Review: "Norma," an Opera by Vincenzo Bellini, performed at The Caramoor International Music Festival

Last Saturday evening, a tiny corner of Westchester County was transformed into a Druid temple in ancient Gaul. The occasion was a performance of Vincenzo Bellini's tour-de-force opera Norma as part of the Caramoor International Music Festival in Katonah. The festival has its beginnings in 1945, growing out of recitals organized by Walter and Lucie Rosen, who built the estate during the decade before. The main house is an Italianate villa set on some 80 acres, offset by walks and gardens. Earlier in the day, rain threatened— an inevitable aspect of unpredictability that goes with outdoor music festivals. But, alas, as yellow sunlight of midday bent into the gold of early evening, the gods smiled. Grey skies were replaced by blues that gently faded as the evening approached. Picnickers spread blankets across grassy carpets, even as the coaches and cars crept in.

Part of the festival's mission is to provide a forum for young artists, an aspect that my elder daughter benefits from. (She was a chorister on this night.) The performers are young, well-trained but still developing. That aspect lends each event sense of a compound still under development, of vigor and opportunity being mixed in imprecise parts. For the audience, this is a chance at witnessing the infancy of talents, that with time and experience might mature into something wonderful; for the performers, this is a chance to hone their art. Before the evening's main course, a set of smaller performances were organized, set in a quiet courtyard, featuring some of the understudies and apprentices.

Because another central component of the festival is educational, these recitals are hosted and organized around themes related to the main event. Since 1997, after a successful production of Rossini's Le Cenerentola, there has been a particular focus on the bel canto repertoire at Caramoor. Bel canto ("beautiful singing") is a style of vocal music predominant throughout the 17th and 18th centuries that brought Baroque sensitivities— litheness of tone, technical agility, and graceful precision of phrasing— to the genre of song. Bel canto is at the base of Handel's oratorios, Bach masses, and (even earlier) Monteverdi madrigals written for the castrati. Later, the term was applied in a specific context to a style of operatic composition that prevailed, especially in Italy, from roughly 1805-1840. Donizetti, Bellini, and Rossini were bel canto's champions, writing stage works at once demanding and beautiful, works like L'elisir d'Amore, I Puritani, and Semeride.

Eventually the bel canto style fell out of fashion, and was supplanted by a more animated, less delicate style of singing promoted by Richard Wagner (replaced even in Italy, by the end of the 19th century, in the works of Verdi and Puccini). But, that Wagner sought to move opera in a new direction did not mean that he had no appreciation for what came before. Will Crutchfield, the former New York Times music critic, serves as the Director of Opera for Caramoor and is a bel canto scholar: In 2003, he prepared and conducted the premiere performance of Donizetti's Elisabeth ou la fille de l'exilé, a reworking that had lain dormant for more than 150 years. Crutchfield served as the host of the pre-performance session I attended, organized around the legacy of Bellini in the work of Wagner. Crutchfield's passion for the history of this music was infectious, and he sat at the piano demonstrating passages that would allow us to note the historical debts and homages buried within the German master's ouevre. It was customary in the 19th century for composers to augment operatic performances with bits of their own work. Wagner composed an aria and a chorus for an 1837 production Norma, and so was intimately acquainted with the construction of Bellini's work. For our illumination, an aria from Norma was juxtaposed against a scene from Die Walküre. A performance of "Träume" (part of Wagner's Wesendonck song cycle) took on new meaning under Crutchfield's tutelage.

After the dinner hour, Andrew Porter, eminence grise of opera criticism, gave a detailed dissertation on Bellini's masterpiece and those who have famously performed the lead role. Porter himself saw Maria Callas's 1952 interpretation at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden, some two years before she performed made her American debut in Norma during the opening season at what is now the Lyric Opera in Chicago; her Metropolitan Opera debut came also in Norma in 1956. Norma has, almost from the beginning, been seen as one of the most demanding roles. Porter reminded us that Lilli Lehmann, the Met's first Norma (in an 1890 production), found the role particularly exhausting: The German soprano, who sang in the first festival at Bayreuth, famously said that, in Norma, one needed more stamina than for all three of Wagner's Brünnhildes. In spite of those demands, the roster of Normas includes many legendary sopranos— in the modern era, Dame Joan Southerland, Beverly Sills, and Renatta Scotto. Porter's remarks gave a context for this Caramoor production, but also with questions about how young Angela Meade, cast here as Norma by Crutchfield, would measure up.

