The magic of “place and space,” combined with “set and setting.” There is a mystical element to classical music, the acoustics of a physical building, when notes become melodies that stir the soul deeply, enhanced by a distinct atmosphere and a mindset. It takes all these ingredients to create the magic of art – it is (in my opinion) mystical. Alchemy. Stirring something so deep that it spontaneously brings tears and a profound sense of connectedness to something so much bigger than just us.
Jung once said, “Why go to therapy when you can listen to Beethoven’s B minor mass?” (Maybe this is not the case, but if Jung did not say it, I said it.) While Beethoven’s 9th Symphony is an ode to joy, his only opera, Fidelio, is an ode to freedom, to right and righteousness, the power of women, feelings of wanting to march for that freedom. (Well, obviously the man behind me wanted to march with the orchestra’s beat and kept on kicking against my seat to the beat of the music. I tolerated it for while, until I could no longer. I reached over the back of my seat and gently touched his knee. He stopped. With the next applause he tapped me on the shoulder with a furious hiss…told me “if you touch me again”. I replied, calmly “kick against me seat again and watch what I do.”) Leaving that there. I think we were all stirred up by Beethoven.
The production is stark, grey, and static. An interesting twist is that Leonore and Florestan are represented on stage by two larger-than-life puppets. This means that Leonore can be Fidelio and Leonore at the same time, which creates an interesting interplay with the character. Malin Byström is a Viking force on stage. Swedish (blond and beautiful), she has an interestingly deep timbre, almost like dark velvet, in her voice. Her roles include Tosca and Salome, both of which would be wonderful to hear her perform. While she is a bit static in her movements (perhaps part of the choreography), she is a masterful performer in this role. David Butt (should he really include this second name?) as Florestan is equally powerful – he made his debut at Sigmund in Die Walküre. Of course, the man is born to sing Wagner.
An interesting addition (perhaps a little bit of shine for the Vienna Philharmonic) is the inclusion of the Leonore 3 overture before the last act.
Beethoven wrote four Leonore overtures, with the third considered to be the most majestic. Riveting sounds filled the opera house, an incredible prelude to the most powerful last act where the prisoners are freed, singing the rousing “O welche Lust” (I remember us being below stage forever, waiting to come up and sing this somewhere in the 80s at the State Theatre in Pretoria). Triumphant!
Sunday. Austria goes stone cold dead on a Sunday. (As do Italy, Spain, and Portugal.) Deader than dead, like aliens came and took all life off Earth. I decide to visit the Jewish Museum and the villa of Gustav Klimt. (I remember vividly stumbling into a gallery with his work in 1985. What did I know about art? What did I know about anything for that matter? Afrikaanse kind van Heidelberg, geskool op Riversdal. No one taught us about art. I knew a few composers – the popular ones. And the scariest music teacher on Earth once made me play Bartók. I hated the atonal sounds, but got to like it once I mastered the piece. Anyway. I walked into a gallery and saw The Kiss by Klimt. I was completely overwhelmed and in awe. Over the years, my love for his work has grown into a deep love affair, in spite of the commercialization of it, and that in Vienna there are a billion touristy trinkets with his paintings on them: mugs, lighters, spectacle cases, scarves, even toilet paper.
The tram ride to the Villa is a sixteen-stop affair. I love the trams – they are always on time and a great way to people-watch and explore the city. AND – I am even offered a seat by youngsters! The perks of my age. I love it. But I love it even more to offer my seat to older persons, seeing how they appreciate it.
Last night on the tram home, three youngsters embarked with theatrical flair – I would think they are about sixteen. They flopped down next to a woman who I would think is about 85. Red beret, snazzy dresser, “with it!” She and I are equally gripped by the youngsters. The one sitting opposite us is good-looking (a boy) with a really huge mouth. He has braces on what looks like perfect teeth to me. He is extraordinarily camp, in a sweet way. The funniest thing is that his tongue has a complete life of its own. The more he talks with his hands, the wider he opens his mouth, pushing out his tongue. Once pushed out, the tongue does a full 360 degrees on the outside of his mouth. I am staring shamelessly. He notices me and the woman staring at him, which makes him even more animated.
The route to Klimt’s Villa is evidence of a good neighborhood. Magnificent properties line the roads. His villa is a short walk from the tram. I arrive to a crowd of people – queuing (what a strange word) outside the Villa. I change my mind and decide to come in the week when it will hopefully be quieter. En route, we pass Schönbrunn Palace, and I am drawn to the massive Christmas market in front of the palace. By now I have seen it all…the trinkets, the wood carvings, the candles, the knitted wear (R600 for a beanie…) and all the wonderful food. Up until now I have been drawn to the Glühwein like a moth to a flame. Today I decide to be brave and try another punch: Orange and Lime, made with white wine. And Raclette – melted Swiss cheese served on the deepest yellow, butteriest potatoes imaginable. Topped with chives, gherkins, and crispy fried onions (this would seem to be a national treasure – I wrote about these during my previous visit to Vienna), it is the most perfect taste combination in comfort food. I am prepared to do another 16-stop tram ride just for this! The Orange/Lime punch is an exciting discovery – even though for a second I thought of MedLemon. It is crispy warm – if there is such a sensation – the perfect combination of sweet and tart with a little kick!
