Noisy at the Wrong Times

by Michael Volpe

  Suddenly, we had a brand, indeed a branded opera company, and this enabled me to envision a future that saw development and growth, rather than merely sustaining a cute but ultimately half-arsed festival. Most of these plans I kept to myself for fear of terrifying the council, but if I could maintain the company for three years, perhaps then it would build a momentum of its own. Already, I had begun to nurture the idea that we could ape the old Camden Festival by reviving rarities that London seemed at that time to be starved of.

  My time in the Royal Borough’s employ had been characterised by an innate and instinctive unwillingness to succumb to the rigidity of council practice; officers and councillors who remain with the Royal Borough will freely attest to their frustrations with me. If I couldn’t beat it, I worked around it; if I couldn’t work around it, I moaned on relentlessly. I was always right. What is obvious now is that I had stepped into another environment that was naturally allergic to someone like me, but one I was determined would eventually accept me. I was certainly an unusual beast, forthright, even cheeky to the politicians and never afraid to tell them categorically what I believed they should do, but I was loyal, honest and dedicated. It was these qualities that I think stopped them booting me over the threshold. There was, of course, a proper way to deal with the council, a process and a strategy and I am much more adept at it today but if I am perfectly honest, words are still often had in my shell-like.

  Anyway, it will not have escaped your notice throughout this book that ideas were never a problem for me, but the strategic patience to deliver them (and to gently coax people into sharing my vision) most certainly was, so after our successful launch it might have been more wise to table a longer-term plan to deliver the concepts I was percolating gently. Obviously, I didn’t, and having scoured old libraries and books for late Italian rarities, my attention was drawn to Iris or, as it was initially put to me, “Mascagni’s Butterfly”. At this point it would have been prudent to walk away because the opera was monumental, with a very large chorus and an orchestra featuring four or five percussionists. It also required, I believed, sumptuous costumes, a ballet and a soprano who had to pretend to be sixteen but sing like a Wagnerian. And it had not been seen in London for ninety years. Yet I had been listening to the Domingo recording of the opera and was in love with it, so, whilst we were actually running our inaugural production, I was already planning to take a mighty plunge.

  In 1996, one of my other responsibilities – Leighton House Museum, a glorious architectural wonder in Holland Park and the former home of Lord, Frederic Leighton – was celebrating the centenary of the artist’s death. As part of the programme of events, we recreated the interior furnishings of the house as a backdrop to a dramatic interpretation of his life. The decorative accessories and costumes were designed and made by the couturiers Charles and Patricia Lester, who work in silks and hand-tinted fabrics of exquisite beauty and refinement. Their work is also powerfully orientalist and it didn’t take much for me to see their creations being translated into Japanoiserie for Iris. The problem was that their clothes tended to cost a lot of money per item, and we needed about sixty or seventy of them. Having got to know them during the Leighton centenary, I and the director, Tom Hawkes, went to see them at their home and workshop in Abergavenny, where they generously agreed to provide the costumes at an enormously reduced rate. As artists, they relished the project, but even with the Lesters’ effective sponsorship, I was still looking at a budget beyond anything we had ever conceived. I returned to London that afternoon for the evening performance of Ballo in weird mood, excited at everything Iris promised but glum at the growing prospect of having to ditch it.

  As I stood on the balustrade, deep in thought, Mick tapped me on the shoulder, handed me a business card and said, “An expensively dressed, important looking bloke just asked me to give this to you. He wants to talk about sponsoring a production.” If fate ever smiled on me (and I was generally of the view that it only ever scowled), this was the moment. I searched the theatre for the owner of the business card, John Grumbar, managing director of the London office of Egon Zehnder International, one of the world’s biggest executive search companies, and found him having a picnic with his party of friends. Why Mick didn’t just point him out to me, I don’t recall, but I still chuckle at the memory of Mick’s description and my ability to use it.

  John explained that he wanted to have an exclusive evening during the following season to which he could invite 800 guests for his company’s annual get-together with clients and colleagues. An Opera Holland Park performance seemed the perfect thing, he said, and asked what we were planning for the following year.

  “I have just the thing for you, John,” I said, scarcely containing my glee,.” It’s is an opera that nobody has really ever heard of and which hasn’t been done in London for over ninety years. I would say it is perfect for you.”

  John’s grimace didn’t deter me from persisting, even when he said, “Haven’t you got anything more, erm, popular?”

  Desperation leads you to many misdemeanours, and I took the view that I couldn’t really lose. I suggested I sent John the CD of the opera: if he liked it, he could sponsor it – and I assured him it would be one of the events in London – but if he didn’t, we would happily produce a Bohéme or Tosca instead, even though I was almost completely consumed with the idea of Iris. Neither did I tell him that OHP were planning to produce Tosca anyway, as well as Onegin,

  John, to his eternal credit, loved Iris, agreed to sponsor the production and even purchased hundreds of copies of the CD for his guests. We persuaded Sony to reissue the CD, selling it directly to our patrons. Sony later told me that had those sales been transacted in shops, the album would have been, by far, a number one in the classical charts. Liberty, which sold the Lester’s clothes in London devoted their windows to the production, and there was as much fashion press about the opera as there was anything else. It was a hit. Such a big hit, in fact, that we revived it immediately in 1998, when we also produced Cilea’s L’arlesiana. The die was cast for the company, and ever since we have mined that repertoire relentlessly.

