NEWS FLASH

We interrupt this slow leak (please forgive) of the early days in this year's escape from Oz with breaking news:

                    I have been in the presence of the wondrous Anne Schwanewilms.

Now, for those (less fortunate creatures, may your lives be one day more complete) who have not had such good fortune, there's little I can say to approximate the experience. And to those who are equally blessed, there's little I can add because you already have the Knowledge.

It happened like this. When the trip was in the planing stages, dots on a calender, expanding and contracting, moving around the map, some points fixed and others moveable, there came from David Nice, a kindred blogger whose encyclopaedic knowledge and depths of insights would be otherwise completely intimidating bar for his generosity of spirit and tolerance, verily enthusiasm, for learners (but then aren't we all only somewhere on the ladder) and otherwise lesser musical creatures, an invitation to meet in Dresden on the occasion of a dream cast Der Rosenkavalier. It was little surprise to find out the performance was sold out, and while tickets come and go, appear and disappear, the nature of the planning and the nature of me were such that something more concrete than 'she'll be right' was in order, and off went a letter to the box office.  No sooner sent than came the reply with the offer of two perfect (and I mean perfect) seats. The gods had spoken. The fulcrum of the whole journey changed.

And so on the day there were four (two Londoners, two Sydneysiders) in the car on the autobahn from Berlin to Dresden, its flood waters receding, a calmness in its wide open spaces and haunted stones, a city so easy to slip into and feel comfortable and safe, and want to stay.

There it was again, Semperoper ...

... itself not soiled by the flooded Elbe, although the sets for this Rosenkavalier were either unable to be transported, or somewhat water damaged, or some combination of both.

We would see a downstage performance in front on a suitably simple backdrop of constrained elegance, warmed by the loveliest of sets of wall candelabra, and with three pairs of double doors for the comings and goings of households and inns. Little was lost with this scaling down, except perhaps the presentation of the rose although what gorgeousness was pouring out from the pit was more than enough to compensate and deliver that all too rare hearing-is-seeing phenomenon. And while this was my second visit to Semperoper (happy to die twice now), it was the first for opera, and while I don't doubt for a second that the acoustics are all they are said to be, we might just have scored a perfectly placed sound board which shifted what we were hearing even further along the good-better-best line.

Perfect seats. Perfect sound. The Semper orchestra playing perfectly the music of their genes with Christian Thielemann directing from his heart and not his head, and Anne Schwanewilms in bed with Elina Garanca. That should just about be all you need to know. But there is more, much more, and it's the reality of these voices for which I have no adequate description.

Anne Schwanewilms, it needs to be said at the outset, is an absolutely compelling stage presence. She's not especially tall, but looks to be, is svelte with the loveliest of arms and hands, and has that carriage of head which oozes confident charm without ever slipping into arrogance. And all this in a black fine shoulder strapped night gown most Marschallins only dreamt about in their better days, let alone embraced in their latter ones; a Marschallin who was as comfortably a woman of her years in her circumstances as any could be, without ever resorting to the stuffy haute histrionics some need to make their case.

And from this radiant creature comes a voice of glowing purity with perfect diction, impeccable placement and phrasing, and the most beautiful of shading of colours and dynamics. Did I say the voice glows? It glows - like a light, from within. She sings to you, and only you, she speaks to you, and only you, and whispers secrets in your ear. 'Du bist mein Bub, du bist mein Scahtz'.

Of Elina Garanca, what can be said? The perfect Octavian? The looks, the demeanor, the feel for youth's overreached desires and misplaced understandings were perfectly in place. The voice is luxury itself, huge and if on occasions she pushed it (though push is really the wrong word, maybe less contained) further than was expected, or necessary, it was never at the expense of beauty of tone or spreading, but rather only served to underline this exuberant excited fresh young masculinity she managed to capture so easily, and which was impeccably harnessed as the night, and she/he, matured.

