The Opera Diaries

Introduction

 

Until 2020, springtime blossom signified for me not only the end of winter, but the imminence of a summer spent working in the backstage shadows of an opera house called Glyndebourne. What started out as a supplement to my income as an artist and writer quickly became a significant, glittering, and thrilling highlight in my life. 

Glyndebourne is often described as ‘nestling in the heart of the Sussex countryside’, although I would venture to suggest that if the Elizabethan Manor House, its symphonious gardens and state-of-the-art auditorium were a person, it would stride around quite proudly, Champagne flute in hand, rather than ‘nestle’. Every year, from May until August, this unlikely, sheep-infested corner of the globe becomes a beacon for world-class opera singers, musicians, directors, designers, stage crew — and dressers. One of which, was me. 

The Pandemic, of course, swept away the live events industry, leaving those of us who were a part of it adrift and heartbroken. This year, no crisp contract adorned with the Glyndebourne logo landed on my doormat. 

And so I turned to a secret backstage diary I had been keeping last summer. I found that scrolling through its pages on my laptop did help to reignite some of the magic…

 
 

Sample illustrations

 
 

Sample diary entries

Featured
Trousers down, trousers up

By the time I show up at Glyndebourne for the start of Season 2019, the remarkable, intricate machinery of the Festival has already been rumbling along for about six weeks, since rehearsals began back in the chilly mornings of March. But it’s only now, in late April, that the costumes are ready to put in an appearance and the dressers have been summoned. Every year, when I step through the stage door on my first day back, it feels as if no time has passed at all, and everything in this backstage world of wonder feels intimately familiar. The cheery smiles from the security staff, the squeak of wheels on a double bass case, laughter echoing in the lift shaft.

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Puppets and head explosions

The atmosphere is shimmering with a low level buzz of anticipation. Performers begin to emerge, transformed, from their dressing rooms and everyone is looking as though they have just stepped right out of a fabulous Edwardian children’s book illustration. The costumes are amazing - stunning fantasy has been woven through the historical references with smile-sparking wit and imagination. Tailors and seamstresses are clustered in the corridors, tape measures draped around their necks, frowning with concentration as they scrutinise their handiwork.

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Sweating it out

The stage crew are still setting the stage, and red DO NOT ENTER tapes are pulled across the entry door, meaning we cannot pre-set our quick-changes backstage. Apparently Rinaldo had been rehearsing on stage this morning, and the crew are struggling to switch everything over to the mammoth Magic Flute on time. When they first tried this change-over, it took them seven hours. So far today, they’ve been at it for four, which is a bit ominous.

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The show must go on

The lights overhead flicker, pop, and then cut out. Suddenly, everything is plunged into the semi-darkness of emergency lighting. The intercom is dead, and the opera has ground to halt. The monitor screen is black. I hear a thunderous rumbling coming from the stage as the safety iron hurtles down, and then the fire alarms begin to wail. I turn to catch eyes with my colleagues, and no one is smiling. This is not a drill.

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