For culture to survive

When an experience is shared it is magnified. I’ve written often of our travels, especially in Europe, and people tell me they appreciate my sharing because they too love the continent’s antiquities, or famous art galleries, or its music.

They have more than repaid me because we have sometimes made detours to be sure we don’t miss seeing something recommended by a person whose tastes are like ours. Our “German” daughter, Mary, I would suspect, told us we just had to visit Bruges, or Brugge, an exquisite Belgian town whose economy tanked when its river to the sea silted in. Centuries later, Bruges awoke like a fairy tale princess, cleaned itself up, and today offers a magical glimpse of medieval life – except that it’s real.

That was the highlight of our first trip to Europe. By this year, I’d have to list at least 20 other true highlights, not only cities, but also operas and museums and parks and rivers and alps and…. Stop me, somebody.

I remember my favorite experience in opera, as an adult. I was lukewarm about the genre, when I first attended, on Mary’s recommendation, “Marriage of Figaro.” High along the back row of most opera houses are some seats best described as “half-seats.” Crammed up against the back wall, not really comfortable, but if it was comfort I craved, I’d have stayed in her apartment. At least I could stand up to stretch, with nobody’s view blocked behind me.

The audience is in a good mood, meeting and greeting, until in comes the orchestra, the tuning commences, then fades out, then comes that hush that settles over a theater, and then…then! Some of the most familiar music in all the world fills the space between the audience and the stage, and like a silly groupie, I feel tears on my cheeks and the realization that I am in Mozart’s country, listening to his music, music that his contemporaries heard, music that audiences have been loving for more than two centuries.

I was entranced, to put it mildly, and ever since have tried to spread the gospel of, arguably, the culmination of the arts: music, of course, but also poetry, construction, trompe l’oeil, lighting, curtains that could mimic a tower or wall, make-up, costuming. “Achtung!” as grandson Samuel would say. Enough already.

(Why doesn’t somebody tell me that my columns are often just lists? For heaven’s sake.)

Believe it or not, however, all this was prologue to share with you a short essay by Klaus Schoeffler of Peachtree City, inspired, he says, by something I wrote, or maybe didn’t write. In any case, he sent me a little essay expanding on how German children learn about opera.

I should add, this winter marks 50 years since Klaus arrived in New York Harbor from then-East Germany.

He writes:

“In your latest column you mention opera for children. Please let me expand.

As a progressing youngster one has seen plays (Schauspielhaus), musical presentations (Theater), but now comes the introduction into the world of Opera.

Dressed in Sunday best, combed and brushed, accompanied by parents and/or grandparents dressed in their finest, and bejeweled, silver-haired Grandmother in a black lace dress with lorgnette and silk gloves up to her elbows, one enters the hushed ambiance of the opera house.

Everybody speaks in whispers, acknowledging family and friends with bows and hand shakes.

Coat checkers and ushers ooze authority. Once seated, the eyes have a hard time taking in all the surrounding opulence, since most opera houses were built for then reigning royals.

The lights dim, the doors close, nobody can enter ’til intermission.

The conductor, still partially visible, lifts the baton for the start of the overture. Last chance to check the text book in my hand to understand the lyrics to come.

End of overture. Applause. The magnificent curtain rises for the first act and a new dimension in life begins.

You leave prepared to embrace the great opera houses of the world such as the Semper Oper in Dresden, LaScala in Milano, etc, etc.

For culture to survive it has to be reintroduced to each upcoming generation.”