Saturday, February 22, 2025

Venezia - Belisario - Gaetano Donizetti - 1836
















Belisarius by Jacques-Louis David ( 1781 )


Belisario is a tragedia lirica (lyric tragedy) in three acts composed by Gaetano Donizetti to a libretto by Salvatore Cammarano. The text was based on an adaptation by Luigi Marchionni of a drama by the German playwright Eduard von Schenk.

Cammarano — one of the most important librettists of the 19th century — wrote around forty libretti. His collaborations with Donizetti include Lucia di Lammermoor, Roberto Devereux, and Poliuto. For Verdi, he would later write Il trovatore and Luisa Miller. His gift for high Romantic drama is clearly evident in Belisario, even if the opera’s structure has sometimes been criticized for dramatic unevenness.

The opera followed closely after Lucia di Lammermoor (1835) and Maria Stuarda (1835). While those two works have remained firmly in the repertory, Belisario gradually became a rarity.
















Premiere

Belisario premiered at Teatro La Fenice in Venice on 4 February 1836.

The premiere was a resounding success. Contemporary critics praised the work enthusiastically. One review in La Gazzetta privilegiata proclaimed:

“A new masterwork has been added to Italian music… Belisario not only pleased and delighted, but also conquered, enflamed and ravished the full auditorium.”

Despite this early triumph, Donizetti himself later acknowledged that the opera did not reach the artistic height of Lucia di Lammermoor. He felt that the dramatic weaknesses of the plot limited its ultimate impact.


Premiere Cast (4 February 1836)

The original cast assembled at La Fenice was distinguished:

  • Antonina (Belisario’s wife) – Soprano

  • Irene (their daughter) – Mezzo-soprano
    Antonietta Vial

  • Belisario (General of the Byzantine army) – Baritone
    Celestino Salvatori

  • Giustiniano (Emperor of the Orient) – Bass
    Saverio Giorgi

  • Alamiro (a prisoner of Belisario) – Tenor
    Ignazio Marini

Carolina Ungher was particularly important to Donizetti. So impressed was he with her artistry that he created the role of Antonina specifically for her. Two years later, he would also compose the title role of Maria de Rudenz for her, again at La Fenice.


Subject and Plot

The opera is loosely based on the historical figure Belisarius, the great 6th-century general of the Byzantine Empire under Emperor Justinian I.

However, the story takes considerable dramatic liberties. The plot centers on betrayal, false accusation, paternal tragedy, and eventual reconciliation:

  • Antonina, convinced (incorrectly) that her husband Belisario ordered the death of their infant son years earlier, seeks revenge.

  • Through intrigue and false testimony, Belisario is accused of treason.

  • He is blinded and exiled.

  • Their daughter Irene remains devoted to him.

  • Alamiro, initially presented as a prisoner, ultimately turns out to be the long-lost son.

  • The opera concludes with belated recognition and reconciliation — but too late to prevent tragedy.

The themes of injustice, paternal suffering, and redemption echo other 19th-century operatic subjects, and one can sense dramatic elements that anticipate Verdi.


19th-Century Reception

After its Venetian success, Belisario spread rapidly. During the 19th century, it was staged in 31 cities across Europe and the Americas.

Notable early performances include:

  • London – 1 April 1837

  • Philadelphia – 29 July 1843

  • New York – 14 February 1844

Its popularity endured for several decades. However, by the end of the century the opera had faded from the repertory. After a performance in Koblenz in 1899, it virtually disappeared.


20th- and 21st-Century Revivals

The revival of interest in Donizetti’s lesser-known works during the 20th century brought Belisario back to life.

Important modern revivals include:

  • 1969 – Teatro La Fenice

  • 1970 – Bergamo

  • 1972 – London

  • 1973 – Naples

  • 1981 – Buenos Aires

  • 1990 – Rutgers University (New Jersey)

Among the most celebrated interpreters of Antonina in modern times was the Turkish soprano Leyla Gencer, whose performances were instrumental in restoring attention to the opera. The baritone Giuseppe Taddei also contributed significantly to its rediscovery.

In 2010, the opera was performed by Buenos Aires Lírica. In February 2011, a concert performance at Queen Elizabeth Hall in London featured soprano Nelly Miricioiu under the baton of Richard Bonynge.

In 2012, the opera received a new production at the Teatro Donizetti as part of the Donizetti Festival, using the critical edition. That same year, the BBC Symphony Orchestra performed it in concert in London with soprano Joyce El-Khoury and baritone Nicola Alaimo. This cast recorded the opera for Opera Rara, providing a high-quality studio reference.

Despite these efforts, statistics from Operabase confirm that Belisario remains rarely staged in modern seasons.


