Arts in New York City

In classic novels and movies taking place before the casual days of movie theaters, the opera was the biggest and most exciting event one could attend. The characters would sit in their boxes all dolled up looking around at everyone in the other boxes. In mysteries, the detective is searching for a suspect or a clue; in romances, the characters flirt with their eyes. My experience at the opera was nothing like that.

Outside of the Metropolitan Opera, on my way in, I recalled those books that I enjoyed so much where the naïve girl looked forward to the opera as if it was the fulfillment of her existence. After climbing flight after flight of stairs I squeezing into my seat, I realized that those girls weren’t sitting in the family circle. They also probably had some knowledge of Italian and had a clue of what was going on. Unless they spent the whole night looking around at the audience, as I unsuccessfully tried to do once I came to the conclusion that I would never understand what was going on on stage. From my birds-eye view all I could see of the singers were flashes of color representing their clothes. That, combined with the fact that I couldn’t discern any of their voices and that the subtitles didn’t say who was saying what left me thoroughly confused, even though I knew the story.

The opera was a cultural eye-opener that should have impacted me more. However, because of my lack of appreciation for the fine art, it is an experience I am unlikely to repeat.