Opera - Armide

Nicolas Poussin, Rinaldo and Armida

The story of Rinaldo and Armide is, to say the least, an intriguing one. It interweaves tales of conquest with moments of passion, blurring the lines between love and hate. It first appeared in the form of a 16th century romance epic, the Gerusalemme Liberata, by Torquato Tasso. Since then, there have been numerous reincarnations of the tale in different operas throughout the ages. This essay shall focus on two specific operas in the Baroque period, namely Jean-Baptiste Lully’s Armide and George Frederic Handel’s Rinaldo. I will attempt to compare and contrast these two productions, concentrating on elements in their librettos and musical dramatic techniques.

The librettos of these two operas share some common traits. Both of them exalt the value of war and glory over love. War is seen as a manly, honorable activity; a means of achieving one’s goals through fair play. In Giacomo Rossi’s libretto for Handel’s Rinaldo, Armide wins back her estranged lover Argante through her “manly” desire for fair combat. Rinaldo is well-respected and loved because he is a valiant warrior, not because he is a lover. In fact, in Rinaldo, he is chided by Goffredo for being momentarily distracted from his duty by his love for Almirena. The above incident also exemplifies how love is represented in both operas. While it brings fleeting joy and ecstasy, it also causes pain and hatred in its wake. It is seen as a selfish endeavor that one could possibly punished for. In Philippe Quinault’s libretto for Armide, the title character turns her back on fighting for her faith and country, instead focusing her powers on forcing Rinaldo to love her. In return for her efforts, she gets her heart broken and loses a portion of her power. Rinaldo himself forsakes Armide’s love to return to war, even though he still has residual feelings for her. In Rinaldo, love also deeply complicates the relationships between Armide, Rinaldo, and their respective lovers, and distracts them from their goals.

On the other hand, the two librettos drastically differ in terms of plot and characters. While the basic storyline in which Armide falls in love with Rinaldo while trying to defeat him stays constant, there are many other discrepancies between the two operas. Handel’s version of the tale includes Almirena and Argante, the lovers of Rinaldo and Armide respectively. As a result, Rinaldo boasts a far more love-centered progression of events, featuring a large amount of interaction between the four lovers. Argante falls in love with Almirena while Armide does the same for Rinaldo. Jealousy and confusion result, and Argante goes to war against Armide for a period of time in the opera. Furthermore, Rinaldo incorporates the appearance of another interesting character: the good sorcerer who helps Goffredo and Eustazio find Armide’s fortress. All these little twists and subplots are completely excluded in Lully’s Armide, in which neither Almirena, Argante or the sorcerer are present. His version is far more simplistic and focuses more on the relationship between the two main characters, as well as the war.

Another major difference between the two operas is their endings. In Lully’s finale, Armide is defeated only in matters of love; she remains unpunished otherwise. She still has her powers, and dissembles her castle in a fit of wrath, flying off to wreak vengeance on Rinaldo. Her grand exit reflects the fact that she is still in control of the situation. However, in Handel’s Rinaldo, the Crusaders enjoy a definite victory over Armide and Argante. The two defeated lovers are so impressed by their enemies’ power that they willingly convert to the Christian faith. The ending of Rinaldo is definitely happier and more politically correct than that of Armide, which is left tantalizingly open.

Besides differences in storyline and characters, the two operas also differ in terms of dramatization and characterization. The two productions were written in distinct time periods and locations, where political climates and operatic traditions were disparate from each other. While Lully and Handel stayed true to certain elements of the story and furnished the main characters with similar personalities, they embellished their respective renditions of the tale with their own inventions and incorporated musical trends of the time into their operas.