Musical Characteristics

Musically, Belisario belongs firmly to Donizetti’s mature bel canto period. The score contains:

  • Noble baritone writing for the title role

  • Dramatically intense soprano scenes for Antonina

  • Lyrical and filial tenderness in Irene’s music

  • Large ensembles and concertati typical of the period

The baritone role is especially noteworthy. It anticipates the strong, morally complex Verdi baritone — one reason the opera is of particular interest in the evolution of Italian Romantic opera.

While critics have sometimes faulted the libretto’s structure, many agree that Donizetti’s melodic inspiration remains abundant, especially in the great scenes of paternal suffering.


Gaetano Donizetti


Belisario stands as one of Donizetti’s most intriguing neglected operas — admired in its day, forgotten for decades, and revived thanks to devoted artists and specialist labels.

It may not have the flawless dramatic architecture of Lucia di Lammermoor, but it contains powerful music, a commanding baritone role, and moments of genuine emotional depth. For lovers of bel canto rarities, it is not merely a curiosity — it is a work of real beauty and historical importance.

If you’ve never seen it staged live, you are in excellent company. But thanks to recordings — especially the Opera Rara edition — we can rediscover this unjustly overlooked jewel and appreciate it on its own noble terms.

There are operas that blaze across the centuries like comets, and others that glow more quietly — waiting for patient listeners to rediscover their light. Belisario belongs to the latter. Among the many jewels created by Gaetano Donizetti, it remains one of the most noble and unjustly forgotten.

Yet its birth was anything but obscure.


A Night of Fire and Glory in Venice

On the evening of 4 February 1836, the chandeliers of Teatro La Fenice shimmered above a glittering audience. Venice, suspended between water and sky, was wrapped in winter mist; gondolas rocked gently along the canals, and the great opera house — already famed for its elegance and acoustics — glowed like a palace of music.

La Fenice, “The Phoenix,” had risen from fire more than once, and even today it remains one of the most beautiful theatres in the world — a sanctuary of gold leaf, velvet, and whispered expectation. On that night in 1836, it witnessed the premiere of a new opera: Belisario.

Donizetti was at the height of his creative powers. Only months earlier, he had conquered Europe with Lucia di Lammermoor. Now he returned to Venice with a work of darker hue, shaped not by romantic madness but by injustice, betrayal, and paternal suffering.

The libretto was by Salvatore Cammarano, one of the great poets of Italian opera. Cammarano, who would later give Verdi Il trovatore and Luisa Miller, and Donizetti Roberto Devereux and Poliuto, had already demonstrated his genius for high Romantic tragedy. For Belisario, he drew upon an adaptation of a drama by Eduard von Schenk, transforming historical material into operatic passion.

The story was loosely based on the legendary 6th-century Byzantine general Belisarius — hero, exile, and victim of cruel fate.

When the curtain rose, Venice listened.



The First Voices of Belisario

The premiere cast assembled at La Fenice was distinguished and carefully chosen:

  • Belisario, General of the Byzantine army — Baritone
    Celestino Salvatori

  • Antonina, his wife — Soprano
    Carolina Ungher

  • Irene, their daughter — Mezzo-soprano
    Antonietta Vial

  • Giustiniano, Emperor of the Orient — Bass
    Saverio Giorgi

  • Alamiro, a young prisoner — Tenor
    Ignazio Marini

At the heart of the evening stood Carolina Ungher. Donizetti admired her deeply and wrote the role of Antonina specifically for her. Her voice — dramatic, flexible, capable of both fury and remorse — shaped the character from the very first note. So impressed was the composer that he would later create another major role for her, the title character in Maria de Rudenz, also premiered at La Fenice.

The audience that night responded with fervor. Contemporary critics spoke of triumph. One review declared that a new masterpiece had been added to Italian music, and that the opera had not merely pleased but conquered the entire auditorium. Applause resounded beneath the painted ceiling; Venice had embraced its new tragedy.


A Story of Love, Blindness, and Recognition

The drama of Belisario unfolds with almost Shakespearean intensity.

Belisario, victorious general of the Byzantine Empire, stands at the height of glory. Yet within his own home, suspicion festers. His wife Antonina believes that years earlier he ordered the death of their infant son. Consumed by grief and convinced of his cruelty, she turns against him.

Through intrigue and false accusation, Belisario is charged with treason before the Emperor Giustiniano. Stripped of honor, condemned unjustly, he is blinded — one of the most harrowing moments in bel canto opera — and sent into exile.

Only Irene, his devoted daughter, remains faithful to him. She becomes his guide, his comfort, his living conscience.

Meanwhile, Alamiro — a young prisoner taken under Belisario’s protection — gradually emerges as more than he seems. In one of opera’s most moving recognitions, he is revealed to be the lost son, believed murdered long ago.

