"My husband would have loved this"
and other adventures of a philistine alone at the Opera House
By William Wetherall
A story written on my 34th birthday in 1975 after seeing the San Francisco Ballet perform "Shinjū"
at the Opera House in San Francisco from a seat between an older woman and a young couple
See also Asian America and Asia: Ethnic confusion on and off campus
23 March 1975 Shinjū San Francisco Opera House The mature woman to my left was an attractive matron-of-the-arts type. She seemed to have a desperate need to display her knowledge of ballet. I couldn't decide if I looked knowledgeable and she wished to impress me, or if I looked like the philistine of Grass Valley philistines that I was, and she wanted to enlighten me. I opened my mouth a few times but she gave me no chance to confess that I had only recently learned to spell ballet. She watched the performance through opera glasses, held at the proper distance from her eyes with elbow properly tucked and her little finger properly projected. She applauded with practiced grace. She seemed near orgasm at the climax of Shinjū. She expressed how "exquisitely Oriental" the effects were. The music was indeed adequately disharmonic, the costumes sufficiently exotic. Even taichi had been worked into the movements of the males in the fight scenes. But this widow as I took her to be -- "My husband would have loved this" -- expressed frustration by the distant confinement of her Balcony Circle seat. She seemed to want to be sitting below, in Dress Circle or Orchestra or Grand Tier. Had she been willing to pawn the mink stole she clung to as though I might steal it, she could have endowed a box seat for her exclusive use the rest of her life. But then she have had nothing to wear to show her box mates that she was a peer. Such are the dilemmas of the upper-middle-class. Add to this her borderline hysteria and one has a disturbingly fidgety neighbor. The person sitting to my right was considerably quieter. Engrossed before the performance with his date to his right, he was a study of divided concern between her and the stage. He patiently answered all her questions. Even when put on the spot to explain the meaning of "shine-jew" he was not short of an impressive and measured reply. "Sheen-jew", he said matter-of-factly. It means "new station". "Sheen" meant "new" he immediately explained, and after a moment's hesitation he added that "ju" was short for "station". His date thought the title a bit drab but admired her mate's knowledge of Japanese. He had traveled to Japan on a tour a couple of years ago, he told her. I especially remember the 'sheen' part because a tour guide had said it was the 'sheen' in 'Sheen-jew-koo' and 'Sheen-yoh-koo-ha-mah', and another station, 'Sheem-ba-she'." He gestured in my direction as though wanting to share his knowledge with the rest of the balcony, and I flashed my sounds-good-to-me grin. I was relieved when he turned his attention back to his girlfriend without asking me my opinion. I might have said something that would have caused her to loosen her grip on his knee. I turned to see if the woman on my left had heard what he said, but she was too busy training her glasses on the box seats. It was, all in all, an amusing if lonely way to celebrate my 34th birthday -- wedged between the certainties of ripe old age and boisterous youth. |
2017 afterword
I am not a big fan of dance, especially ballet, though like all artistic expression, I accept and appreciate whatever moves me. Shinjū moved me only to question why the choreographer went to the trouble. It also deepened my appreciation of the extent to which the "Orient" has penetrated popular culture in countries like America -- though not to forget that every Asian country has its own flavor of "Orientalism" in addition to its local brand of "Occidentalism". I've come to accept the fact that fantasy driven by ignorance, stereotypes, and imagination are part of the human condition. Today I shrug my shoulders at "cultural" creations like Shinjū, which abound everywhere.
Later in my life a girlfriend I still think of more often than she would like me to, was a fan of modern dance. She partly succeeded in getting me to admit that some performances were truly entertaining and moving. At times she would whisper in my ear what was happening, mindful of my insensibility. Most of the time she had my number, and I always welcomed the feel of her breath on my ear.