The tented performance space of Caramoor's Venetian Theatre was abuzz for this sold-out performance. Meade performed as lead in Caramoor's Semiramide last summer— with the production garnering honors on both The New Yorker and the New York Times annual "best lists"— so anticipation was high. Angela Meade made her professional debut a mere two years ago, standing in for an ill colleague to sing the role of Elvira in Verdi's Ernani at the Met. She is more widely known as one of the winners of the Met's competition, chronicled in the documentary The Audition.

The story of Norma involves tragedy being played out a multiple levels: An aging Druid priestess, Norma has a clandestine relationship with Pollione, a Roman governor, whose army rule over her people. She has borne him two sons, keeping his paternity a secret, but now senses that his affections lie with another. In fact, Pollione has fallen in love with with Adalgisa, a temple virgin and confidante of Norma. Guilt-ridden, Adalgisa confides her indiscretion to Norma. Norma curses Pollione, and determines to kill herself and her children. Ultimately, however, her love for the children wins out, and she asks Adalgisa to care for them after her death. The younger priestess is so moved by Norma's selflessness that she renounces her lover and pledges to convince Pollione to return to Norma. However, he refuses Adalgisa's entreaty, which enrages Norma when she is later told of the exchange. Calling the Druids together into the temple, Norma incites her countrymen to war against the Romans. Needing a sacrifice to lay upon the altar, they find one in Pollione who is captured trying to enter the temple to find Adalgisa. But, Norma's guilt makes it impossible for her to see him condemned. She confesses that Pollione is the father of her children, commends her children to her father, and bravely offers to take Pollione's place upon the sacrificial pyre. Seeing this, Pollione is overcome; proclaiming his love for Norma, he joins her in death.

Two weeks before, I had seen Meade perform at a showcase event at WCNY's Greene Space. That evening, in isolation on a small stage with only Crutchfield on piano, her performance seemed a tad heavy, more stolid than graceful, as if somehow the proportions were out of kilter. But on Saturday, none of that sense remained. Meade took command of the stage from the moment she arrived upon it. Accompanied by the Orchestra of St. Luke's, a chamber orchestra that serves as the festival's orchestra in residence, Meade was by turns defiant and tender. Meade's performance of "Casta diva" was supple, emotive without a hint of slipping into maudelin, and drew thunderous applause. On that earlier night, at the Greene Space, Crutchfield characterized bel canto as the "jazz of classical opera," and noted the opportunities the music provides for moments of improvisation. Meade and her fellow performers made effective use of those occasions throughout the performance. While I would say that the results were occasionally uneven, missteps were rather minor on the whole, and quickly forgiven. The singers' labors on our behalf were wonderfully appreciated. In addition to Meade, Keri Alkema's Adalgisa was sublime, her voice lithe and clarion clear, especially in the duet "Mira, o Norma." Daniel Mobbs, the bass-baritone, brought gravitas to the role of Norma's father, Oroveso, and Emmanual di Villarosa, a tenor, brought flair and vigor to Pollione.

Of course, for me the evening was framed by the lens of proud parent: I anxiously awaited each appearance of the chorus for the chance to see my daughter to do the thing she loves most— to sing. But, what an evening it was. Spectacular performances of breathtaking music. The kind of evening that reminds you of the immediacy and power of opera as an art. It was a pleasure to bear witness to a cast of talented young performers, one and all sustained by the joy of song.

Review: "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake" by Aimee Bender

Rose is a young girl growing up in what seems to be the most normal of families. Her family live in a leafy southern California suburb, in a house so ordinary you paint in the green carpet of lawn without even being told. Rose’s parents are still married, having met at university. Her father is a lawyer, earning enough for her mom to stay at home. Joseph, Rose’s brother, is annoying as older siblings ever are, but also because he’s a brain. As the book opens, it is a few days before Rose’s ninth birthday, and she sits in the kitchen, doing homework, tasting the batter as her mom does a trial run of her birthday cake.