One major difference between the two operas is the separation of emotions in characters. Handel’s Rinaldo, being an Opera Seria, pays heed to the Doctrine of Affections, a popular mode of thought at the time, in which rational human beings were believed to experience only one emotion at a time. As a result, his opera shows both Rinaldo and Armide showing at most 2 emotions in their arias. Rinaldo’s aria, “Cara Sposa”, showcases his two conflicting feelings of tenderness and violence, signaling him as a character who is not completely rational. However, these emotions are separated by ritornellos into distinct sections, showing that some semblance of structure still remains. Armide’s conflicting emotions in “Dunque I lacci” and “Ah, crudel” are similarly separated into alternating sections of lamentation and anger. This sense of segregation continues on a broader level throughout the opera; recitatives which denote action and dialogue are sharply distinguished from the more emotive and passionate arias. On the other hand, in Lully’s Tragedie lyrique Armide, both characters show a relative lack of restraint in segmenting their emotions. Set pieces frequently feature a wide range of feelings, all of which are not confined to specific sections. Armide in particular exhibits an impressive amount of emotions in her singing, and Lully allows them to weave together into a colorful tapestry of humors. One example of the fluidity of her emotions is her accompanied recitative “Le Perfide Renaud”, in which she shows the audience her pain, self-pity, regret, wrath, and confusion all in the same song. Also, not only Armide, but other characters in Handel’s Rinaldo are able to make smooth transitions between recitative, aria and other forms of song in between; this serves to further enhance the intergration of different emotions with each other.

Another notable distinction between the two operas is the different vocal roles assigned to Rinaldo. Lully’s self-established form of French opera advocated the use of manly, lower voices in male roles. One possible reason for this was because Rinaldo, being the heroic protagonist of the opera, was designed to represent and exalt the reigning monarch of the time, Louis XIV. As a result, Rinaldo’s part is traditionally sung by a counter-tenor, depicting Rinaldo as masculine and noble. However, Handel chose a higher, soprano voice (traditionally meant to be sung by a castrato) for Rinaldo, as well as other male characters, in his opera. This was because he was conforming to the trend in Italian opera where it was typical for castrati or biological women to take the roles of men. As a result, Handel’s Rinaldo is a much more effeminized, possibly irrational character. This is exemplified by his greater tendency to love and be toyed with by love, as compared to Lully’s Rinaldo. The Rinaldo in Handel’s opera is more prone to being distracted from his duties as a warrior in order to rescue his fiancée.

Lully’s and Handel’s operas both manage to convey the atmosphere of Tasso’s original epic poem effectively. Both operas maintain and reinforce the themes of conquest and love, and how they relate to each other. They also remain reasonably true to the characters and events depicted in the Gerusalemme Liberata. However, this is where most of the similarity ends. Each opera has its own intricacies in detail and design, differing in plot, characterization, and the types of music sung by its characters. It is indeed interesting to observe how each composer adapted this famous story to his own style.

Italian Film - The Seduction of Mimi (2007)

Description of film

Double the Seduction, Double the Heartache: an analysis of the parallelism between two incidences of seduction in the film


Mimi and Fiore

Mimi’s seductions of Fiore and Amalia in this film are two very contrasting processes. While there are a few surface similarities that both seductions share, they are far more different in terms of feeling, strategy and motivation, amongst other aspects.

The seductions of both women are similar in that there is a lot of friction between man and woman. Mimi’s Southern upbringing and rough approach to passion clash with Fiore’s emancipated, Northern view of love as something that must be perfect and infused with real feeling. This conflict is exemplified in the couple’s first kiss in the park, where Fiore is shocked by Mimi’s unrefined conduct and refuses to see him again. In Amalia’s case, she offers verbal retaliation in response to Mimi’s initial advances, calling him a “lecher” and telling him to “go away”. Later on, she resists him physically when he tries to perform the actual act of copulation with her; she struggles and screams at him while he restrains her.

Another similarity between the two seductions is that both women are in positions of power. In Fiore’s case, Mimi is so consumed by his love for her that he gives up his backward Sicilian ways and tries to woo her according to her rules. Her hold over his feelings is so great that he actually breaks down when she confesses her love, moved to the point of temporary impotency. Furthermore, their relationship is established on her terms: he is to sleep with no other woman, not even his wife. Such is the extent of her power. As for Amalia, the power she has over Mimi is not emotional, but she is the all-important vessel for his revenge, and he has to follow her orders, making love to her in accordance to her ovulation cycles.


