Showing posts with label #Mozart. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #Mozart. Show all posts

Sunday, December 29, 2019

Harlots & Nightingales



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 Buried in the depths of Hulu is a series based on Harris's Guide to the Ladies of Covent Garden, an erotic guide book to the prostitutes who worked the area. This little magazine was issued every year, at a cost 2 shillings + in London during the period 1757-1795. As the charms and specialities of each woman were described in sometimes graphic detail, it was titillating reading in and of itself. 

Having spent a lot of time imagining exactly that time period in the course of working on various novels, I was instantly drawn in. As befits a British production, the costuming and the opening street scenes on the poor side of town were thrillingly authentic, full of piss, drunks, poverty and danger. I confess, I'm completely addicted to Harlots, which has more engaging characters and more twists, turns and heart-breaks in one episode than some series contain in an entire season. 

Way beyond the soft core flash, Harlots is genuine women's history, served straight up. (!) It's written by women and a stern female gaze informs every scene and every line of dialogue. It made me realize, so much more than the tepid statement: "women had no property rights," that these women were property/chattel, just like their client's carriage horses. 

A woman belonged to her father until she belonged to her husband. If she was married off to a gross rich old man or to a violent young one, she might still be lucky enough to become a widow. Only then would she have a chance to control her own life. In a terrific scene at the end of the first series, an aristocratic woman confides that she doesn't care who killed her husband, but if his whore knows who did, she only wants to say "thank-you."

The best a harlot could hope for was a rich and congenial "keeper," a man who would protect what belonged (often by contract) to him. During Georgian times, in London, one in five women was engaged in the sex trade. There were many sociological factors bringing this heart-breaking statistic about, but whatever was the cause, young women flooded into town from impoverished rural families looking for work as domestics. Even if they were fortunate enough to avoid being recruited or even kidnapped for sex work, they were utterly dependent and could easily be forced into sex with their masters. The practice survives today, in the form of workplace sexual harassment.  

If you think those bad old days are over, take a look at the headlines in the past few years about the trials of women working in the entertainment (and the infotainment) businesses. This also happens in the course of ordinary employment, in offices, in restaurants, where tipped workers are paid (in my state $2.83/hr.) and in factories where women, in ever increasing numbers, have gone to work.  One reason for the vulnerability of working women is because even college educated women are not paid what men are paid for producing exactly the same work. Moreover, the color of your skin decides exactly how much less than a man you will earn. Poor women discover that they can make a great deal more "on the game" than working at a minimum wage job, so, if they are young or need to make their own hours because their children are young and daycare impossible because of cost, sex work might still seem to be the only option. 



The Viennese novels I've written are about the morally sketchy entertainment business, true then as now. Singers, actresses, and dancers enjoy fame and a bit of fortune while their looks and physical abilities last, but in the 18th Century they were never considered "respectable." Glamour and charisma brought wealthy men routinely into a talented woman's orbit. In a time when rich men routinely took mistresses, (and I'm sure it's not any different today) these talented women were collected by gentlemen as objects that proved status and virility--a virility often lodged only in their bank accounts.

My heroines, born poor and talented, Maria Klara and Nanina Gottlieb, live in a world where they always walk a cliff path way, the kind with a crumbling edge and an abyss beneath. Men take them for harlots simply because of their profession. Maria Klara is, quite literally, the property of a dissolute music-loving aristocrat. Her career as well as her comfort depend upon her powerful Count's good will and her ability to please him--both on stage and in his bed. Escape from her gilded cage seems utterly impossible.

Nanina, her family impoverished by the death of her father, barely escapes being turned out by her own mother. Lost virginity was the end of respectability, and, with that went the only other option for a woman in the 18th Century--marriage. Wife or Prostitute were woman's choices, unless she had money of her own sufficient to survive upon.  Artists like Mozart lived on the edge of this fast and loose theatrical world; Papa Leopold Mozart's letters are full of exhortations and warnings to his precious, susceptible son on the subject of whores, who might also be talented prima donnas, the kind of women who have passed through the hands of many men.




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~~Juliet 

Tuesday, January 29, 2019

History Buffs



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The old cover and title...which I loved...
may still show up at some sites.

~

You may have heard the joke, now enshrined upon an Acorn TV t-shirt:


HISTORY BUFF
I'd find you more interesting 
if you were dead.

Not a very nice sentiment, but, sadly, this is often true of hard-core history fans.  

This is the 29th, which is two days past the birthday of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, which took place on January 27, 1756. Traditionally, it is supposed to have been a gray, bitter day. Wolfgang's mother, typically for the 18th Century European women, lost most of her children. Wolfgang was her last child, 


born frail, and lucky to have survived his first hasty transport  to the cathedral on the Domplatz of Salzburg. His full name was Johannes Crysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus. In German translation "Theophilus" becomes "Gottlieb" which in time, after a visit to Italy by the young prodigy, became the now familiar "Amadeus." 




