Noisy at the Wrong Times (30 page)

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 world 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?

T
here 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 Woolverstone. 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.

Don’t be fooled, however, by my behaviour because I received a full and thorough education. You could be forgiven for thinking, after getting so far into this memoir, that for me to proclaim such a thing comes as a bit of a shock, but this book isn’t a treatise on the wonders of Woolverstone’s curriculum: it is a documentary of how a boy did everything he could (often
unknowingly) to look squarely into the mouth of the gift horse. I have told you of my approach to exams, but that is distinct from the process of getting me to them. Unquestionably, knowledge imparted to me had a struggle finding an unimpeded route into my consciousness, yet I was undoubtedly exposed to a quality of teaching that from time to time would break through the truculence. Woolverstone’s prospectus advertised the school as, “A boarding school for boys from the London area who are suitable for an academic education” and that is precisely what it gave prior to being turned into a comprehensive. I read an article, which quoted the school’s final headmaster, Richard Woollett, who said that of the sixty boys being admitted annually in later years, forty five of them would not have qualified for entry pre-1977.

Despite my attitude towards academia, I still recall enriching lessons by some of the brilliant teachers we had. I cannot hear mention of the town Hexham without recalling, almost verbatim, Jim Hyde’s geography lessons on the development of modern urban conurbations. My son, who studies geology, was shocked to discover, during a holiday in Greece, that I knew all about rock formations and screes; that was Jim Hyde again, and this was a teacher whose lessons we often spent firing spit-balls of paper from pen tubes into the back of Adebola’s head, or at the black, metal globe hanging from the ceiling. The point is, even as we behaved so miserably, we knew
where
Santiago was on the globe when we challenged each other to hit it with the sticky pellet. When Mr Shakeshaft, our explosive, floppy-fringed French master wasn’t erupting, he was drilling French verbs into us in compelling fashion and taught with an animated passion that means I can actually hold a moderate conversation in French when drunk. In history, John Morris led us to Culloden, Ypres and tremendously evocative projects on Tudor England.