A Love of Art

(This article was originally written for WCWinSIGHT.)

Consider that the ability to sing operatically is a real-life super power.  Think of it: we all have a voice and everyone has the ability to sing – at least to a certain extent.  Yet, among us walk a chosen few able to change the world with the sheer power of their voices.  The gift, divine or diabolical, dependent upon your perspective, allows the singer to shock, cajole, uplift, shatter or inspire the listener.  The ability, often shrouded in mystery and misconception, nevertheless demands from all of us a response.

I once performed a school tour where I sang half of the famous duet, ‘La ci darem la mano’ (‘There we’ll be hand in hand’) from Mozart’s Don Giovanni.  Our audience was elementary school children, most often packed into acoustically punishing auditoriums.  Our accompaniment: a well-played piano reduction, but certainly no patch on the original orchestral setting.  My costume?  An ankle-length, wrinkle-resistant vintage gown, routinely pulled from a knapsack and worn over winter boots (it was Southern Ontario, after all).

Vocal power
Despite the prosaic circumstances, and unaffected by an often rambunctious audience, the duet never failed to stop the kids in its proverbial tracks.  During the requisite Q & A that followed, the inevitable question/comment was ‘I didn’t know people could sing so LOUD.’  And we were just opera students.

So: like any skill, you must start with raw talent.  From there, experience, study, a little luck, and certainly hard work, combine to create the magical, the fabulous; the sought-after ‘voice’.  Once discovered, the power is inestimable.

The play’s the thing
I have a particularly intimate relationship with Don Giovanni.  Of the opera’s three, highly disparate female voices, I have sung two and been cast in the third.  Over the years, in various productions, I have been lucky enough to experience the opera from the inside out.  And it exerts a hold on me that is inescapable.

Years ago, cast as the delicious, conniving, peasant-girl (and reasonably light soprano) Zerlina, I shocked my kid brother by revealing to him that the opera was about sex, betrayal and murder – I forgot to mention lust, grief and damnation, but he got the point.

Beautiful, exciting, compelling music and a brilliant, subtle and irreverent libretto aside (this is classic Mozart/da Ponte partnership at its best), the opera centres on the sheer, well, cajones of the title character, Don Giovanni.

He is, at best, a cad; at worst, a nonchalant murderer.  21st century psychology would probably label him a dyed-in-the-wool sociopath, and, true to form, he is a heartless, exploitative (yet oh-so-charming) scoundrel.

And I love him.

Teaching by example
Oscar (my son) is three and a half.  We are raising him to be kind, empathetic; indeed, noble.  To act with compassion and integrity.  To realize his potential as an intelligent, creative, and considerate person.  To revel in his talents, to embrace his humility; ultimately to make the world a better place.

And yet, I lust after the black-hearted Don.

How can I be so drawn to a character that rapes and pillages, cares nothing for anyone else, and indeed takes advantage of those weaker than himself by exploiting his position (it is 1787 aristocratic Spain, after all)?  Who lies, cheats, betrays and murders, all because he feels like it?

Because he feels like it.

Don Giovanni is unrelentingly unrepentant.  He lives his life according to whim and pleasure, never worried about others’ opinion nor impeded by convention or morality.

And when his inevitable judgement comes upon him, he responds (forgive me) by giving God the finger.

And in spite of myself, I love him for it.

A compelling story
I’m not the only one: the story of Don Giovanni (or Don Juan) has been documented all the way back to at least the Middle Ages, and perhaps earlier.  You could say that the idea of man elevating himself, embracing pride and spiting in the eyes of the gods dates back to the perceived arrogance of Lucifer or the presumption of Prometheus; Faust and Mephistopheles – it’s a story that has fascinated humankind for millennia.  And the Don does it all with such style…

Set the scene for the second Finale of Act II – Don Giovanni, attended by his manservant, Leporello, awaits the coming of the ghostly Commendatore (way back at the top of Act I, Don Giovanni duels the Commendatore as the older man attempts to defend his daughter, Donna Anna’s, honour.  It’s true that the Don did sneak into the house and try to rape her, but that doesn’t stop him from dispatching dear old dad.  How perfect then, that the ghost of the old man returns at the end of the opera as the vehicle of judgment?).

Leporello, a god-fearing man, begins to suspect that there may soon be a reckoning – true to form, Don Giovanni couldn’t care less.  He ignores Leporello’s suggestions of temperance, mocking him for his cowardice.  He abuses Donna Elvira (another woman of whom he’s taken advantage) when she comes to confront him – he actually dares her lasciviously to ‘come eat with me’ (know that every double entendre you might be thinking of is exactly accurate).  Even when the otherworldly ghost does appear and exhorts the Don to repent, he sneers and dismisses him.

The sword of judgment
Finally the Commendatore dares Don Giovanni to take his hand and join him at his supper – in hell.  The rascal blithely agrees.  The Commendatore’s musical theme, repetitive and driving, relentless bass notes akin to a death knell; they take over the musical landscape until even Don Giovanni realizes that he is bound body and soul to this messenger from the afterlife.  He is given a final chance to repent and change his ways (and because this is an opera, the phrase is repeated, with increasing urgency, over and over:

“Pentiti” (Repent) – “No”; “Si”; “No”; “Si, si”; “No – NO!”.)

Not every baritone who sings Don Giovanni chooses to take that last ‘no’ up an octave, but in my favourite recording (1995 Archiv Produktion, conducted by John Eliot Gardner), the incomparable Rodney Gilfry does, and it is terrible and thrilling to hear.  Every time.

The bottom line?  Don Giovanni exhibits a sort of twisted integrity and courage.  He would rather live his life according to his own code (albeit cruel and depraved) and be drawn down into hell than admit weakness, wrongdoing or defeat.  Perhaps he simply doesn’t feel repentant; certainly he refuses to admit it.  He won’t pay lip service to any concept of god or socially-dictated morality – and, I just can’t help it, I’m cheering for him every step of the way.  His descent into hell is an awfully exciting 4 ½ minutes.

Deliciously sinful pleasures
A connection to this opera is a recurring theme in my life.  As a singer, student or audience member, I am irrevocably drawn to and thrilled by this, Mozart’s darkest opera.  Above all, the character of Don Giovanni is a passionate trickster – by turns cruel, tender, depraved and triumphant.  For any singer playing the role, the voice requirements range from growls to lyrical, poignant beauty.  Seductive, compelling and viscerally emotive, Don Giovanni is the last character I’d wish as a role model for my son, but remains the adored anti-hero that I love to hate.