Human Flower Project

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Boulevard of Broken Dreams

John Levett’s rose garden began in another city 35 years ago, but it’s outgrown even history now.

The author’s garden, June 2009, Cambridge, U.K.
Goldfinch, Alister Stella Grey,  White Provence, and Fantin Latour
Photo: John Levett

By John Levett

I’m writing this whilst listening to Morton Feldman’s “I met Heine on the Rue Fürstenberg.” These moments come and go. For decades I’ve been overwhelmed by the erudition of the presenters on the Beeb’s Radio 3—Bach’s breakfast preferences, the view from Mendelssohn’s house in Leipzig, where Mahler bought his ties, which shirt Webern was wearing when he lit that fatal fag. I’ve forever wanted that intimate connection with (just) one composer but realised early on that I’m not a one-guy-or-gal guy. In the late ‘50s I was for Wagner, then Mahler, then Vaughan Williams, Stockhausen, Bach (the whole family). Looking at the record collection, I see the only permanent fixture has been Bob Dylan which speaks of something.

Fact is I never stay long enough. Back in 2003 I decided time had come to blitz everything about Wagner’s ‘Ring’ cycle. Two cycles (at Covent Garden and the English National Opera), two CD collections (Solti and Krauss), two video performances (Barenboim and Boulez) and the five volumes of Sabor’s translations and commentary later I could confidently chat about it. Wagner’s the exception. I flit.

I’ve done the same with literature. Virginia Woolf got the ‘Ring’ treatment shortly after; Orwell and Larkin decades before. Feldman’s getting the treatment currently. Next stop Frank O’Hara.

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