vilaine fille

Here's to you, Michou

Michel de Montaigne was born on this day in 1533.

Aesop, that great man, saw his master make water as he walked: "What, then," said he, "must we dung as we run?" Let us manage our time as well as we can, there will yet remain a great deal that will be idle and ill employed. The mind has not other hours enough wherein to do its business, without disassociating itself from the body, in that little space it must have for its necessity. They would put themselves out of themselves, and escape from being men; 'tis folly; instead of transforming themselves into angels, they transform themselves into beasts; instead of elevating, they lay themselves lower. These transcendental humors affright me, like high and inaccessible cliffs and precipices; and nothing is hard for me to digest in the life of Socrates but his ecstacies and communication with demons; nothing so human in Plato as that for which they say he was called divine; and of our sciences, those seem to be the most terrestrial and low that are highest mounted; and I find nothing so humble and mortal in the life of Alexander, as his fancies about his immortalization. Philotas pleasantly quipped him in his answer: he congratulated him by letter concerning the oracle of Jupiter Hammon, which had placed him among the gods: "Upon thy account, I am glad of it, but the men are to be pitied who are to live with a man, and to obey him, who exceeds and is not contented with the measure of a man." "Diis te minorem quod geris, imperas." The pretty inscription wherewith the Athenians honored the entry of Pompey into their city, is conformable to my sense: "By so much thou art a god, as thou confessest thee a man." 'Tis an absolute and, as it were, a divine perfection, for a man to know how loyally to enjoy his being. We seek other conditions, by reason we do not understand the use of our own; and go out of ourselves, because we know not how there to reside. 'Tis to much purpose to go upon stilts, for, when upon stilts, we must yet walk with our legs; and when seated upon the most elevated throne in the world, we are but seated upon our breech. The fairest lives, in my opinion, are those which regularly accommodate themselves to the common and human model; without miracle, without extravagance. Old age stands a little in need of a more gentle treatment. Let us recommend it to God, the protector of health and wisdom, but withal, let it be gay and sociable.—"Of experience" (Essays III, XIII)

A few Montaigne links:

A brief introduction and timeline

Montaigne Studies from the University of Chicago, including complete French texts

John Florio's 1603 translation of the Essays

A site about Montaigne and the art of memory

The diva next door

That's the title Time Out New York gave to my Sondra Radvanovsky profile in the issue hitting the stands on Wednesday. (In the meantime, on this page you will find a sweet sidebar about her days as a singing waitress in Los Angeles.)

Mme Radvanovsky is a delightful human being: plucky, passionate, without airs but with the grandezza d'anima that every true Verdian needs. And let there be no doubt: She is A True Verdian, ardently devoted and worthy of mention in the same breath as Mary Jane Phillips-Matz or Philip Gossett. (I do not write that lightly.) She is also much prettier in person than in photographs.

Following her triumph in Les Vêpres siciliennes earlier this season, Mme Radvanovsky takes on Elisabeth in Don Carlos at the Met starting Thursday, her first time singing a five-act version of this masterwork. A hearty "in bocca al lupo" to her and her colleagues. May they do Verdi proud.

Sunday miscellany

Please see the lists of vilaines filles and mauvais garçons at right for friends new and old. As far as we know, we are now linked to everyone who links to us, plus a handful of others. Among the newbies: a Patrizia Ciofi blog; never been home, a beautiful Paris-based blog; An Unamplified Voice, rigorous and severe; Notional Slurry (a real smart guy); and Rodrigo Maffei Libonati (bemvenido!), whose annotated discographies are a must-read.

I normally don't do the quiz thing, but the Dante's Inferno Test? Just the thing to warm the cockles of my cold, cold heart.

Imagine my surprise upon reading:

Because of your virtue and beliefs, you have escaped eternal punishment. You are sent to Purgatory! Before long you will know the joys of Paradise as you ascend to the ethereal realm of Heaven.

And me, a vilaine Jewish fille and all!

Wow, I hope I get to hang with Arnaut Daniel, Guido Guinizelli, and those dudes. (Theirs is the ass-f*cking terrace, so it makes sense.)

For the record, here are my full results. Note that I also scored high for lust (big shock) and fraud.

Purgatory (Repenting believers) | High
Level 1 (Virtuous non-believers) | Low
Level 2 (Lustful) | High
Level 3 (Gluttonous) | Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and avaricious) | Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and gloomy) | Moderate
Level 6 (Heretics) | Very Low
Level 7 (Violent) | Moderate
Level 8 (Fraudulent, malicious, panderers) | High
Level 9 (Treacherous) | Moderate

Il ritorno di Pepito al Metropolitan

Monday night at the Met, the queens were out in force, lorgnettes at the ready, hoping to catch a glimpse of José Cura's goods. And it's true: He has the largest one I've ever seen.

I meant his tallit, you skank.

