Iglesia '04 defies operatic tradition in summer work, future plans

With it corridor of strewn clothes, a motley mantelpiece collection of empty glass bottles, and the erratic drift of semi-clad roommates through the doors, the colorful abode of Dan Iglesia '04 in Little Hall is clearly no bleak and bare writer's garret. Perhaps that's why Iglesia, one of 2002's Martin A. Dale Summer Award winners, wrote his as-yet-untitled opera this summer in the suitably more Spartan setting of his parents' garage.

At the word 'opera', though, Iglesia winces slightly. "I'll probably call it something else when I put the signs up," he admits, disinclined to limit his work in the genre of the traditionally esoteric art form. At least in terms of the interface between music and drama, his piece certainly does defy conventional operatic practice.

Instead of lingering over elaborate set-apart arias that do little to further the drama, Iglesia's characters sing (and occasionally even say) what they need to quickly "and the plot keeps going, rather than stopping the conflict for 'spotlight' numbers."

He also stresses his belief that music and drama should be mutually supportive, and is critical of one operatic trend for music to comment – often with a rather forced irony – upon the unfolding action (for example, for a falsely jubilant score to accompany a cheerless moment).

"That's insincere," argues Iglesia, "and I think it drives people away. I try to have the music support what's going on."

But despite the absence of these operatic staples (and others, such as lavish sets and overweight women with white pompadours), the piece has amongst its influences older musical forms such as counterpoint and, says Iglesia, remains traditional in its exploration of the timeless themes of "purity, eternity and constancy."

The entire drama takes place the day of a soldier's return home from the front lines. Following the advice of heavenly visions, the young protagonist seeks out his former love, but the search ultimately leaves him tragically disillusioned by his brother, by societal institutions, and by love itself. The death of the soldier's ex-lover at the end of the piece is "intentionally left ambiguous," writes Iglesia in his personal summary, "as to whether this was an accident... or an intentional end to an unanswerable conflict."

The libretto is at times as flowery and indulgent as the genre seems to demand, but also has moments of spare and simple beauty, such as the angelic apparitions' initial advice to the soldier: "All castaways/ await a boat with one seat... this boat comes rarely/ for some, not at all... don't let go of your oar/ for those who've lost their boat/ will hide their eyes and lie/ and say/ life's better ashore."

And how was Iglesia's own creative 'boat' launched? He thinks at length before answering.

"I started off knowing vague emotional states at various points of the plot," he explains, "I knew what a certain character would be thinking at one point – what a particular moment needed to be."

Thus the piece was written, he says, "in chunks," with the plot gradually becoming apparent and aligning itself into seven short scenes interspersed with choral interludes. He remembers the writing process as a remarkably relaxed one – if there were tortuous nights of burning the midnight oil, he doesn't let on. Many of the ideas came "while riding the train to work" at his internship at the San Francisco Opera House, and the writing was done in daily 2 - 3 hour bursts, or "when I was 'moved,'" he grins with mock melodrama.

His next challenge is to stage the piece here at Princeton; no small task, he says, given the difficulties of "working outside of an established campus group." There is the question of finding funding, a venue, musicians (about 30) and, of course, the five doomed principle characters. Until all that is resolved, the summer opus lies buried somewhere amidst the books and bottles of this writer's den. "The score takes up all of a one-and-a-half inch binder," notes Iglesia with quiet pride, "and it's heavy."