Category — SBrodetskiy

As a first opera, Giuseppe Verdi’s 1851 classic Rigoletto at the Metropolitan Opera did not leave me favoring the art form. The most captivating moment was when the orchestra first let sound from the pit. This initial dose of harmony rang true to the virtue that many operas obtain through their symphonies. The rest of the spectacle was reserved for impressive projections of voice and sub-par acting. Perhaps, one of the problems with opera in general is that it needs performers who are adept in both singing and acting. This makes it difficult to deliver an aging work against modern standards, which became more demanding with time. Otherwise, it may just be today’s modern audience. In both cases time is responsible for the gradual decay of appreciation for operas.

All that I have experienced of operas are snippets in films such as Il Dolce Suono from Lucia di Lammermoor in “The Fifth Element” and Ride of the Valkyries from Die Walkure in “Apocolypse Now.” From them, I learned that operas are known for their rich vocal substance. George Gagnidze and Joshua Benaim, who performed Rigoletto and Marullo respectively, were both exceptional baritones. Their voices were clear rich in tone and comprehensible in their language. However, I found it difficult to absorb Christine Schafer’s performance as Gilda. Schafer, a soprano, hit high notes, which took my ears’ by storm, and impaired their capacity to comprehend her words. I have never heard such a pitch before in mainstream music and I realized that there must be a sacrifice of diction for tone. Understandably, it is a difficult projection, yet I was still stupefied with the unfamiliar sound and divided over her choice of forgoing verbal clarity for quality of tone. With the decline of such vocal work from television and other mediums of entertainment, I, nevertheless, appreciated Schafer’s vocal work more so for rarity then anything else, like a sight of a rare animal facing extinction. With less people acculturated to opera and ingrained with fine arts, who can blame me?

I was left to judge the acting with today’s standard as well. Since my sight was limited by my seating, I only caught a few glimpses of Gagnidze and Schafer’s facial gestures and body language with binoculars. In those moments I saw an archaic realism, if there is such a thing. It seemed like the performers were trying too hard too simulate emotion. Maybe this could have passed for acting a century ago, when acting was reserved for theater and opear, but I recognized the performers drawing verisimilitude to a high school drama club. Then again, my experiences of good acting were all in film.

Aside from the issues I mentioned in the performance itself, there were a few discrepancies in the way the symphony was written. When Rigoletto mourns over his daughter’s disgrace, I was convinced by his thunderous, yet insecure, tone but confused by the orchestra’s vibe: their sound was less mournful an disquieting than it was jolly or mellow. This could have been an effort to build tension between the two mediums, reserving the climax for the third act, but I was thrown off from the believability of the show. This of course is not an issue in the performance itself, but a detail that Verdi was responsible for.

I cannot reproach Verdi for undermining one of Rigoletto’s tragic moments because I am not qualified to evaluate his work. An audience in 1851 held him to different standards, the same standards he held himself to in producing Rigoletto. I have come to expect more then just reactionary revenge from tragic heroes. If Verdi wrote the piece today, a little bit of the psychotic, ear wrenching, audible snippets of Kubrick’s “The Shining” would provided a stronger backbone the Rigoletto’s fury. Nevertheless, my lack of experience with operas leaves me to compare it generally. This says two things: that I can’t justly evaluate his work, and that opera is still fading out of popular entertainment.

Perhaps this is not a cultural encounter in the ethnic sense of the term, but there is something about today’s youth, a difference in conscientiousness, that constitutes a culture in another sense of the term. I got on the crowded, mid-rush hour, Brooklyn-bound Q train on Union Square and took the empty seat. I looked behind me as people were still getting on, determining if there was anyone else who could use that empty seat more than I could. There was a grandmother with grocery bags, and she caught my attention. I immediately got up, only to have my seat taken by a fourteen-year-old boy who ran in front of the unknown women. There are countries where that boy would have been beaten for disrespect, or others like my own where his parents would have made sure to raise him otherwise. It makes me wonder whether my own decision to lend a seat was a consequence of my culture or whether discipline has generally been escaping the youth.

During my last trip to Florida, as I traveled from towns such as Boca Raton and Boynton Beach to Miami and Fort Lauderdale, a cultural clash elucidated itself. As a New Yorker, and somewhat of tourist, I no longer could have camouflaged myself after leaving Miami for Boca. Pedestrian culture was substituted for car culture, and I found myself lost in the absence of sidewalks, as I was perched in the passenger seat of my friend’s 1995 Jaguar.  I now cannot remember the model he drove. Perhaps, that on its own attests to my removal from a familiar lifestyle at that moment. The only mid-day walking that I remember during my stay in his town of Boca was between the gas pump and the passenger seat. I developed a consciousness of my restlessness to go outside and do things, as my immobility of self soon convoked homesickness. Many towns, like my friend Dmitri’s, have relied on automobiles for transportation, and nurture a seemingly different lifestyle void of pedestrian culture. Attesting to the reciprocity of my experience, during his last visit to Brooklyn, Dmitri, who lived in New York for sixteen years, was distressed by all the walking he did when last visiting me. Apparently, we both suffered when we were removed from the lifestyles we are acculturated to.

