They say that the average human’s attention span is that of eight seconds, one second less than that of a goldfish. As an ill-focused member of a society that does little to discourage increasingly digitalized lifestyles, I was saddened to discover that I was no exception to this seemingly exaggerated fact. I am a goldfish. Not only am I a goldfish with a short attention span, I am one inch short of being a six-foot goldfish. What do all of these outlandish self-deprecating metaphors actually mean? They mean that I found myself dosing off every now and then throughout the performance. When I was not dosing off, I was desperately attempting to draw my attention away from the fact that my legs were starting to tingle with restlessness, which then made me ponder whether or not I could acquire an actual diagnosis for Restless Leg Syndrome and if that could somehow render me unable to attend another opera ever again.
However, don’t let that hurt your feelings. I absolutely adore the arts and I am eternally grateful for even being given the opportunity to join some of New York’s most elite and experience the end result of months of laborious rehearsals and unwavering dedication. As a former theater arts major at LaGuardia High School, I am fairly familiar with that very process. Nevertheless, as I listened to incomprehensible German singing— to be fair, I do not know what comprehensible German sounds like— from a dangerous altitude— I could have sworn my ears popped on the elevator ride down —I debated whether to read the captions and completely miss the visuals of the performance or to watch the opera singers and musicians and accept the fact that I would have absolutely no clue as to what was actually happening onstage. What an anxiety-ridden way of experiencing art. I could not help but notice that many of my fellow audience members chose to avoid that anxiety altogether by taking quick evening naps. Oh my friends, you know who you are. I do not blame you. Maybe our time for operas has not come yet, for art’s only usefulness is that given to it by its viewers, which implies that all art is a reflection of its spectators. One day, as I sigh with satisfaction from feeling the vibrations of the voices onstage ‘elektra-fy’ me, while watching the singers’ faces from a very expensive distance, I might be reminded of the time I watched Elektra as a naive freshman from the seats of the commoners’ way above. I might laugh at the idea. But wait! Ladies don’t laugh, they inaudibly giggle behind the veil of posh fans they purchased on their most recent trip to Paris. Unfortunately, that day is not today.
I exited the performance, grabbing about four cough drops on my way out, and kindly bid farewell to the never-ending line of ushers dressed in formal attire, the extravagant architecture of Carnegie Hall, the pristine ambience enclosed within its walls, and found myself wondering what had been gained from the experience other than a night of playing excessive dress up. What had I learned? What had I felt? How had this performance informed my views about the human condition? Quite honestly, I learned that operas might just not be for me. How unfortunate that I could not relate to women, whose facial expressions I could not see, singing in German about their struggles while dressed in lavish, modern dresses.