Mimi and Amalia

However, this is where the similarity ends. With regard to the emotional nature of each seduction, there is a great disparity between both. Mimi is deeply in love with Fiore, almost to the point of obsession. His feelings are sincere and heartfelt. In fact, his love is so true that it affects his sexual performance initially, as he is not used to having sex when real feelings are involved. On the other hand, Mimi harbors absolutely no romantic feelings for Amalia; his obsession with seducing her stems only from his need for revenge against Amilcare. His professions of passion (“You drive me crazy”, “Those fiery eyes!”) are flat and insincere, adopting a clichéd seductive tone instead of the earnest, longing tone he uses for Fiore.

There is also a disparity in terms of Mimi’s different approaches to seduction. Mimi exhibits patience in his courtship of Fiore, trying time after time to woo her during walks in the park. He is willing to restrain his passion for the sake of winning her love, at the same time giving her time to consider her feelings. However, when seducing Amalia he dogs her every step, constantly asking her “where and when” they can have a rendezvous. His incessant pursuit lasts only two days as she caves relatively quickly.

Lastly, the motivations behind Mimi’s seductions differ greatly as well. Mimi’s pursuit of Fiore is driven by his sincere love for her, while the force behind his seduction of Amalia is simply revenge and nothing else.

The two seductions serve to contrast one another, as well as subtly show how Mimi changes during the film. Fiore’s seduction takes place near the beginning, where Mimi is taking steps to “become his own man”, emancipating himself from his Southern upbringing. This change is reflected in his new, civilized approach towards courtship. However, Mimi’s seduction of Amalia towards the end of the film brings him back to step one, casting him once again as the traditional Sicilian man bent on rescuing his honor, albeit with a modern twist. His sexual strategy reverts back to one of aggressiveness and violence. The very fact that these two seductions are different from each other is significant in itself; the contrast between them serves to highlight how Mimi learns to be more civilized in Fiore’s case, and how he goes back to primitive Southern standards in Amalia’s case. The concluding message is one of futility and resistance to change.

The Age of Imagination: Japanese Art, 1615-1868, from the Price Collection – Encore (2009)

Details about the exhibition


Kawanabe Kyosai, The King of Hell with a Courtesan

The Age of Imagination: Japanese Art, 1615 - 1868 is a visionary exhibition that allows the viewer a valuable glimpse into the art of Japan’s Edo period. The collection of paintings on display consists of a myriad of diverse styles, philosophies and subject matter – fitting indeed for the theme of creative progression that is characteristic of the Edo period. The exhibition encompasses many aspects of traditional Japanese art: religious depictions, genre paintings, and landscapes all make their appearances through an array of forms and mediums. The viewer is able to emerge from his experience satisfied in the knowledge that he has seen a comprehensive and fair representation of Edo-era painting.

In order to capture the holistic nature of The Age of Imagination, I have selected several pieces ranging across an eclectic mix of artists and styles to write about. A work that caught my eye early on in the exhibition is The Death of the Buddha by Nakamichi Sadasue (c. 18th century), a hanging scroll painted with ink and colors on paper. The scroll depicts a Buddha – presumably Shaka – in the process of entering nirvana, surrounded by disciples, other deities and animals. His mother, Queen Maya, also makes an appearance in the top right corner, descending from the heavens with an entourage behind her. It was interesting to note that this painting has much in common with Nirvana of the Buddha (c. 711) at the Horyuji Pagoda, which is a depiction scene of the death of Shaka using the medium of clay sculptures. Both works share very similar layouts, with the Buddha figure reclining on a pedestal in the center of the tableau, surrounded by his consorts, and Maya at the corner. Furthermore, like its predecessor from the Nara period, Sadasue’s work shows some obvious iconographical traits. Firstly, there is a clear distinction between the appearances of the disciples (Hinayana) and the bodhisattvas (Mahayana): the disciples form a weeping, bedraggled lot, evidence of their incomplete mastery of the Buddha’s instruction, while the bodhisattvas look on impassively, understanding that death is but a means to an end for the Buddha. Secondly, a golden skin tone marks the Buddha and bodhisattvas as divine beings. (However, in the case of the Horyuji sculptures, only Shaka is imbued with the golden skin). Of course, there are certain aspects to Sadasue’s painting that set it apart from the Horyuji tableau and give it a slightly more modern quality. Decorative elements are emphasized over realism – clouds, trees and water are painted with an abstract flair – and the artist plays with size and perspective – the Buddha is very large in comparison to everyone else, perhaps to emphasize his presence, while Maya seems shrunken down to show that she is further away.

