Harsh Reality

It's official. I am now a member of the Great Unwashed. No one ever accused me of being rich, cultured, discrete, or classy, (though I staunchly maintain that people who use the word "class" don't have any), but I always managed to stay just this side of White Trash. Sure I have a White Trash Barbeque every summer, but who dosn't? Yeah I went to a monster truck rally but it was just harmless experimentation and I'll never do it again. I'm not known for being subtle or ironed or polite or any of those things which are the hallmarks of the intellectual, but I usually have a few good qualities. If there is a trivia question regarding Baroque composers, recurring leitmotivs, or theatrical costuming, I know it. Who was that red-headed guy? It's Vivaldi, the red-headed priest who taught 14 year old peasant girls how to play the violin! What's that annoying tune? Why it's Chi il bel sogno di Doretta potè indovinar, and you'll be hearing that throughout all of La Rondine to describe Magda's feelings about "sentimental love" and what it means to a kept woman! Why is she wearing that hideous dress? Simple! Her costumer hates her guts!

So, along with my specialties I know how to dress for snooty parties (black, black, some more black, and a touch of the orient), eat strange cheeses, laugh at all the right bits of literary jokes, and talk a lot of trash about art and the artist's use of color and motion. AND, on top of that, I have my ace in the hole, my secret weapon. I'm an opera singer, and currently am under contract. So there. It's heartbreaking that all of this achievement will now go utterly to waste because I have officially succumbed to the allures of the the Lowest Common Denominator. I am addicted to a reality television show.

Horrifying, isn't it? And yet I can't stop myself. I dismissed the fans of 'Survivor' for years, and openly sneered at those who watched the endless (and increasingly tacky) spin-offs on Fox. Now all the artistic educated discerning voices in my head can't be heard becase the TV is constantly tuned to Bravo and the "Fab Five" commercials are too loud. I can't be bothered finishing "The Satanic Verses" by Salman Rushdie or complete the intricate embroider in the lining of a replica Benjamin Franklin coat because I'm too busy watching Santiago destroy his life. Yep, I watch PROJECT RUNWAY. I love it. My buddy Christopher (also a designer) comes over and we sit on the couch rapt and motionless until the episode is over. (Or at least until the commercials start up again.)

I like to think that I enjoy this show because it stimulates my creativity. And, while it's true that I lie in bed at night planning what I would make were I facing the design challenges the contestants do, I'm not all that certain that I only watch it for the clothes. I'v a sneaking suspicion that I watch it just to see the disaster. It's like a train wreck, with hair and reputations and opinions and (in Santiago's case) feathers flying. [see above photo. A Santiago ice skating dress. Tragic. And passe.] I feel very strongly about the design but more strongly about the personalities involved. Just so you know, I now hate the editor of Elle magazine, I really like Michael Kors, Heidi Klum is... a model, and Nick is who I want to win. He might not, but I want him to win anyway. Okay, top three are Nick and Daniel and Andre. But I still like Nick best, though Daniel has a good eye....

On the plus side PROJECT RUNWAY has given me some choice catchphrases. Last night when the blonde who has been described as having "that long marshmellow body what walks like a piece of wood" said "Tonight I'm going to model really hard." It still makes me laugh.

Anyway, on Wednesday night I have opera rehearsal. I'm in the chorus of The Magic Flute, the Utah Opera production that opens in March. And then, right after, I'm rushing home to turn on Bravo and immerse myself in the tragico-comic world of high fashion and the people who make it.