From Newsday, a review of the Met's Samson et Dalila by vilaine fille alter ego Marion Lignana Rosenberg.

On disc, an excellent place to start for Samson et Dalila is Maria Callas's first program of French arias. She never approved her recording of "Mon cœur s'ouvre à ta voix" (released after her death) because she obviously struggles to support the aria's lowest notes. Even so, her silken phrasing and quiet but devastating sensuality make it one of the very best things she set down. Callas's renditions of "Printemps qui commence" and "Amour! Viens aider ma faiblesse" are also wonderful.

Vickers/Gorr/Prêtre is the classic recording of Samson et Dalila, though David Hurwitz excoriated EMI's latest transfer of it. He praised a 1946 set under Louis Fourestier, now on my to-buy list.

And for Pepito?

   

In his complete Samson, led by Sir Colin Davis and featuring the imperious and lush-toned Dalila of Olga Borodina, Pepito is very fine—devout and less wayard than what I heard Monday night at the Met. "Anhelo," a program of Argentinian songs by Ginastera, Guastavino, Piazzolla, and others, is a vilaine fille desert-island disc. Pepito scales down that "vocione" of his and sings with the grace and soul of a poet. (Everyone for whom I've played "Anhelo" has eventually bought it.) While "Anhelo" is a collection of chamber songs, "Boleros" is an unabashed pop record—and a mighty fine one at that. I reviewed it back in 2002 (a lifetime ago).

I much admire Pepito's dark, brooding Des Grieux in the DG Manon Lescaut, masterfully conducted by Riccardo Muti. But it's only for les inconditionnels, given the blowsy and unidiomatic singing of Maria Guleghina and the availability of two surpassingly great Manon Lescaut recordings: Freni/Domingo under Sinopoli (DG) and Albanese/Bjoerling under Perlea (RCA).

We are family

A shared predilection for Nazzareno de Angelis prompted Mme Grisi Pasta of Trill to remark that vilaine fille was becoming her "creepy sorella in song." Darling Sarah of Prima la musica, poi le parole reports that she hums Serge Gainsbourg's "Vilaines filles, mauvais garçons" every time she visits—a sure sign of a mystical bond between our souls. Currently topping Monsieur C's rotation at The Standing Room is Paolo Conte. Only the tiniest elect savor Conte's dense, surreal songs and tobacco-ravaged tones. Does this, too, not portend a tie that goes beyond mere sympathy?

vilaine fille thinks a lot about family. She is an only child herself, albeit a member of the F.U. ("Figlie uniche") Club with K and A, her beloved sisters-by-choice. She wondered, who would be fitting models for her extended blogger family?

Those hideous Germans? Certainly not (*shudder*).

The answer came to her: the Borgias and the Medicis.

 

Lucrezia Borgia and Catherine de Médicis have always been role models: patronesses of the arts and all-around… vilaines filles.

For now, let us subscribe to the "Se non è vero, è ben trovato" school of historiography. According to this charmingly scrambled page, Catherine

took a deep interest in science and often called astronomers and thinkers to her rooms… It was also rumored that Catherine began to find an interest in her Italian origins and poisons. The French people had always judged Italians as poisoners and murderers, and Catherine was reputed to keep her poisons in her 200 cabinets.

Oh, cookie, the French *still* judge us as "poisoners and murderers" because we're so much more clever than they. Anyway, where would they be without us? A grenouille once told us that it was thanks to Catherine that the French came to know pastry and ice cream and began to bathe, wear underwear, and use forks and knives (at table).

(Poison, in any event, seems to us a vastly less calamitous means of conducting policy than what we've got today.)

As regent, Catherine "threw infamous banquets at the Château de Fontainebleau, started writing pamphlets, and lavishly decorated the Tuileries in Paris." (Sound like anyone you know?) See Patrice Chéreau's La Reine Margot for a charming depiction of Catherine's times.

By comparison, Lucrezia Borgia comes off as bleakly respectable. Quoth one biographer:

She had a notorious reputation as a vicious character who went through legions of husbands and lovers who were used and discarded, although contemporary scholars have debunked that view. After 1510 she led a quiet life, although she never shook off the aura of scandal.

This page seeks to rehabilitate Lucrezia. Phooey. Let's go for the gusto:

The Borgia family is remembered today as one of incest, adultery, sin, murder, scandal, and extravagance… They all live on as sinners, and Lucrezia as a murderer and a jezebel.

Dear bloggers, what do you think? To which model shall we aspire, Medici or Borgia?

Montréal I

This is the first of three installments.

vilaine fille is back from Montréal, her second-favorite city in North America. (A word to the wise: At aircanada.com, one-way fares between LGA and YUL can be as low as USD 52.) Upon arriving at La Brûlerie Saint-Denis, a local coffee chain, we were greeted by Serge Gainsbourg singing "69 année érotique" and "Les sucettes." French filth! Our kind of town!

