage or the full extent of blocking choices. With Carmen, I would liked to have been close enough to see facial expressions and nuances in acting simply because of the large emphasis on character natures and character development in this particular opera. Then again, sitting close enough to see too many details on stage have often ruined the illusion, so I suppose it would have been a toss up either way.

L’amour est un oiseau rebelleque nul ne peut apprivoiser

On Wonder

Vision (Sweet Recess) 

It’s odd: the sacred world can pass for years
Unseen, then fill your eyes, stopping you still,
As if God had stooped to whisper in your ears
Look there: the nuthatch on the kitchen sill,
Feathers rustled to fatness against the cold;
The neighbor’s listing shed, its siding (white
Once, gray and peeling now) recast in gold
By early evening’s kind alchemic light;

Or one you love, framed in the entry way,
Wholly herself, and you for once abstracted
From fierce desire, its lenses and scaffoldings,
And left by language, which will not convey
The sense of stupid wonder that, though muted,
Fills the cage of your ribs with a riff of wings.

-Geoffrey Brock 

Both “Vision” and Keats’ “Ode to a Grecian Urn” have been two of my favorite poems for so long that it seems only appropriate that I begin here paying homage to both. If the final lines of the Keats suggest some high-browed unity between aesthetic and truth, Brock suggests the existence of the sublime in day-to-day life. 

I write, wonder, and analyze quite frequently, and I wonder how many snippets of thoughts will end up here, but regardless, if I can somehow encapsulate a bit of the beauty-truth relationship and the notion of wonder in the commonplace, I’ll be satisfied.