"I Can See Your Pupil" by Gallim Dance; Taken by Chris Randle

Fall for Dance is a Whitman’s sampler box of dancing, with various flavors ranging from post-human to Israeli beat box, and others in between. This years showcase presented a dynamic range of performances that offered something for audiences of different tastes

The first performance was perhaps the darkest and most bitter chocolate of the bunch, entertaining intellectuals who are well versed in the arts and offering little meaning for the average audience. The Merce Cunningham Dance Company performed Mr. Cunningham and John Cage’s collaboration, XOVER, a controversial post-human piece that was set in tune to a live, deadpan, vocalization of random noises. From what first sounds as the throat juggling of hairballs materialized language and stuttering opera pitches that an ignorant audience can easily mistake for a broken radio. Nevertheless, the “random array of noises” seemed to guide the movement of the dancers, developing a reactionary motion as two of them complemented each other in a physical unison; with one shadowing the other, their performance can leave anyone mesmerized. Their flawless execution has done justice to the choreography, that is to say that their execution was void of emotion. For those who dare to draw their iPhones amidst a “mesmerized” state, and Wikipedia Merce Cunningham’s work in experimental dance and John Cage’s metaphysical take on music, will find a delicacy of substance. As the principal collaboration of the two lovers, the unique product won a standing ovation from many, but little affection from young college students such as myself.

The second performance, titled “I Can See Myself in Your Pupil” and conducted by Gallim dance, was the most exotic of the bunch, living up to its description as “a joyous romp that plays with the madness of imagination and the ecstasy of movement.” Delivered with personality and joint-defying explosive movements, Gallim’s dancers were the only ones who were accoutered in varying urban, casual, attire, offering each one a distinguishable identity that was elaborated with individualistic motions. Nevertheless, their movements were thematically correlated to sexual relationships, and their choreography familiarized with hip-hop dance, although to the sound of an ecstatic trumpet. The company’s jittery and seemingly caffeinated motions resonated well with the young audience; necessitating no research of a recipe grasped by a youthful taste.

The third treat was an Indian Odissi movement. In a ritualistic and communicative performance, Madhavi Mudgal offered insight into Indian culture in his world premiere of Vistaar. The dance was well choreographed in a rhythmic progression achieving symmetry. Although its message may be fragmented in translation, the execution of the performance itself was impressive, lending to traditional “division in Odissi dance of head, bust and torso.”

Like a liqueur-centered truffle, the final movement was the most exquisite, offering traditional ballet and captivating acrobatics with a “The Golden Section” in between the energetic intoxication and technical style. Twyla Tharp succeeded in intertwining ballet dance with David Byrne’s contemporary symphonies.  The stage was showered in the ambiance of golden lighting, appropriately matching the dancers’ outfits and the triumphant mood of the musical piece.

With few potential flaws, and the accommodation of a multitude of tastes, Fall for Dance offered a salivating serving of entertainment to a diverse audience.

“The True, The Good, and The Beautiful!” affirmed my high school Latin teacher.  I was a startled sophomore and an average student when I first heard Mr. O’Neill’s declaration. I’ve heard similar words before, misarticulated by actors, or murmured under the breaths of disgruntled moralists, but I was young and pierced with a “career dilemma.“ He continued to pull half of the students out of their daze as they drew a startled consciousness, reporting for class with a rigid affirmative nods. ”Pursue and do everything you undertake with all curiosity, inquisitiveness, desire, commitment, and zeal for the highest excellence,” he continued. I think at that moment I was the only one of thirty-four who unhinged his jaw, still kept his mouth closed, but failed to yawn.  “Remember, what you are and come to be is infinitely more important than what you merely possess or merely can do, i.e., you are a person with intellect, free will, and memory, not a number quantity or measure.” There I was first greeted by metaphysics. O’Neill was a scholar of the classics and a dogmatic Roman Catholic, accoutered in a thrifty tuxedo, flowered tie, socks to match, and dress shoes. As a man of conviction, he was a stark and an unusual persona for a public high school.