If Baron Ochs be the real central character of this humorous yet poignant work, then I have just seen the wonderful bass Peter Rose give it the perfect delivery. Neither country bumpkin nor dirty old lech, Peter Rose's Ochs is a lovable fellow and quietly endearing, content with his lot in his own bewildered way, and a personality sneaking up on you till you realise that you feel more for him than you might care to admit.

Daniella Fally's early anxious nervous Sophie may have been somewhat overshadowed by the brilliance of her colleagues, but the tightness loosened as the night progressed and by the final trio, she was a fine descant floating lovely clean sliver across the lights.

The smaller character parts were all fine in their own way, and especially noteworthy was the cheeky Annina of Helene (one 'n') Schneiderman. What a giggle she is.

And finally the handkerchief was retrieved, mine and hers, and there she was, one last time.

Addit Jan 2106 - the curtain calls have appeared on the Tube of You:

TO SITGES

The train hugs the craggy coast and in 40 minutes you are in the little beach resort of Sitges which seems to be a bit of a gay mecca for whatever reason, presumably something to do with a nude beach, the predictably gorgeous weather, that it is small enough to be self-limiting and for all the overt touristy nonsense, it is quite lovely still, little winding streets tumbling down to a wide promenade and a sandy beach divided into several sections by massive man made breakwaters. I wouldn't wish to stay here, but others come regularly year after year.

But for lunch (bread brushed with tomato and salted, fine cured ham, thin slices of a sharp cheese from La Manch, and the house white, a bit heavy and sweet), for the train ride, for the gentle friendliness of the merchants, and simply to check it out, it was fun and we were back in town well in time for a sun kissed nap.


                                      

PASOLINI AT CCCB

Next stop - the Centre for Contemporary Culture Barcelona, CCCB.

In conjunction with Cinémathèque Françcaise in Paris, Azienda Palaexpo-Palazzo dell Esposizioni in Rome and the Martin-Gropius-Bau in Berlin, and financed by the European Commission, CCCB Barcelona is presenting the exhibition 'Parsolini Roma', looking at the life of the writer and filmmaker  Pier Paolo Pasolini (1922-1975).

Pasolini's adult life, as he projected it, is seen here by examining (in a brilliantly curated exhibition of his writings, poetry, cinema, politics, sex, loves, and friendships) his particular relationships with Rome and both Pasolini and Rome are on show here.

Starting with Pasolini fleeing with his mother to Rome in 1950 (the darkened first room fronts a large 50's railway carriage window, with Pasolini's collaged life clacketty-clacking past outside), through the 60s, 60s in Rome, it ends abruptly, as he did, in 1975 with the discovery of his dead body near Ostia. Poverty, sex, boys, films, whoring, novels, travel to India and the third world, the Rome Trilogy, Anna Magnani, scandal, blasphemy, libel, court cases (33 cases attempts to silence him), The Gospel According to Matthew (dedicated to John Paul XXIII), love, loss and depression, Paris, Callas, New York and finally some property outside Rome to where he could withdraw with his lover Alberto and where between a football stadium and the sea he was murdered, aged 53.

I make note of all this simply as a record of a quite startling, and it's fair to say unique, exhibition the likes of which are most unlikely to pop up in our corner of the woods, unless it be of interest to someone like David Walsh at MONA.

Ninetto Davoli, who left Pasolini to marry ..

Pasolini in Mali; African music would influence his soundtrack to Medea ..

Directing Laurent Terzieff, the Centaur in Medea ..

IN BARCELONA

Barcelona is a delight and a great way to enter Europe. With no more than a passport stamp and a wink, a dark eyed handsome wink, the bonds of the old colony felt loosed and I was free. We're returning; nothing seems that different except that I, for one, am more appreciative of the people, these Catalans, proud Catalans. (The subtitles at the opera, the eminently sensible personal-behind-the seat-in-front ones, are in Catalan, Spanish and English.) They're direct, but warm and welcoming. There's a sense of energy slightly pent-up, restrained by politeness. It's exciting. And transport is good, walking is easy on wide boulevards lined by its exceptional architecture, and yes, La Rambla, crazy as ever, is still there, tumbling down to the sea.

