Letters
Letter from Paris: A Plight at the Opera
Dear friends,
I hope you are sitting down as you read this, because it’s in this letter that I will reveal the shocking truth: I am an uncultured swine.
This will not surprise those who know me well. They are aware that my family tree is more of a creeping vine–spreading widely, but never far from the dirt. I’m not ashamed in any way of it, quite the contrary. But if things I’ve said or written have given the impression that I must have been raised by the sort of people who were never without a volume of Keats close at hand, or who thought of Tchaikovsky as pop music, you are mistaken.
My relations, if they still think of me at all, will tell you I was a horrible little snob even as a child. That is true. Nevertheless, there are significant chunks of my brain that remain stubbornly lowbrow, and from time to time they flash like my hometown’s single traffic light.
That’s what happened last week when I went to the Palais Garnier for an evening of contemporary dance. I have nothing at all against contemporary dance. Unfortunately, I lack the prerequisites required to appreciate it. Therefore, I do not seek it out.
On this night, for reasons, I was compelled to watch it.
The member of our party who organized the outing mistook the start time, which meant we were too late to be seated for the first half. I did my best to look disappointed and suggested we drown our sorrows across the street at the Café de la Paix. The others would have none of that.
They allowed a kindly usher to lead us to the tippy-top of the house.
We were slipped into an empty box from which about five percent of the stage was visible. On the other hand, we were just below Marc Chagall’s gorgeous ceiling and at eye-level with Charles Garnier’s famous chandelier.
While they craned their necks trying to see whatever gyrations were going on, I realized I had a new-to-me perspective on what is, after all, my favorite building in the entire world.
I took a bunch of pretty souvenir photos,
then pulled a chair into a corner–it was dark as a mineshaft in the box–and took a nap.
After the interval, however, we were transferred to our official seats several floors down. I, as the shortest, was put into the front row so that I could have the best view.
The best view of this.
Yes, that is a bidet on the stage of the Paris Opéra.
My friends, nothing good ever follows a bidet in front of the act curtain. I considered bolting. Too late. There were four pairs of dance maniacs crammed between me and the door of the box and the lights were going down.
A lady lurched onto the stage. She wore a flowing tunic and a single long braid that to me signaled unhealthy obsessions with macramé and wheatgrass juice. Hidden musicians struck up an electronic dirge.
The lady danced a Sad Dance around, and with, the bidet.
The crowd was silent. Breathless. The house was nearly full, and every pair of eyes except mine were fixed on the stage, where the pas de bidet gave way to an agitated Highland Fling involving vacuum cleaners.
The piece was all in that vein: convulsions and stomping and household appliances, in the service of blazingly original points such as “relationships are hard” and “modern life isolates us from one another.”
I certainly felt isolated. Little me in my little seat, bewildered, while several thousand people sobbed because the lady on stage (a different lady, wearing the wrap skirt of ennui and the fedora of frustration) was dancing an Angry Dance with a door.
I had knitting with me. Right there in my bag. The bag in my lap. Deadline knitting. I could feel the knitting inside the bag, so close, not being knitted. I’m working night and day on samples for Season Ten of Knit Stars, in which I (along with my bosses here at MDK) am one of the Stars. (They said it, not me.)
My series will be about shadow knitting, with two new designs, and this one was in the bag.
I wondered if I could gently, gently, slide open the zipper and slip out the knitting. I wondered if I could covertly work a few rows in my lap, in the light spilling off the stage.
I imagined two thousand angry dance freaks, aghast at a stray click of the needle, tearing me limb from limb like modern maenads in fancy sneakers.
I can’t tell you how long the second half of the performance was, but it felt like six weeks. It was one of those agonizing situations–if you are reading this, I’m sure you know it–in which one is uncomfortable and/or bored, but one is for whatever reason not able to get through it by pulling out something to work on.
It was an “if only I had my knitting” moment. Yet I did have my knitting. Yet I didn’t dare knit.
Please let me be clear. I don’t expect anyone to express a tear or even a modest sigh for my having been bored in a box at the Palais Garnier. The flip side of my upbringing is that I’m still grateful, desperately grateful, to be able to live where I live and see the things I see.
Even when I don’t understand the things I see.
Even when the bidet starts to dance.
Cordialement,
Franklin
PS The performance got an enormous, endless cheering ovation. To my great relief, however, it appears that contemporary dance companies do not believe in encores.
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Great text!!!
I hope you went home and had a large glass of wine afterwards, you earned it. Love your writings.
Your restraint was amazing!
Ah! Cher Franklin! J’ai bien de tes aventures.
Je ne comprends pas non plus la danse contemporaine…une chance qu’on a le tricot!
Hilarious. Definitely experienced situations where companions’ scowls prevented me from knitting. Definitely hope you enjoyed wine after, or knitting!
Oh Dear – shouldn’t somethings remain where they belong? In the bathroom. But then I wouldn’t have had a good laugh to start my day. Thank you! Oh and that ceiling- marvelous.
And sooooo excited for both workshops from you and MDK. Already ordered the kits!
Brilliant!
Brilliant! Laughed so much. My daughter is a contemporary dancer and I feel for you.
I live in Oregon and this is as close as I will ever come to seeing that beautiful ceiling. Thank you so much for sharing your unique perspective of knitting and Paris. I look forward to your next Letter From Paris.
An apt description. Really, quite a beautiful one. And a delightful account of your experience of said pas de bidet. Bravo! And gorgeous knitting, BTW.
Fond greetings from the 17e.
You have given me a wonderful way to start my day! Too funny!
Okay, I have seen many a ballet and enjoyed them thoroughly. But, a ballet with a bidet?!! No way and no thanks. You showed enormous restraint and consideration for your neighbors.