It was difficult for a fifteen year old to take him seriously, but something in my head clicked. I wondered why I was the only one who took something from those pivotal words; did no one else find these lines substantial?
An alarm triggered my conscience and an ardor for philosophy came to fruition. I was impressed with some sense of academic duty. I began to self-consciously question my decisions, the lot of which now seemed immature. Neither did accelerating grades nor trivial inebriated criticisms from friends seem to matter . It was the first time that I went out of my way to investigate myself. “First myself, then the world.”
Two years later, I chose to pursue philosophy and economics as undergraduate studies in order to understand what makes civilization tick: both materially and mentally. I knew that I didn’t want to pursue something simply academic or a specialization with a linear career, but some cohesive synthesis that could prepare me for some effective goals.

At 6:55AM, a doorbell woke me up on a Friday morning. The deliveryman from Best Buy was one week late and five minutes early. Half awake and half-dressed, I get up to answer the intercom, letting the man through the lobby, as I hasten myself to get dressed. After carrying out the old fifteen year television set, he began to unpack its thinner descendant with a box cutter. As the shavings of cardboard and packaging tape piled on the floor, my stomach twisted in alarm when I noticed that he was wearing his shoes. It wasn’t that my new rug was potentially tarnished, or that my mother would stumble upon a mess while she was getting ready for work. It was a violation of Russian canon. You do not walk around in a house with shoes.
This rule is common in Japan, the Czech Republic, and Sweden as well.
For the next ten minutes, I was driven impatient in an awkward setting that felt little like my home. I wasn’t going to be impolite. I was aware that he was clueless, but the cultural dimension to my logic found it unreasonable and repulsive to walk around in shoes.

“I wanted to study psychology,” but “she turned me onto taking photos” recalled a nostalgic Howard Greenberg, laureate man of photography. As Mr. Greenberg spoke at the Macaulay Honors College, he reminded college students what all too many ignore: our ability to take a risk and study what we love.

During the 1960s, before photography gained prominence as an established art form, the merit of a photograph would not afford much monetary value. Mr. Greenberg’s ardor for photography urged him to collect thousands of photographs. Tapping into the reserves of Woodstock, NY he excavated many masterpieces, housing them in his early non-profit art gallery that he opened in Woodstock. While it afforded only a meager living Mr. Greenberg remained in pursuit of his of fascinations. “It meant more to me than selling shoes,” he joked.  Today, however, Howard Greenberg is a reputable name in the world of professional photography. He now represents the works of masters such as Alfred Stieglitz and Edward Weston in his Manhattan gallery, also distinguishing himself as a businessman.

As he became an authority on 19^th and 20^th century photography, Greenberg exemplified personally driven success. If he left the discussions without enticing some students to pick up their cameras, he certainly left them to contemplate the tenacity of their prospects.

When I meet people, and they ask me “What are you?” I tend to throw out “Ukrainian.”
One time, I was at the Ukrainian Sports Club on Second Avenue, a few blocks away from St. Marks place and St. George’s Church, the former epicenter of Ukrainian immigration to Manhattan. I was introduced to a friend of a friend from Chernivtsi, Ukraine. I extended an arm for a handshake, but he told me his hand was dirty.  Ignoring the gesture, I continued talking to him in English, and minimally in Russian, which seemed taboo.  Once I left, my friend Bogdan explained that the Chernivtskian implied that I was dirty – Americanized, Russian speaking, and from “Odessa.” Supposedly, Odessa is an Oblast tainted in guilt due to its Soviet conformity.  If Ukrainian identity is not solvent, then I am not Ukrainian. To say the least, I’m Slavic, as my name suggests. Like many others, who immigrated to America, I have “diluted” my identity, yet it is the newly acquired one that is enriching, endowing me with a more fluent and tolerant scope.

Photographed by Leela Corman of Brokelyn.com

I took a place in line behind an elderly man in the meat market section of my residential international food store. Domino is one of the many stores on Kings Highway that highlights the street’s cultural diversity.  However, this store served as the principal port of Slavic cuisine, particularly the delicacy of Eastern European meat and the harvest of the Ukrainian breadbasket that is seldom found in American chain supermarkets.

The man in front of me spoke in a raspy voice that both attested to his age with his wrinkly complexion, and to the tainted mustache that was trimmed with decades of tobacco smoke. He wore a Soviet naval cap and a shirt with the American flag, the sort that may have been given out in a raffle during a Fourth of July festival. The woman behind the counter asked him in Russian. “Здравствуйте, что вы пожалаете” (Hello, what would you like?)  He answered “Cердельки – две pieces.”  (Sausages – two pieces) She complied and probably took no notice of his melting pot rhetoric.