Then came coronavirus, and my wife Yvonne and I, like most of you, have been stuck at home with assorted books, puzzles, computers, phones, and a TV. A friend sent us a link to the Met’s website, where great HD performances from their archives are being streamed, one per day, for no charge. We found ourselves at the TV each afternoon, watching legendary performances of classic operas: Carmen, La Traviata, Eugene Onegin, Wagner’s Ring Cycle.
We’re still watching, and our hours at home have been transformed into a crash course on opera. I’m soaking it all in, talking with Tony about new pieces we could work on together—another kids’ opera and maybe even a large-scale production like the ones at the Met.
I am a writer. I was a trumpet player. Now, unexpectedly, I’m combining the two in an old art form that, to me, seems brand new. I promise, though—no warbles or screeches. No Viking helmets.
You have to draw the line someplace.