Oh dear Franklin, now I can only picture Isadora Duncan dancing with A bidet!
OK, Franklin Habit wins “most hilarious person” trophy hands down. Love the way he writes and all of his observations. If I were living in Paris, I would find him and dog his tracks just for laughs. This latest entry made me spit out my morning coffee laughing.
I totally relate! I have had so many of those exact same moments – nearly been tossed out of a meditation group for knitting during a “dharma talk” (which, to give me credit, was a RECORDING). Thanks for the beautifully related description of the ballet.
As a yoga teacher and therapist, it’s unfortunate that some teacher/organizers still fail to leave their egos at the door. Knitting can most definitely be meditative. We experience this as knitters. More recently, people have written books and articles on this subject. In the eastern tradition Yoga poses (the asanas) were solely initiated as forms of sequenced and repetitive movement to quiet the mind to facilitate the goal of meditation. (Definitely not the power yoga/buffed body/western exercise interpretation to create another gym workout) How is relaxed knitting that can facilitate mindfulness and meditation any different from the original purpose to practice the asanas? Knit on and namaste!
THANK YOU FRANKLIN!!! I feel seen!!! Thank you for that BEAUTIFUL photo of the ceiling. You have made my day. THANK YOU.
Bravo! Bravo!! We want a Franklin Habit encore… that is, a knitting encore!
Too funny. We can all relate to feeling like that at least once. But on a positive note, you got to view in person that amazing ceiling by Chagall!!! So lucky!!
“Pas de bidet”Lol!
This had me sympathizing and chuckling throughout!
So funny, Franklin! Paris with you is trés amusant. A lifetime ago, in the 50-cent student seats (I forget the centimes) I shared that same fifth of a stage view as you, which in our case involved the tip of a spear, one of the props in Tristan and Isolde. The entire opera, with only a spear! Being young, we all laughed it off. At least it wasn’t a bidet!
Love seeing the ceiling, thanks!
Fabulous pictures. Hilarious article. Many of us feel your pain. It’s so representative of similar moments in all of our lives. You’re a treasure and definitely a Knit Star.
Brilliant! Thank you for the fun this morning, and I don’t know how you did it, but I certainly felt the tension. I, too, would have struggled with my inner voice going “it’s right there, knit away!” And dancing with a bidet? Certainly a new one for me, I will chuckle about your ‘night out’ for the rest of the day.
I look forward to everyone of your posts. This one especially made me giggle. And I don’t think it had anything to do with your upbringing, I consider myself a fairly cultured person but that would have me wanting to break out my knitting, too. Bidets belong in the bathroom behind closed doors.
Franklin, this is one of your best columns yet! I was laughing out loud. So looking forward to your Knit Stars time. You ARE a star!
Ohmyyes. This desperate grasp to be “modern and different” seems to have infested the entire world of the arts. As an opera director, I am dismayed by how many times such things as a urinal, or dead animals, or shocking costuming are substitutes for beautiful movement and musical artistry. i’m all about moving forward, but let’s move towards something! Bravo to you for toughing it out, and just enjoying that astonishing building.
Thank you for the very glam view of the space near the top. Deco skills from an era …. and from the entrapped front row seat of anguish. Your descriptions … perceptions…. i see my ironing board. —a dance? Vacuums are too loud to hear the music! Must sweep my broom off its bristles….
A dancing bidet – be still my heart. That brings back the productions in elementary school where every child had a role. My son was once cast as the fifth brick. It was considered one of the better roles.
Nevertheless, there are significant chunks of my brain that remain stubbornly lowbrow, and from time to time they flash like my hometown’s single traffic light.
I hear you!! Thanks for a fun article and the beautiful photos!!!
All I can say is “ I’m with ya Brother!!!!!” I would love to see the inside of the building tho.
” I lack the prerequisites required to appreciate it.” This will be my new response, in lieu of “I don’t really care for it.” Perfectly written!
Pas de bidet.
Just love what you share! And that ceiling and chandelier are gorgeous ! I’ve been known to knit in a bathroom stall at a boring corporate dinner .. I always bring my knitting! Love to you Franklin .
Thank you, I guess, for sharing the experience. I am also not of the cultured class that would appreciate that type of dance. But it is an adventure you will always remember, and that photo of the ceiling and chandelier is wonderful. So glad you got to see it up close.
Hilarious as always and so worth reading again!
Thank you!
You are hilarious….but at the same time, being trapped in Palais Garnier is kind of my dream, as it’s my favorite building, too. Soldier on, mon ami!
Very excited for our guided tour of Palais Garnier in a few weeks when we visit France! As always- love your posts. My funniest dance memory is my mom taking me at the age of somewhere between 5 and 8 to a dance performance. One of the pieces featured the male members (oops- that will turn out to be a pun) of the ensemble. Men, dancing only in the most abbreviated of leather thong bottoms. My mother was mortified. I was fascinated! She grumbled something about “warning people” that the performance was not child friendly and “nudity” and it became a part of family lore.
OMG (mon dieu!) I had to take a modern dance class for a gym credit in college (it was the only option still available – color me shocked that everyone else had avoided it). It was torture – ridiculous gyrations of bored and completely uninspiring college freshmen. I can’t even imagine the mind-numbing length of watching it on stage instead of knitting! Glad you survived.
Oh Franklin, I feel your pain. I once attended a play which featured a toilet in the middle of the set. As Chekov said, if you introduce a gun in act 1, it must go off by act 3.
In my case, thankfully, there was an intermission and I fled. Ever since, however, I have wondered just whatever happened with that toilet….