Wolfgang A.M. got well and truly into my head. My vinyl + CD collections, dominated by Mozart and Haydn testify to this. Upon hearing just a few notes of almost anything he wrote and I can win at a game of "name that composer". Maybe not the exact title of the composition, but I certainly known the Maestro when I hear him. I have a long history with this guy. 

Here are pictures from the local Lebanon, PA newspaper taken in the early 2000's.



A nice newspaperman (some of them aren't) came to the house, took pictures and asked lots of questions. To my surprise, much of my somewhat embarrassed chatter made it into the paper. It was a bit strange to have gone public with my mad obsession. 

That day, though, even my orange tiger cat "Hamilton" got into the act, as you can see, doing his "cute kitty" bit to the hilt.  You can see how long ago it was by the size of that monitor. And you may also readily guess what book I was working on while these pictures of me and my favorite cat were taken.





Back then, I had a party for Wolfgang every year, with a top notch bakery cake from a now defunct bakery. How pleased I was when I went into the back of the shop to speak to the chef and found a young German expert in residence! He was sympathetic; he knew exactly what I wanted. The first cake he made had musical notes as well as a host of lovely little white flowers with purple hearts.  One of the last cakes from this talented pastry cook is pictured below.     

  

Has this ever happened to you?


The Ghost of Mozart appears in The Mozart Brothers
  


I had one experience that mirrors this image at the very height of my mania. One Halloween, Mozart appeared to me in my PA kitchen. I was making spinach lasagna while playing Don Giovanni at full rock'n'roll volume. Mozart's appearance led to a leap from one side of the room to the other, those pink high top sneakers I loved apparently giving me wings. 

This date, I knew, had special significance. Don Giovanni had premiered in Prague on that same date in 1787.   

Poor Wolfgang! He was terribly pale and he looked ill, too. Just a flash--and then he was gone, but I was -- once I got over the shock of what I'd experienced -- deeply honored by that hallucinatory visit. 

Around this time, there was an active local writing group in the area to which I belonged as well as to the RWA, one of the few writer's associations that accepted the humble unpublished. This various group of writer friends from Maryland and Pennsylvania had talent; we were all going to conquer the world. 

The idea to have a birthday party in the dark days of January appealed to everyone in the group.  An example of the invitation follows: 



Mozart's Birthday Party, January 26, 2002
1 p.m. until Finale

~~Opera, music, & conversation with
writers & poets & web spinners~~

Refreshments:
Syllabub, tea, coffee, cake, hot chocolate, champagne
Homemade bread, savory steak & kidney pie & other refreshments


It was all great fun. I do look back upon those parties fondly. 

Thank-you everyone who has read this far for your indulgence as I reminisced about those high energy early days. It also gave me an opportunity to show off the smart new covers for my three Mozart-themed books.



The masterwork by a talented chef.
Believe me, it tasted as good as it looks.



Happy Birthday, dear Wolfgang! The Vienna Series, covers shown above, are all dedicated to you by your humble servant, just one of your fan girls, all these centuries later.


~~Juliet Waldron

Hope you will take a look!

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Sunday, April 29, 2018

Bringing in the May--in PA







******************************************************************



May Day is on her way—in fact, as this post goes live, I’ll be in the hills of PA at camp bringing in the day with fellow congregants.




This is the first big get-together for those of us who are just visitors to the site, the some-time pilgrims. Of course, there are folks who live at the sanctuary year round, serving the organization with hard work, both sweat and detail and are sworn to poverty. They alone witness the white sleep, the deep mud, and the green rebirth, the dry leaves, the storms and rushing waters of the Everything She Touches She Changes Creek, the focal site of the camp.  The wards of the church live with the privileges and hardships of the place, which are entangled.




Some of the pilgrims to the place are old. Some are young. 

The kids are all right! They have cool shoes that light up and neat costumes to wear and know all about Harry the Young Wizard or Gimli the Dwarf as well as Spiderman and Black Panther and Ponies.  Sometimes they have two mommies or two daddies or just a single weary parent, trying to keep up with them. The small ones will cry, grumble and yell inside the bunk house after the old and decrepit are already in bed, wrapped in sleeping bags on futons and concentrating on their muscle aches, or curled up tight hoping to warm their feet. Eventually, all the fresh air and camp excitement, the chill of the night and exhaustion from running through the long grass (kites, sparklers, noisy drones) overcomes them, and the small “replacements” will also pass into unconsciousness.




At night there will always be motion here and there, or a ritual which requires fires, flowers, smokes, and rum. Flames bloom and crackle at new-created campsites, headlamps jiggle through the dark, potty doors bang, bats twitter in the twilight. At night there is some wandering, romance for those so inclined, long philosophical discussions in a tent under party lights with cold cups of coffee or other, more Dionysian beverages at hand. 

