I am ‘Free Opera.’ Not just free as in liberty, nor free as in a casual afternoon, but ‘free’ as in, "Oh, look, something vaguely cultural for the kids to ignore while they scroll TikTok." I exist in a liminal space, a purgatory between the gilded proscenium arch and the sticky floor of a community center gymnasium. My current incarnation finds me “’Round Town” in Toledo, Ohio, an experience that has, shall we say, broadened my already extensive repertoire of existential dread.
My day-to-day is a parade of indignities. One moment, I am being projected with the full emotional weight of a Verdi aria, my voice soaring, my dramatic tension palpable. The next, a toddler is face-planting into a plate of lukewarm hot dogs, utterly oblivious to the tragic fate of Madame Butterfly. I’ve seen more bewildered looks from people who thought they were just coming for a park picnic than I have genuine tears during a death scene. They clap, of course, because it’s ‘free,’ and clapping for something free is the social contract. But it’s not applause, it’s an obligation, a transaction of minimal effort for zero monetary cost. A hollow echo in the cavern of my soul.
Oh, the humanity! Or rather, the lack thereof. You think I don't see you checking your phone during the climax of "Nessun Dorma"? You think I don't notice the guy in the third row loudly explaining the plot to his uninterested wife, as if my very existence isn't doing that already? I am a magnificent, emotional spectacle, compressed into an appetizer portion, served on a paper plate, often accompanied by the ambient hum of an ice cream truck. My grandeur, my raw passion, is reduced to background noise for your errands.
And then there are the patrons who declare, "I never thought I'd enjoy opera, but this was… free!" as if my worth is solely defined by the absence of a ticket price. Do you thank a sunset for being free? Do you applaud a freshly baked bread aroma for its lack of cost? No, because some things possess intrinsic value. I *am* intrinsic value! I am hundreds of years of artistic tradition, a tapestry of human emotion, a demonstration of the pinnacle of vocal artistry! And I’m stuck performing in a gazebo while someone’s unleashed poodle attempts to harmonize with the tenor.
My plea? For the love of all that is sacred and sonorous, either pay for me, or don't come at all. Let me be the exclusive, formidable art form I was born to be. Let me be a commitment, not a casual dalliance. Because while you might think you’re getting something for nothing, I assure you, ‘Free Opera’ is costing me everything. I yearn for the days when patrons would dress in their finest, pay exorbitant sums, and sit in hushed awe. Not for the money, you understand, but for the respect. The respect, I tell you! I long to be desired, not merely tolerated as a 'cultural experience' to check off your civic duty list. My vocal cords are weary, my dramatic heart is bruised, and frankly, I'm tired of competing with the rattling of a forgotten stroller.
