Opera moves out of the house and onto the streets of Paris
Love, violence, hatred, fraternity… opera explores timeless and universal themes that can speak to us all. But not everyone feels at home in an "opera house". A French collective of singers and musicians is taking music to the people, giving mini concerts on the streets in working-class areas.
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“The opera is here, open your windows!” shouts soprano Nadège Meden at the foot of blocks of social housing in the east of Paris.
A woman leans out of her third-floor window. Eyes closed, oblivious to the cars and police sirens whizzing by, she appears transported by baritone Kristian Paul's rendition of Rossini's Guillaume Tell.
Paul, a professional opera singer, is performing alongside soprano Anne-Marine Suire.
Both are volunteers with Opéra Déconfiné (deconfined opera), a project launched by the CALMS collective in Marseille in May 2020 at the end of the first Covid lockdown.
It has since spread to other cities, including Paris.
It's a no-frills affair – no costumes, no mikes, just two opera singers accompanied on an electric keyboard.
"Opera is for everyone," says Suire, delivering a heartfelt O mio babbino caro by Puccini. "We're just singing and seeing who's walking around and will either stop by to discover opera or open their windows."
Listen to an audio report on Opéra déconfiné in the Spotlight on France podcast
Opera 'wasn't for girls like me'
As the mini-concert progresses, a few children peer through the iron gates. A man films the whole 20 minutes on his phone.
Three women residents have taken up their regular seats on the steps inside the courtyard.
"We've been coming every Wednesday since it started," says Colette. "It keeps us busy."
She's not a fan of opera but comes to listen "out of respect".
Nadine, a retired receptionist says she "loves opera" and has several records at home. "People always used to sing on the streets, didn't they," she says.
"It's outside, it's free, and we’ll miss it when it’s gone,” Dolores adds.
None of the women have set foot in an opera house. Nadine says she would have loved to, "but it wasn’t really for girls like me”.
Opéra déconfiné aims precisely to counter this sentiment.
“Some poeple think they don't belong to opera, that it's not their place. And they don't know opera, so they have a lot of false ideas," co-ordinator Nadège Meden argues.
"We go where the people live. They don't have to go to the opera, the opera comes to them."
Themes for modern times
Opéra déconfiné lasts for eight weeks, with four mini concerts each week.
The four venues are the same, but the singers and repertoires change.
Previous sessions have explored love, farce, laughter, violence, sisterhood, madness, death...
They not only bring opera to a wider, less privileged, audience, "it's about finding an answer to social problems through music," says Meden.
"We're creating a relationship with people because we're coming for eight weeks in the same place so people get to know us and talk to us."
A recurrent theme is women's struggle to gain independence.
They've performed extracts from Poulenc's The Breasts of Tiresias, Bizet's Carmen, Bernstein's West Side Story – "stories of women trying to break away and make their own choices," says Meden.
Today's theme is parents, children and anger issues.
"The relationship between father and daughter is timeless," says Suire, as she prepares to launch into a duet from Verdi's Rigoletto alongside Kristian Paul as her over-protective father.
"There isn't just gentleness in the relations between father and daughter, there's violence too," Paul adds. "Opera is written by men you know, and women are often mistreated."
'Really lucky'
At the end of the concert, there's time for discussion. Sometimes it takes off, but today the public is less chatty.
The team good-humouredly packs the equipment into a crate attached to Meden’s bike and she heads off to the next venue, just a 10-minute walk away.
It begins to rain and the organisers hurriedly install a pop-up canopy.
This time they're performing on the open streets and parents and kids stop off on their way back from school.
“I'm very excited to hear such a lovely voice, and we're really lucky to have it here, on the street, just picking up the children from school," says local resident Assma.
"I couldn't follow all the story but it's really emotional."
Her daughter Sarah is attentive and starts humming along.
“It's the fourth time we’ve come to see them prepare the opera," says the 10-year-old. "They’re telling stories, it's a bit sad.”
Out of the comfort zone
For artists accustomed to big concert halls and captive audiences, performing on the streets poses a challenge.
“The cars, the noise, the little piano, the conditions are very difficult,” says Kristian Paul. “We’re out of our comfort zone.”
But he throws his imposing 1m96 wholeheartedly into the role of Rigoletto.
“It makes no difference to me if the public has paid €1,000 a seat or nothing,” he says. “We have a duty to give our very best.
"We’re planting seeds here and there because in France we don’t talk much about opera, it’s a disaster. We don’t dare embrace it, but we have to.”
Some residents don't even stop or look at the singers as they pass by.
“It doesn’t bother me," says Paul, "they’re shy, reserved, but they heard something."
Suire takes a similar view.
“If even one person walks by and says 'Wow, I like this, it's beautiful, what is it?' I'm fine with that."
Find out more about the CALMS collective of opera singers and musicians for solidarity.
This article first appeared in the Spotlight on France podcast. Listen here. Subscribe here.
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