Another work of interest is Soga Shohaku’s Wild Horses (c. 18th century), a pair of six folding screens, done with ink and gold on paper. This painting has a surprisingly impressionistic quality to it. Several horses are painted in different positions and poses across the screens, the dynamism of their movements exaggerated through varied, almost haphazard brushwork. Traditional attention to detail and refined line work are substituted in favor of bold, thick strokes. Also worth noting is Shohaku’s use of empty space in the work. The lack of any background elements in the painting serves to focus the viewer’s attention solely on the horses; indeed, the energy emanating from the subjects is more than sufficient to draw the viewer in and hold his interest. The dynamism inherent in the painting, as well as the artist’s effective use of blank space to further enhance it, seems reminiscent of another Edo period painting in the decorative tradition: Wind and Thunder Gods by Sotatsu.

However, Wild Horses offers but a small glimpse of Shohaku’s artistic versatility. In another of his paintings showcased in the same exhibition, Mount Fuji and Seiken-ji Temple at Miho (c. 18th century), Shohaku uses a completely different style, appropriate to the subject matter. Unlike the relatively abstract, almost careless brush techniques used in Wild Horses to bring out the uncontained energy of the horses, Shohaku uses a more archaic painting style to depict the Mount Fuji and its surroundings in all its age and grandeur. This does not in fact signal an evolution in painting style, but an ability to adapt different styles to fit different themes. Mount Fuji and Seiken-ji Temple at Miho leans more toward realism and boasts a refined painting style, with straightforward use of perspective and high visual accuracy. The only thing one can find in common with Wild Horses is Shohaku’s use of blank, flat space, this time used to give the impression of distance. The foreground of the painting is more detailed and strongly rendered with shading, while the background gets gradually lighter and more washed out, till Mount Fuji is simply a white shape against the sky.

The King of Hell with a Courtesan (c. 19th century) by Kawanabe Kyosai – a hanging scroll with ink and colors on silk – is a refreshingly humorous piece, fitting with the caricatural tone of many of his other works. In it, Enma the king of hell, dressed as a Chinese judge, is gazing with ill-contained delight at the courtesan of hell, Jigoku Dayu, in a mirror. What drew my interest were the contrasting styles of painting used within the work itself. The king, being a large, burly figure lacking in subtlety, is painted quite roughly, using thick coarse brushstrokes. The courtesan, who has much smaller proportions, is finely painted; her hair, facial features and kimono convey a sense of delicacy. One could go further to observe that painting style used for Enma is given a more modern treatment than the understated lines of the courtesan, which could be seen as faithful to a more archaic style. The extremity of styles juxtaposed next to each other also contributes to the cartoonish feel of the piece, which is exacerbated by the exaggerated smile and slightly “wild” eyes of Enma. Kyosai, like Shohaku, is able to harness different styles of painting to suit his work, except he goes a step further in this case to combine two styles in one piece.

With such an eclectic range of styles and genres developing in the same era, it is no wonder the Edo period has been hailed as “the age of imagination” in Japanese art. In building on the rich artistic and cultural traditions of past historical periods, yet embracing more modern approaches, artists of the Edo made no small contribution to the evolution of Japanese art over the years.