A light snow fell on and off throughout the weekend: not that wet, flaccid stuff we get in New York, but dry, powdery snow that squeaks and crackles underfoot and glistens under the streetlamps. The wind kicked up great puffs of it, as light and sparkling as diamond dust. Even after nightfall, the Square Saint-Louis gave off a pearly glow.

One evening, with wind chill, the temperature dropped below -25° C. Though I was off to hear a favorite musician, I considered heading back to my home base and hiding under the quilts. (I thought I was losing my nose to frostbite.) Around me, though, the streets were full of people bundled up, grinning, and making a party of the crazy temperature. There were lines at cinemas and concert halls, and restaurants were bustling, their windows bright and dappled with condensation. I love people who have a zest for life and don't let the weather get them down.

On the other hand, I sampled the local cuisine for the first time. Smoked meat is not for me, and I'm much too delicata di stomaco for poutine, so I usually stick to Indian, Thai, and the like. But un sandwich chaud au poulet: just the thing for a bitter-cold night, and no one can mess that up, right? Oy. Wonder Bread… with its crusts cut off… smothered in gravy, as far as the eye can see. (For this the poor bird gave its life?) It was a horror, but in a fun sort of way.

The next day, friends from Italy relayed with consternation a similar culinary adventure, adding, "But we found a restaurant where they serve real food—with olive oil!"

Amusing stuff:

The birds and squirrels I saw were prodigiously fat—protection against the deep chill, no doubt, but also the result of being fed pastry by tender-hearted montréalais. (I saw one squirrel drop a perfectly good walnut and go for day-old brioche instead.)

One morning, the gentleman next to me in the café was eating a bagel with thick slabs of runny Brie. C'est full fun, Montréal ! (A chauvinistic New Yorker, I have yet to try Montréal bagels. I'm a Murray's gal myself: They're Yankee fans, they don't toast, and their coffee can quicken the dead. G-d bless!)

Since I have a Parisian accent and cannot bear to address strangers as "tu," I pass for a grand, intimidating Frenchwoman in Montréal: Vous êtes arrivée de Paris quand, Madame ? Trust me, this is a hoot.

Home again

From Saturday's Newsday, a review by vilaine fille alter ego Marion Lignana Rosenberg of two concerts by the New York Philharmonic under Riccardo Chailly. (Bear fanciers, take note: He is only 53 and still *real* cute.)

While we were gone, Mr. Richard Scheinen of the San José Mercury News wrote an article about classical music in the blogosphere, mentioning many of our illustrious fellow bloggers. He had this to say about vilaine fille:

Critic Marion Rosenberg's beautifully written and dazzlingly researched posts on opera. Dense with links, each is an education.

*Blush.* One niggle, for Mr. Scheinen and tout le monde: It's Marion Lignana Rosenberg. But thank you, and we will do our best to live up to your kind endorsement.

Check back tonight and in days to come for musings on our trip to Montréal, including reports on concerts by Gianmaria Testa and Matt Haimovitz.

A bientôt !

Hello kiddies

The post on Robert Lepage's The Busker's Opera is not going to happen this week. I'll do my best for next week.

Before we take a powder (ahem), we wanted to acknowledge the newest members of vilaine fille's extended blogger family:

Blindheit: clarity is overrated is a sentiment with which we fully concur.

Prima la musica, poi le parole is not, but the blog is a delight, and the dottoressa who holds forth there hails from Dunedin, New Zealand. "Dunedin" sounds like "Dunedain," and LOTR was filmed in Kiwiland, so what's not to like?

The Further Adventures of Finocchio is a title we wish we had thought of ourselves.

Rich Russell seems eminently sane and an unlikely pal for us insanity-based folk, but we are thrilled to make his virtual acquaintance.

We thank formidable infoshare for kindly listing our humble site.

Opera Today is daily reading chez nous.

Finally, please don't tell the fearsome and gallant wagnerian True Believer who curates sounds & fury that our plans for world domination include programming nothing but Meyerbeer, Offenbach, and La Juive at Bayreuth…

Any other new friends out there? Let us know. *smooch*

Addio, maestro

Maestro Marcello Viotti, music director of the Teatro La Fenice, passed away in Munich. He was 50 years old.

I met him once, fleetingly, at a press event. He was a strikingly handsome, gentle, and courteous man. (When I first caught sight of him sitting quietly in the corner, I thought, "That's a movie star. Who is it?") The musicians I know who played and sang under Maestro Viotti adored him.

An Italian site reports that Viotti was about to be named "direttore permanente" (a principal guest conductor?) at the Met. He led Aida at the house earlier this season and, of course, La Juive in 2003.

What a loss for music and for his family. Colleagues and fans are leaving condolence messages at his website.