You may take a long lonely walk through the hilltop labyrinth and then watch the sky. There are also 2 a.m. trips to the outhouse through the dew laden grass made by the elders. These latter are hoping not to trip and fall, but they are also known for pausing in order to gratefully survey the dark-dark night sky and rejoice at the sight of blazing stars that have been invisible in their light polluted home towns for decades. 






In the morning the women braid wreaths from tubs of donated flowers. Maidens and children will wear them too, as well as the May Queen. Already the ribbons and flowers have been plaited into the great wreath, the one which will be ceremonially raised to the top of the pole. A little sympathetic magic never hurt anyone, especially on behalf of our poor beleaguered planet. 




The dance, an ancient practice from another continent, will take place in the afternoon, when, usually, to our great delight, the chary spring sun comes through clouds and warms us. Shirts and shoes will come off in the humid meadow and the celebrants will enact the rite of pole and wreath, and the young men will struggle (laughter, jokes) with the rising. At last the dance of under-over-under-over will begin, braiding the bright ribbons.  Everyone in that circle will soon be sweating and breathless, dizzy from glancing up at the pole, at the swaying wreath and ribbons. 

Around us this year, the trees will be barely leafed, and the blue sky will come and go through low clouds.  Drumming will provoke showers. Elders will look on, visiting, and congratulating one another because they are still witnesses to life—Winter has “spared them over for another year.”  

~Juliet Waldron

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 "The Holy Land is Everywhere"--Black Elk



Friday, January 29, 2016

Earworm Mozart



I've fictionalized the creation of The Magic Flute in two novels, Mozart's Wife and My Mozart. Nanina Gottlieb, who sang the role of the heroine, Pamina, is the teen narrator of the latter Therefore, I thought I'd write about it, with all its "earworm" songs, and produced during the composer's hectic last year.


It has been said that The Magic Flute is a "pipe dream in which the ultimate secret is revealed, only to be forgotten again upon waking.” The opera is full of occult and masonic references, which would suit both the popular taste of the times (1791) for “magic,” and also the taste of Mozart and his friend Emmanuel Schikanader, fellow Masons.

Magical numbers--three Ladies, three Genii--and the multiple, nine--Sarastro’s Priests--appear repeatedly—and, because this is Mozart, in the music too. There are also a host of pairs and opposites among the symbolic characters: male/female, day/night, noble/common, perfect union/dischord. 




 

There are trials to be endured before the lovers may unite. Some believe that because Masonic "secrets” are revealed in the course of the action, the Brotherhood may have been responsible for the composer’s sudden demise. While I don’t subscribe to this notion, there certainly are lots of occult and masonic references scattered throughout the rather muddled story.

It is muddled, too, because Mozart had already begun to set music to a script (or "libretto") when he realized that The Theater am Weiden’s chief competitor, the Leopoldstadt Theater, had already launched a singspiel (those tuneful forerunners of Broadway) based on the exact same story. Their musical was called The Magic Zither.

Upon learning this, the writers and the composer simply changed The Queen of the Night from a good character into a bad one. Similarly, they changed her husband, Sarastro, from an evil tyrant into a benevolent “Philosopher King.”  This late tinkering with the story/music is obvious, for initially the emissaries of the Queen of the Night, the Three Ladies, give the  Prince not only helpful advice, but the magic flute of the title, to help him save the abducted princess.   Here, The Queen of the Night appears to be the injured party. Later, we learn that she and her ladies are now in league to thwart the Prince’s quest for enlightenment and the hand of her daughter.  

No one much cared, in the end, about logic. The music and the spectacle were (and are still) sufficient to create a luminous piece of theater.

Goethe’s mother wrote: “No man will admit he has not seen it. All craftsmen, gardeners…and even the “Sachsenhausers” (a rough rural suburb of Frankfort), whose children play the parts of apes and lions, are going to see it. There has never been such a spectacle before.”



This is high praise, even if the German word for spectacle carries a double meaning: “show” and “uproar.”

To quote Frederic Blume's essay “Mozart’s Style and Influence”: 

“To compose music for all; music which would suit both the prince and his valet…to compose music that had to be both highly refined and highly popular was a new and unprecedented task.”

Two-hundred and twenty-four years since this opera premiered, it's still going strong, a perfect way to introduce young people to this unique western art. Attending a first-rate production is easier and a lot less expensive than it used to be, for the Metropolitan Opera now broadcasts as many as ten operas every year directly into local movie theaters. Here's a cute clip (endure the undie commercial) :

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6s3Vsf9P0hE

 

In December I enjoyed a re-run of Julie (she of Lion King fame) Taymor's  inspired 2006 Met production. My only quibble being that I missed favorite arias, which were cut to make the show last only a tidy 90 minutes.

Happy Birthday, Wolfgang Amadeus!
 




 

~ Juliet Waldron





 

 

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