Oranges and Sardines – Conversations on Abstract Painting (2009)

Details about the exhibition


Eva Hesse, H+H

Oranges and Sardines, simply put, is the product of a combined effort by six contemporary artists to showcase their thoughts and impressions of the art-making process, and provide some insight into how contemporary abstract artists in this day and age approach their medium. In the exhibition, this goal is achieved by juxtaposing one or two of each artist’s recent works with a number of previous works by other artists who have had a great impact on them. While the exhibition boasts one unifying theme – conversations on abstract painting – the works on display span a plethora of styles and philosophies, as one might expect from a group exhibition of this magnitude. Each artist brings to the table differing voices and perspectives, running the slight risk of transforming Oranges and Sardines from a subtle conversation into a full-blown group debate.

Because of this relative lack of unity across artists, I have chosen to analyze two works, both chosen by Mary Heilmann to be included in her section of the exhibition. While Heilmann’s art is surprisingly simple in form and Mondrian-esque, the pieces that influenced her in her career are much more varied. One particular work of interest is Bruce Nauman’s Untitled (1965), the only sculpture chosen by Heilmann. It consists of a metal “pipe” extending from the wall of the gallery, forming a downward parabola and ending as a horizontal bar on the floor. While it is certainly not the most stunning of visual spectacles, it pulls the viewer in, extending through the traditional “frame” in the gallery and into the viewer’s personal space. This is consistent with the post-structuralist mentality that was made popular in the 1960s, questioning the validity and neutrality of the frame in art production. Not only is Nauman challenging the physical frame of the work by invading the viewer’s space, but he could also be thought of as pushing the boundaries of the institutional frame – in this case the frame of the art gallery – as well. The sculpture conveys the impression of being a very industrial work, seemingly pre-fabricated and lacking something in the way of artistry. If one were to look at it out of context, it could very well be a machine part, or a broken portion of a bent staircase banister. This could be taken as an “institutional critique”: a re-framing of the art world’s assumptions about the institution of the art gallery and its supposed neutrality, in the vein of Robert Smithson’s A Non-site. Who is to say what is art and what is not? Traditionally, the strict rules of the art gallery might dismiss a work of this nature, but not in Nauman’s dialectic.


David Hockney, A Bigger Splash

A second work that also seems to hold some post-structuralist sentiments is A Bigger Splash by David Hockney (1967). If Nauman’s Untitled was an open tribute to post-structuralism, this piece is a subtle nod to it, with tongue firmly placed in cheek. The subversive element in this case lies not in the painting’s form or subject matter, but in how it was made. The painting depicts a swimming pool that someone has supposedly just jumped into, making a huge, attention-grabbing splash in the bottom half of the scene. The splash of water was “painted” onto the canvas by blowing paint through a little tube typically used for putting fixative on a drawing. Hockney was effectively painting the splash by actually making a splash, something that contradicted the classical representational nature of painting. In this way, Hockney seems to be critiquing – and, in the process, breaking – the rigid rules imposed by a previous generation of painters. Also, by using a technique as transparent as this, he is re-framing the artistic process and possibly mocking it as an institution; the overall impression one gets from this work is one of spontaneity and throwing caution to the wind, overriding obsolete rules in the face of innovation.

It is not difficult to understand why these two works have been included in Heilmann’s selection of significant influences to her development as a contemporary abstract artist. Both Kaufman’s Untitled and Hockney’s A Bigger Splash challenge one’s preconceptions of art, engrained as they are in the institutional mechanisms of the art world. Each piece is subversive and bold in its own way, and speaks to the viewer outside of its so-called “frame”. The opinions and perspectives each work brings to this exhibition – this amalgamation of conversations on abstract painting – are of no small value.


Sources
Foster, Hal, Krauss, Rosalind, Bois, Yve-Alain, and Buchloh, Benjamin H.D. Art Since 1900. New York: Thames and Hudson, 2007.

Nathalie Djurberg (2009)

Details about the exhibition


It's the Mother

Nathalie Djurberg’s ongoing exhibition at the Hammer Museum is one that is strangely dissonant. The very nature of her medium – short claymation films filled with bright, candied colors and cartoon-like figures – evokes impressions of child-friendly productions in the vein of Wallace & Gromit and Gumby. In fact, the three clips in this exhibition begin in such a fashion: innocent, easy on the eyes, and without a hint of anything portentous to come. However, these illusions are quickly pushed aside as each work quickly progresses into a portrait of the grotesque and macabre, oft through a strange, dream-like process. Djurberg is definitely no stranger to the expression of the primal, and motifs of pregnancy, lust and fear make their appearances throughout the exhibition. She also focuses a great deal on the interactions between children and parents in two of her works, while in her third work, adult figures seem to disappear completely. This seeming obsession with primitivism, childhood, and parent-child bonds hints of a Freudian aspect to her work. As such, examining her work through the lens of Psychoanalysis might serve to give us more insight into what lies behind it.