  It seemed clear to me when the road we are now on was at first signalled, that nothing quite like the concept for OHP that I envisaged existed; an opera company that was genuinely accessible but also produced operas that went beyond the top twenty and that would exist in a static venue, seeking audiences in their tens of thousands. There were of course companies with accessible aims like English Touring Opera, which in its former incarnations of Opera80, under David Parry, were known for touring interestingly challenging productions in the core rep and developing many talented artists who still thrive today. If opera is considered rarified now, despite the enormous amounts of work that has gone into making it less so, it was ridiculously parodied back then, even whilst the main houses claimed some egalitarian principles. At Ireland’s Wexford Festival, rarities from the sort of repertoire I had my eye on were frequently produced, including Iris, which it had given some years before, but in the UK; there was nothing like OHP that I could discern. One had to look to New York and Teatro Grattacielo for inspiration. Indeed, it was a member of that company, visiting London for our production of Iris, who first put me onto Montemezzi’s L’amore dei tre Re, an opera it would eventually take ten years for us to produce but which inevitably became my favourite of them all. Teatro Grattacielo have gone on to present many of the operas that we ourselves have either done, or wish to do.

  By the turn of the millennium, we were still a growing entity, still trying to establish OHP as a serious operatic enterprise, but our budgets and our planning methodology were such that the council would, every season, consider the reduction of expenditure on what still seemed like a luxury nobody cared too deeply about. Added to that, our administrator was not terrifically wedded to the idea of budget control, and despite the successes, I was still getting regularly beaten up about budget over-runs. At the same time, by then ten years into the worl
d of opera, it was abundantly clear to me that the problem was overwhelmingly to be found in the nature of operatic hierarchy. Directors, designers and conductors, to one degree or another, seemed to be in charge, laying down the law to what I realised was a supplicant administrator. I would find out, often too late, that a budget over-run had occurred because a designer had insisted on something for which there was no real production need but which nevertheless satisfied his artistic desires. It was a situation that had to stop and whether because I was applying greater pressure or because he saw what was coming, the incumbent decided to leave.

  To me, the way ahead for OHP was clear. The management would be in charge; we pay the bills, we call the shots. Someone with a history in opera, who would likely subscribe to the traditions of deferment to the artistic personnel of a production, could not be the replacement. So we set about searching for a candidate with experience of producing in theatre, but not opera. With me and an interim specialist administrator, any new producer would have plenty of in-house experience to fall back on, but, crucially, if we chose right, would have no idea what the opera hierarchy was about and was thus less likely to succumb to it.

  When James Clutton, fresh from the theatre producer Bill Kenwright’s company turned up, we seemed to be onto something. He knew almost nothing about opera but plenty about producing. It was a risky but promising combination, and with just three months until the festival, he was thrown into producing the entire season of six new productions. He would either sink (and the company with him probably) or he would swim. He swam, and whilst I think at times in that first season the old adage “He’s drowning, not waving” was applicable, we got through. We had also acquired magnificent sponsorship from Cadogan Estates and this enabled us to engage the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra as our resident band. One of the aims I’d had in the early days – an ambition, really – was that the company could make opera accessible whilst providing challenging repertoire, and still manage to have an orchestra of some repute (although the RPO eventually spread itself too thinly and we engaged the City of London Sinfonia, who remain our house orchestra to this day).

  By 2002, James had grown to love operatic producing, and had become extremely adept at it, preferring it to his previous profession. With a production of Adriana Lecouvreur in that year, we were sustaining our exploration of the late Italian repertoire, by now a distinct selling point for the festival. By 2006, I was again trying to persuade the council to trust us; the old canopy, installed in 1987 in the first real adventurous move by the council needed replacing and our capacity, which in my time had grown from 600 to over 800 needed increasing too. The original canopy was a high tensile fabric structure, based on ideas first put into practice by the German architect, Frei Otto. The structure worked beautifully against the listed ruin of Holland House and so we wanted to improve and expand on it. In 2007, our new roof, designed by Architen Landrell, along with a new auditorium of 1000 well appointed seats arrived, and the rest, as they say, is history. The capacity has only a handful of times – at matinees and occasional less popular operas – been filled by fewer people than the old seat count of 820. I think that confirms we made a good call.

  A single chapter on OHP cannot do justice to its history or achievements because so many people have passed through our doors, there have been so many great productions, we have had both challenging and gloriously fulfilling times and literally hundreds of people come to mind in remembering it. From our eager, seat-of-the-pants beginning, we can now present seasons full of international singers, directors and conductors.