By now the tourists are streaming into Vienna – I hear Russian (or what sounds like Russian – could be anything) at all the markets. Yet, there is always a place for one in the little restaurants. I treat myself to escape into the little cosy pubs at night, mostly to rest my weary bones (which is a tale for another blog…). I am complimented on my German which makes me very confident – I am sure it is anything but perfect. But, I think the locals appreciate the effort. Last night I ducked into a little pub that was so crammed I had to sit beneath the coat rails, totally enveloped by warm coats, with a radiator at my back. Heaven, as the outside feel temperature was -4!
Aperol Spritz and an open toastie (that is what they call it as well) with more melted cheese and sun-dried tomatoes. The previous night I succumbed to a little café just off the busiest street (Mariahilferstrasse) and ordered Kaiserschmarrn. (I remember when I came to Austria with my mother – it was all she wanted to eat…). A light, fluffy pancake that is cut up, sprinkled with icing sugar, and served with a (usually) berry sauce.
There are hardly any vegetables in sight – something that always surprises me as the markets are brimming with the most wonderful fresh vegetables. In a restaurant or at the street food vendors, the best one can hope for is a potato. And then there is Spätzle – of all the local traditions most probably one of my favourits. (Well, perhaps a close second only to Krapfen.)
Spätzle – a type of egg pasta (called Nokedli in Hungary) is a typical Central European dish that is most common in Swabia and Alsace. The best way to eat this, for me, is with only cheese and these incredibly crispy onions, of course with a glass of red wine. It is very simple to make – basically a soft pasta dough that is chopped into fast boiling water. Yet, it is an art to make it so that it is not too glutinous. Chewy but not dense. It is also served as a side dish to meat, and in the lower part of Germany with a creamy lentil sauce.
Well now you know what I spend most of my time doing…
Why is it that Viennese coffee shops have such an air of distinction about them? (I am not talking the franchise type, of course.) There are a host of authentic coffee shops that have not only become major tourist attractions, they are globally recognised by UNESCO as “Intangible Cultural Heritage Sites”. I never knew this! Yet, walking into one of these establishments one feels the sense of culture that is enfolded inside. They are indeed the public living rooms of the Viennese, and as close as one would get to being invited into someone’s living room – “let’s meet at Café Prückel”.
There are many wonderful aspects to this cultural experience. For one, it is ok to linger. I suppose in earlier times it would be the place to sit and read, write a book, or have that deep conversation around the break-up of a marriage. Nowadays it is the prefect place to sit and work on a laptop or ipad, as one never feels rushed. The waiters are masters of their art. They manage the place by facial expressions – most of the time there is not a hint of a smile. A raised eyebrow shouts louder than a scream. Yet, they will never rush you, they most certainly do not come and ask if you are happy or satisfied with their food. They leave you alone. When they think you might deserve attention, they will simply slow down when approaching your table and make eye contact. Subtle…
The coffeehouse unfolds as theatre—its décor a deliberate stage, its waiters quiet directors of the public, inviting us into a performance of our own making, exquisitely and almost imperceptibly choreographed. It creates a space to be in solitude, yet not alone. To have a private conversation in a place that feels safe and warm. The latest magazines to read and newspapers in wooden frames say “sit, relax, read, take your time…”
We know that some of the world’s greatest thinkers did their best writing and thinking in coffee shops – Freud being one of them. The Parisian coffee culture is where artists met, philosophers debated, and activists gathered in secret to plot their campaigns. A dear friend of mine’s husband was doing his PhD in Mathematics at the University of Bloemfontein. She told me that he did most of his best writing in coffee shops (I imagine Mugg and Bean in Bloemfontein). I remember my reaction – I thought it was the strangest idea ever! The noise? The constant hustle and bustle of people? Well, I tried it when writing up my own thesis and discovered it to be the best place to write! There are several coffee shops in Hout Bay where I would escape to write. It worked! Other than going to the bathroom, there were no distractions: not cats that want food/scratching/playing with pens on my desk. No garden to water or pencils to sharpen or fridge to unpack (I am the master of procrastination). And somehow, I did some of my best writing in the coffee shops!
As opulent as Vienna is on the surface, it presents an interesting tolerance and air of acceptance towards tourists, the homeless, and the outcasts. And dogs. There are so many dogs everywhere, and best of all is that they are welcome in even the grandest coffee shops! Like the Viennese, their dogs are sophisticated and incredibly well-behaved! Dressed in warm coats, they quietly lie down underneath tables, the smaller ones sitting on laps. I see the occasional snack being given from a plate. It is also evident that coffee shops create a space for older persons, many of whom I suppose are lonely. This is also their living room where they can be in the comfort and company of strangers. I watch them eat their apple strudel. Slowly. They read a paper while listening to the conversations around them. This indeed is perhaps the most important cultural role of the coffee house – creating a space for people to be in the presence of others without any expectations.
Italy 2017 