The Museums are in fine shape. A Museum card (6 museums 30 euro) is the first buy after a transport card. We comfortably managed four.

Just off La Rambla toward the University quarter, where we are staying, is the MACBA - the Barcelona Museum of Contemporary Art. It makes the extensions to the Sydney Museum of Contemporary Art look dreary, and cheap - though I shouldn't really make any comparison, inviting opinions about economy vs vision, debt crisis vs balanced books with generous but hen's teeth donors. Anyway, they (the MCA extensions) I think are dull and whatever the merits of minimalism in galleries, modern or otherwise, what can't be overlooked is the need to stimulate the senses immediately. Sydney doesn't cut it for me.

First amendment - I woke up to find I'd crossed images - the text above and photos below reference MACBA - the Barcelona Museum of Modern Art, and not the CCCB which is a next door conglomeration of buildings and extensions, and so this post has been rejigged. Sorry.

This, just to confirm, is MACBA, where "art ain't about you, it's about we."

The Neues Museum in Nürnberg (I know, that was last year, but I make my case) is another example:

(Internet speeds, especially upload speed, is pretty variable to poor so far, so these posts will be behind real time but written in the present and generally short but hopefully getting more often - bear with me. More coming to a screen new you .... )

PLACES TO GO, PEOPLE TO SEE

The dog is in the boarding kennels. This is a source of much ambivalence - she loves the excitement of meeting old friends (there are some long stays) but the wrench of separation is getting stronger each year. Still, she's safe and well cared for.

So, I gone from this - the late afternoon sun as I leave the kennels

to this -  the late afternoon sun in Barcelona, two days later.

We flew Emirates on the A380 for the first time and the whole service is very impressive. The flight scheduling is terrific, leaving Sydney at 2130 and arriving in Barcelona at 1330 the next day (23 hours elapsed real time) with one short efficient flight change in Dubai. It is essentially one long night of eating, sleeping, reading, movies and music in a fantastic aircraft. Well timed Melatonin and the odd sleeper help too. The music selection is second to none and the movie choices vast.

I've nearly finished Iris Origo's autobiography "Images and Shadows", a perfect aeroplane read - a thoughtful recollection and reflection on a life born into privilege in New York, Long Island, Ireland, England, and especially the Florence and Tuscany of the long gone expat years of the early 20th century. War and Fascism are nigh, and her War in Val D'Orca is with me, my next read. And then there's The Leopard in my bag too.

I watched two films. The much praised Quartet was the first, which was fortuitous for if it had been the second, I doubt I would have finished it. I'm sorry to say I found it, despite fine casting and some good performances, notably Michael Gambon's, overdrawn, predictable, contrived and pretty two dimensional. Tosca's Kiss it isn't.



What reservations I had, watching it, flying through the night (still eating) were magnified even more by the second - Amour.

This extraordinary film is deeply deeply moving. It doesn't need me, nor anyone, to precis it. But you do need to see it. And keep it with you then. It is, frankly, everything Quartet isn't, although there is no comparison. It's just that I saw them together and they both purport to be about love. Only one is. Don't let anyone tell you Amour is achingly sad. It isn't. It is achingly beautiful. And while I remember - another comparison I shouldn't be making is the sound tracks. For all the Verdi this Verdi anniversary that in Quartet, with all the usual suspects, Amour has the most wonderful soundtrack I can remember. I don't mean the Schubert, no, no, lovely that it is, of course. I mean the unnervingly powerful sound of turning life's pages, of dragging feet, of the breath, and of silence. The only thing I found incredible was that it was acted. It seemed and still does seem so absolutely real.

I had embedded a trailer. It doesn't need a trailer. I've deleted it and now found this David Stratton interview with the director Michale Haneke and the actor Jean-Louis Trintignant. Watch this, if anything, although that I only saw it after seeing the film wasn't a bad thing, for me.

JUDY'S STORY

You may remember Judy's 60th birthday week on Lord Howe Island.