In It’s the Mother, a mother plays with a group of her children: all girls save one boy. The children are hyperactive and harangue their tired and worn-out mother to no end. One child approaches the mother’s genitals – perhaps hinting at the genital phase of Freudian psychosexual development – and starts to worm her way into her vaginal orifice, in a sort of “reverse birthing” process. The mother bloats up and is obviously in pain, but does nothing to stop her. The other children follow suit, one by one, in agonizing succession. Meanwhile the mother weeps, huge tears streaming down her body, while the remaining children comfort her and push down the protrusions that are beginning to form on her body. The boy goes in the last, but not after stroking her rather sensually. When all the children are inside, body parts start sprouting from the mother’s body and she metamorphosizes into a monstrous figure, struggling to maintain her balance.

This work is an intriguing play on parent-child relationships, and also an acknowledgement of the frightening, even insane things that children can be capable of. One is reminded of Freud’s belief that we are born with the “aggressive instinct”, which “already shows itself in the nursery” and reigned in primitive times. Even though the children show affection by comforting their mother, aggression seems to overcome their love as they still cause her pain in the end by re-entering her womb. Furthermore, the one son who is left seems to desire her sexually, hinting at some Oedipal attraction buried under the guise of comfort. In the end, we see that the mother has resigned herself to an unhappy fate just for her children; she is the one who suffers most from the parent-child bond. This just serves to illustrate the powerlessness of the mother figure in a patriarchical society, and the degree of her sacrifice for the sake of her children.


The Rhino and the Whale

Another work, The Rhino and the Whale, reiterates the primal theme of Djurberg’s first work in full force. In it, a grotesquely bloated pregnant woman totters around, clapping and whispering “Hello, hello”. Her actions pay off as a rhinoceros starts to emerge from her vagina. Once the rhinoceros is out, it cries while she comforts it. The woman then begins to move about the room, and the weeping rhinoceros tries to follow. She seems to want to get away from it, but he bites her buttocks to keep her in one place, so she resigns herself to her fate and pets it with her foot. An equally bloated man then appears and goes through the same ritualistic movements as the woman did. This time, a baboon appears from his anus and tries to jump onto the woman, chasing her away. It then lies down with the rhinoceros and finally both look content with each other.
The issues represented here are very similar to those in the first work, but there is a twist: in addition to the central female figure, there is a male character who functions as a kind of “mirror”, or foil, to her. Again, the issue of childhood longing of the son after the mother comes up, and this time the man’s situation provides a stark contrast. The man and woman go through the same “birth” process, but are treated very differently by their offspring. While the rhinoceros desires to be closer to his “mother”, the baboon deliberately pushes off from his “father”; the narrative has subtly taken an Oedipal turn. The motif of the mother being a powerless and sacrificial figure also returns, as the woman is unable to escape from the rhinoceros and has to tend to its needs.

As one can see, Djurberg’s works are filled with hints of Freudian elements. She unabashedly shows scenes of children being dismembered and eaten, or of a woman in the throes of giving birth, all in unsettlingly graphic detail. Nothing is repressed from the audience; Djurberg’s artistic process is a desublimation of sorts. While this may have been frowned upon by Freud himself, by no means does this imply that we cannot analyze her works using the ways that he pioneered.




Sources
Freud, Sigmund. Civilization and Its Discontents. New York: Norton & Company, Inc., 1961.
Foster, Hal, Krauss, Rosalind, Bois, Yve-Alain, and Buchloh, Benjamin H.D. Art Since 1900. New York: Thames and Hudson, 2007.