But, beneath the veneer of the 1950’s picture postcard, things are less than perfect in Rose’s family. Dad works long hours as a lawyer, and often spends evenings and weekends squirreled in his office on the phone. This leaves him disconnected from his family, who can find themselves feeling more supported than loved. Mom is dissatisfied with her life in that way those whose lives are given over to the care of children often are— she is listless, prone to headaches, lacking confidence and uncertain what the future holds. For years, Rose’s mom sustained herself through Joseph. He is, everyone recognizes, his mother’s favorite: At an early age, he was labeled a child prodigy, a distinction she encouraged, hoping to be reflected warmly in the glow of his special status and that through his successes her unrealized ambition might be fulfilled. But, a few years on, Joseph is just another smart eighth grader. Meanwhile, all the years with a “gifted tag” has left him a loner without many friends.

Mom supervises a door being cut through an outside wall into Joseph’s room— one last signal, be it confident or self-delusional, about the limitlessness of his future. While the kids are at school, she spends hours working with the carpenters, sawing and sanding, making certain that the details are just so. Dad comments that it seems strange to put so much work for a door into a room that only one of them goes into, ignoring the fact that the door also leads out. But not for Joseph: On the back of the experience, Mom joins a carpentry collective. She is anxious to recapture a sense of purpose, and carpentry is a chance to do something with her hands.

But, first, there is the matter of Rose’s birthday. To celebrate, she is treated to a special lemon birthday cake lovingly baked by Mom. Birthdays can be scary for children. Despite the excitement of parties and getting presents, it can be frightening to accept that the passage of time brings change. Anxious to have her treat, Rose sneaks a sliver while her mom is napping, but immediately senses that it doesn’t taste quite right. She can’t quite put her finger on it, but there, amid the lemon peel and brown sugar, is a pervading sense of sadness that she feels is somehow connected to her mom. The book chronicles Rose’s journey, from nine to her early twenties, and how she searches for way to accommodate this condition into her life.

I picked up Bender’s book, initially, hoping (from what I saw in the jacket summary) that the work could give me some insight into my two teenage daughters, and the complex relationship young women have with food. The story follows Rose from age nine to her early twenties, a period that corresponds from early adolescence to young adult, a time when young women struggle with images about their bodies, and when those struggles can morph into unhealthy habits and damage self-esteem. I wondered if a novel about food and emotions could help me understand some of what my daughters and their peers go through. Over time, Rose discovers she can taste the dissatisfaction in migrant workers picking her tomatoes and the plight of the dairy farmers providing the milk for her cheese. This condition takes much of the pleasure out of eating, and soon Rose prefers subsisting on fast food and items out of vending machines, since the food is processed and very little of the preparation is done by hand. This is the terrain where eating disorders are born— food being used as a void to fill a void, eating that is not so much about satisfying hunger as a hungering to be satisfied.

But, the more I read and digested Bender’s charming work, the more my attention turned to Rose’s parents. We parents want to believe we can hide things from our children— our thoughts, our histories, our dreams for them, the ones we once had ourselves that somehow got away. Almost invariably this is a lost cause. No one knows better who we are. All our secrets are on display. Being nine, Rose doesn’t have the vocabulary, and knowing things she shouldn’t know feels uncomfortable— like overhearing adults telling secrets you know weren’t meant for you to hear, but which curiosity makes you want to listen to anyway. Meanwhile, Joseph, Rose’s brother, is also struggling. Though being the “brain” gives him status, and a special role within his family, ultimately it carries a burden that, as he grows older, he doesn't want to bear. His future plotted out for years by his doting mother, Joseph wants to disappear into normality— opting out seems a more attractive option than to fail.

In “The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake,” Aimee Bender offers a story that seems like a fairy tale, full of magic powers and mystery. But, like all good fairy tales, the story lingers because it resonates with the situations we find as we go about our lives. Becoming adult involves seeing, observing, endeavoring to make sense of things that in childhood appear as enigmas and confusions. It also involves emerging from the shadow of our parents— taking the elements they pass to us through birthright and osmosis, and fashioning them into a life we define for ourselves. Honing our skill of tasting, after all, is one of the ways we can learn to cook.

Aimee Bender, The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, published by Doubleday, $25.95