She recently had published her contribution to the series 'This Life' in the Australian (which I don't financially support and hence wasn't aware of this till yesterday). With permission, here it is:

IT is Friday the 13th and an unseasonably hot, windy day for October. The family farm has been sold and now the leftover stock and plant has to go - everything - today.

All the paraphernalia of a working farm is laid out in rows in the front paddock - from tractors, trucks and big machinery to rusty rabbit traps and piles of corrugated iron - all treasures of my brother and father, and grandfather before them, some of the items brought home from other clearing sales in other times in the expectation of coming in handy sometime.

The stockyards hold the remaining animals: shorn sheep with fat autumn lambs worth $150 in a good year will sell for $47; beautiful stud Angus cattle, knocked down for half their value.

How does one put a figure to the work of three generations? After all, we are lucky to have sold the old place. It is now the fifth year of a drought, a drought that will probably break all records.

Everything is sold - the good, the rubbish, and the genuine trophies such as the old iron water cart by John Furphy with its unique inscription, snapped up by a local antique dealer.

After the sale, as the loaded trucks and trailers drive away, I sit on the front veranda of the old homestead for the last time in close to 60 years. There are ghosts here - so much stuff happened here, as it does to us all.

Among those ghosts I see a little girl with her beloved grandmother telling her stories, singing songs and reciting favourite poems; several years later, I see the same little girl leaving for boarding school, 10 long steps to the car, last hug from Nana, last look back. That little girl is me and I never see my nana again - she dies suddenly three weeks later. I am 12.

I see the spotlight still rigged up near the gutter for my dad to shoot foxes. There were always foxes; especially when my sisters and I came home at night in cars with boyfriends. The sight of my dad in his PJs on the veranda with a rifle worked every time.

I hear the heavy drumming of rain on the iron roof at night - the best sound in the world - snuggled up safe and warm in bed, and my parents are young again and bright with hope.

We, who are already ghosts of our past, gather around on this veranda. My strong, lovely, funny brother only 38, with a new little daughter and so much still to do and to live for then, is here too. He has pancreatic cancer and he is dying. We sit with him as he leaves us forever, and let him go.

A true farmer to the end, his last words are: "Dad, go and shoot that bloody useless sheepdog - the mongrel's not going to outlive me!"

Our small world, with all its hopes and plans, fractures then.

There is a swallow's nest above the front door with three fat, baby swallows craning over the rim. They look ready to fly, with the parent birds perched on a nearby fence keeping watch. I hope the new owners don't knock all the nests down, but I think the babies will be gone by then. Every year they come back to this veranda, from thousands of kilometres away in another land, to build their nests and send the little ones off on their own journeys.

I think about home, the smell and feel of it, the deep knowing when you are there. I drive down the hill and away.

HEIL DIR, SONNE

For over a month now I've been struggling to find time to make note of one of my simplest pleasures - the southern / autumn equinox. How strange it seems as I read about the prolonged northern winter and its stuttering spring that down here the season I enjoy most is that of the transition away from the high sun.

Summers here are bimodal. For all the fun of hot days and warm languid evenings, of swimming and the smell of salt and the sea, of on-shore breezes and wild thunderstorms, these are the holiday summers of the city. In the bush, the focus is elsewhere. The sun sits high, its heat is harsh and burning. The dry sclerophyllic forest continually drops leaves, crisp and dry and almost smelling of ignition. Bush fires are on everyone's mind. Water is precious and you wait, and wait, for rain.

And there's snakes about. They're more frightened of me than I used to suspect and will be off in a flash unless cornered. But I do worry about the dog although she's a sensible bush girl, alert and cautious. Nonetheless, there is some unspoken relief in not having to watch every footstep as the weather cools and they slow down and slumber.

So, come the lowering sun, a calmness settles on the country. The overlong glaringly bright days shift into a lovely balance of light and dark; the rhythms of life are gentler. Tensions ease. Day by day I watch the shifting of the sunrise from south south-east to due east. The first rays soften, playing horizontal light across the grass till they find the house. The sun now becomes a blessing.