  It is indisputable that Woolverstone has contributed hugely to whatever success I may have personally had in creating and developing Opera Holland Park. The growth of the company, and the people and organisations with whom we have become associated, certainly led me to a level of social and financial interaction wholly distinct from one you might expect a boy from my background to have in adult life. Such is the world of the arts I suppose, where the love of music and performance bind people of every social and economic hue. I have not changed my accent, and I am still foul-mouthed most of the time. The cockiness, identified and then assertively (but largely unsuccessfully) suppressed by masters at Woolverstone, has played its part, but so too has my enduring propensity to consider myself worthy of almost any station just shy of royalty. The reputation of OHP as a welcoming and accessible festival almost certainly comes from the backgrounds of those of us who run the place; perhaps we believe ourselves to be the perfect illustration of the potentially universal appeal of the classical arts?

  I have learnt to manage and manipulate my impetuosity, although for many years (and still) the frustrations of operating within an environment not designed for running opera companies pitched me into conflict with countless individuals and systems. Councils, by their nature have short planning and budgeting cycles, and they tend not to speculate, either. The arts are a risky business and local authorities are averse to risk these days. In the end, I think it is simply passion, belief, working with talented people all through the company and a bloody minded ability to articulate my desires that have helped me establish and to then contribute to the sustenance of OHP and help it thrive. The idea that a council like the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea should tolerate me in their midst for so long still amazes me; conversely, it is fair to say that their support and belief have also brought some rewards for them and the residents they serve. I have at least spared them overt embarrassment or controversy of the type I delivered to Woolverstone on so many occasions, and perhaps my school can claim to have given me the tools to negotiate the perils. In every respect, the council can truly claim to be uniquely ambitious because its commitment to cultural enrichment is almost unheard of in municipal circles.

  As for opera itself, I still believe in its power, in its relevance, despite growing concerns to the contrary in the modern digital world, and I am still devoted to the effects it can have on people. The role of the arts seems to be forever questioned in the UK, but if I represent my old school with dignity in any way, it is in demonstrating the worth of culture in young lives. I am more modest these days, too (a relative concept, I know), always prepared to give room to those many artistic egos we encounter and which have yet to self-reflect to the degree that I have been forced to over the years. I was once like that, and knowing it probably explains why I am more tolerant of them. But the angry, sharp-tongued beast is forever fighting to free himself from the cage. I take the greatest satisfaction from the successes of others, am more able to offer guidance without manipulation, and have less inclination to the necessary Machiavellian manoeuvres of OHP’s early years. I sound like a Teddy Bear.

  Two and a half decades is a long time in any single place. For almost two of them, OHP has existed and flourished, close to the edge and never dwelling on the past, but I am often personally forced to do so, because what I can’t ever deny to myself is the truth of my nature, its attraction to melodramatic denouements, with only cursory consideration of the consequences or outcomes. Memories of Woolverstone, therefore, serve as welcome constraints.

  AND THE POINT WAS?

  There is no doubt that the confidence that Woolverstone gave, the belief I drew from it, has enabled me to engage with a variety of people who patronise Opera Holland Park. Our risky programming and the challenges we set ourselves may have something to do with my schooling – or maybe it is arrogance again? Or is it confidence? Stupidity? In any case, I have something of which I can be proud. The journey from Woodstock Grove to Holland Park is short in real terms – half a mile perhaps – but from where I was in relation to where I am is a greater distance by far. I have felt shame and embarrassment whilst writing this volume – but maybe because I realise what damage I might have done to myself, as opposed to what I could have done to others. I told you I was selfish and I meant it.

  But.

  On this journey, I have been increasingly angered when I think of the eventual demise of Woolversto
ne. Politics have now been fully embroidered into the fabric of our education system, and a procession of politicians from every party talk unexpurgated drivel on the matter, proposing and re-proposing ideas, putting forward new ‘targets’ and standing tall with platitudes. I cannot think of one idea in the last twenty years that wasn’t a serious contributory factor to the poor condition of education. Indeed, it was political doctrine that destroyed Woolverstone. Educating our children today is very much a process of reaching the lowest common goal that we can. Too often, we teach down to our children, their aspirations only stretching as far as the classroom door. Culture, as it is presented in the classroom, is one-dimensional, trendy and narrow; so much of the great art on our planet is scandalously neglected or served in idiot-sized portions.

  Throughout my life, I have countless times been written off as an ill-educated oaf, not because the person doing it has any evidence of it, they just assume it, normally on the turn of my London accent. Maybe I do just come across as an oaf. Maybe I am an oaf. Yet, it frequently amazes them to discover what it is I now do for a living. More frequently still, it really bloody annoys them. They are out there, these people, who consider those of our society who are from the other side of the tracks to be unworthy of the enriching, inspirational wonder of the classical arts. Still worse, there are just as many, if not more, on the “wrong” side with us who would tell us that we should never try and make the crossing.

  Woolverstone, I believe, was the reason I have been able to see the course ahead of me as clearly as I have done since the age of nineteen at least. If it could never teach me to believe fully in Shakespeare or Chaucer, it taught me to believe in myself. Well, it encouraged me to continue to believe in myself, anyway. Academic achievement as measured by pieces of paper and qualification was something I actively sought to avoid, and I am sorry, I have no logical explanation for that and I wouldn’t recommend it to any young person today. You, the reader, might have reached some conclusions of your own.