Timothée Who? An Overly Earnest Reaction to the Arts’ Public Enemy Number One

I'm not sure I've ever seen anyone get under the collective skin of the classical performing arts community the way Timothée Chalamet has with his recent comments on the relevance of opera and ballet. I will admit that my algorithm and networks heavily favor these circles, but the backlash has permeated far enough that it feels like something of a cultural moment. It's exciting to witness because, in my experience, most instances of unity like this one have arisen in response to some great ill committed within the industry. And often these ills are seen as unavoidable byproducts of one of the most basic facts about us: we're old. 

Classical arts have been around a long time, and they shoulder the burdens of any medium that finds its origins in a very different world. I’m not just talking about the dead white guy problem, though we’re still working on that. Classical arts were born of a world with different demands on people’s attention, different education, and very different possibilities for entertainment, and it can be difficult for many to see how these disciplines fit into modern life. Very often, I find, we try to apologize for our maturity. We try to make ourselves fit more comfortably into modern clothes, cozying up to the current zeitgeist. The online uprising sparked by Chalamet’s comments is the first time I have seen us, as a community, stand and declare that we won’t apologize for our age.

I also believe this rally happened because Timothée struck a nerve. I would like to brush his comments off as the puerile judgment of someone who equates relevance only with newness and value solely in terms of market share. But I’d also wager that every performer who heard his words experienced the same small moment of panic—that little voice in the back of their head saying, “Is he right? Are we dying?” Haven’t arts communities been asking themselves this very question for decades?

Tradition is a tricky thing. There are traditions that deeply root us in our history, our families, our cultures. Traditions can connect us to the past and to previous generations in ways that make us feel less alone. But tradition can also stifle growth, hold people down, and leave many feeling alienated and devalued. What is the place, then, for arts that have such deep roots in tradition? 

Most artists who have spent their lives in service of such disciplines have struggled at some point with this conundrum. If they’re anything like me, they feel deep in their soul that our art still has its place, but it’s often difficult to put into words exactly why. I find the old adage that writing about music is like dancing about architecture particularly apt when trying to express the meaning I find in my work—but I'm stubborn, so I'll try.

Earlier this year, the ASO performed Andrea Reinkemeyer’s Water Sings Fire, a work inspired by the origin story of Ursula from The Little Mermaid. Reinkemeyer’s aim was to capture female rage elicited by injustice and oppression. When we performed it, her point struck me viscerally, and I could feel the audience’s understanding; it crackled through the hall. It also reminded me of another composer whose music I have always felt captures rage with exceptional power: Dmitri Shostakovich. Shostakovich’s injustice was very different; his boogieman was Stalin, and he lived under the constant, life-threatening scrutiny of the Soviet regime.

These two composers lived in vastly different times and led profoundly different lives, and their approaches to composition could not be more distinct. Yet their reflections on oppression are made all the more powerful by the presence of the other. They stare at one another through a two-way mirror, reflecting experiences separated by centuries but resonating in the shared emotions their music evokes. By experiencing both works, we, the audience, can chart a path between experiences we have known to those we have only imagined. They remind us that injustice is injustice, no matter the form, and that our capacity for empathy may reach farther than we often realize.

Classical music isn’t pop-y, it isn’t “of the moment,” or a quick hit of dopamine. What it is, is an opportunity to peer into an infinity mirror reflecting countless corners of humanity, and the mirror is expanding all the time. Our task as performers and arts organizations is not to try to mold what we do into a palatable offering that merely aligns with what seems relevant today. Our task is to make sure everyone knows that it already is relevant. Beethoven is not important because he expanded the orchestra, invented programmatic music, or perfected sturm und drang. Beethoven matters because his music wrestles with all the same questions that most of us still confront today: his destiny, his ailing health, the injustices of the political system under which he lived, and the constant pursuit of hope and joy.

I believe that now, perhaps more than ever, people are craving connection. They want to be seen and to see themselves reflected back. So my plea to arts organizations is this: do not let this moment pass. We already matter. We are already relevant. We are not dying. We must insist on it.