Tuesday, February 05, 2008

Call me.

Sized small. Made in Japan. Old skool telephones complete with dates of provenance. A very late 60s color combo of maroon, orange and brown.

It would be adorable on you. Wear it to all networking events. Anywhere you intend to hand out your business card. Wear it with an orange a-line skirt, mustard- colored boots and a lemon-colored cravat. At least, that's what I would do.

I saw Carmen last night, goslings, and lemme tell you: Olga Borodina has some terrific pipes. Go see her. Franco Zeffirelli’s 1996 staging at the Met this season included a whole barnyard and milling crowd scenes. Perhaps a bit too literal for my taste, but boy did it ever play to the back row. Which is exactly where Akhenaten and I were sitting.

While it's one of my favorite operas, I've never seen Carmen up on its feet before. Though to get myself in the mood, I watched Carlos Saura's 1983 flamenco version the night before. I'm a big fan of Carlos Saura's work, and of this film in particular, which inspired me to study flamenco long ago. Yes, in 1983. Though my skirt-swishing and high heeled stamping days led me to Spain to study, I've never graced a flamenco tablao. Simply put, I haven't got the I'm-too-sexy-for-this-skirt attitude. And when I try to affect it, it's like an agressive chihuahua. Oh you vicious widdle thing, let's see what all 3 pounds of you can make of that mean widdle bark. Even the guitarist would look at me and crack up.

I'm sure a dissertation is being written somewhere about the role of gypsies in the popular imagination of France in the 19th Century. Another is being written about gender, race and class in opera. And someone somewhere is identifying with Carmen, or Don Jose. I enjoyed Carmen's sensuality and fatalism, especially in Près des remparts de Séville. This fantasy that she paints for Don Jose is an idealized version of her life. Of course she knows that it is false.


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