But revelation comes too late to restore what injustice has destroyed. Reconciliation is achieved, yet tragedy leaves its mark. The opera closes not in easy triumph but in a noble, wounded dignity.


From Triumph to Oblivion

After its Venetian success, Belisario traveled widely. Throughout the 19th century it was performed in 31 cities across Europe and the Americas. London heard it in 1837; Philadelphia in 1843; New York in 1844. For decades it remained part of the international repertory.

And yet, gradually, tastes shifted. Donizetti’s own judgment was sober: he recognized that Belisario, for all its power, did not equal the dramatic perfection of Lucia di Lammermoor. Critics later observed that had he poured into it music of the same consistently inspired caliber as Lucia, its structural weaknesses might have mattered less.

By the end of the century, it disappeared. After a performance in Koblenz in 1899, silence fell.


Resurrection in the 20th Century

Like the theatre of its birth, Belisario would rise again.

In 1969 it returned to Teatro La Fenice, where it had first triumphed. Revivals followed in Bergamo, London, Naples, Buenos Aires, and even at Rutgers University in New Jersey.

Among its champions, the luminous Turkish soprano Leyla Gencer stands pre-eminent. Her passionate advocacy restored Antonina to the stage and revealed the opera’s dramatic depth to a new generation. The great Italian baritone Giuseppe Taddei also contributed to its revival.

In the 21st century, further performances — including a concert in London under Richard Bonynge and a critically significant production at the Teatro Donizetti — renewed interest. The BBC Symphony Orchestra presented a concert performance in 2012 with Joyce El-Khoury and Nicola Alaimo, later recorded for Opera Rara, giving the work a modern studio monument.

Yet even today, it remains rarely staged — a precious rarity rather than a repertory staple.


The Music: Noble and Wounded

Musically, Belisario offers treasures for those willing to listen.

The title role is one of the great early Romantic baritone creations — noble, introspective, wounded. It foreshadows the psychological depth that Verdi would later explore. Antonina’s music ranges from fiery accusation to broken remorse. Irene embodies filial devotion in lyrical, tender phrases. The ensembles rise with the grandeur typical of Donizetti’s mature style.

There are pages of genuine inspiration — moments when melody seems to suspend time. And perhaps that is the true heart of Belisario: not perfection, but humanity.


La Fenice and the Echo of 1836

To imagine that premiere at La Fenice is to glimpse a moment when Venice breathed as one with the music. The gold balconies, the flicker of candlelight, the rustle of silk gowns, the rising murmur before the overture — all of it forming the cradle of a new tragedy.

Even today, when one enters La Fenice, restored again from fire and loss, it is easy to imagine Donizetti standing in a stage box, listening to his music soar upward into the painted heavens.

Belisario may not be performed often. You may never have seen it live — and few have. But in its pages lives a profound meditation on honor, blindness, forgiveness, and paternal love. It is an opera that waits patiently, like its hero in exile, for audiences willing to hear its noble voice once more.

And perhaps that very rarity makes it all the more precious.



Tuesday, February 18, 2025

Denver - Landmarks of Denver, Colorado

 













Denver, the capital and largest city of Colorado, stands as one of the most architecturally and historically significant urban centers in the American Mountain West. With a metropolitan population of approximately three million people, Denver combines modern urban development with deep historical roots. Its skyline, civic architecture, and public monuments together tell a powerful story about ambition, identity, politics, and transformation in the American West.

Among its most remarkable landmarks are the skyscraper 1801 California Street, the majestic Colorado State Capitol Building, and the evocative bronze sculpture The Closing of an Era. Each represents a different dimension of Denver’s development: economic power, democratic governance, and the cultural memory of westward expansion.


1801 California Street: A Symbol of Modern Ambition

1801 California Street is one of the defining features of Denver’s skyline. Completed in 1983, the skyscraper rises 709 feet (216 meters) and contains 53 floors. It is the second-tallest building in Denver and in the state of Colorado, standing just five feet shorter than Republic Plaza. Nationally, it ranks among the tallest buildings in the United States.

Architecturally, the building is an example of late-modernist high-rise design. Its brown concrete façade and stepped form create a striking silhouette against the Rocky Mountain horizon. The structure features four setbacks as it rises, a design choice that reduces wind load while adding visual interest. Its overall shape resembles two interlocked octagonal sections, creating a dynamic vertical presence that distinguishes it from simpler rectangular towers.

At one time, 1801 California Street was known for hosting some of the brightest high-rise signs in the world—reportedly even surpassing the illuminated skyscraper logos of Shanghai and Hong Kong. The building’s exterior gained additional recognition when it was used for exterior shots representing “Colbyco” in the television series Dynasty, further embedding it in popular culture.

More than just a tall structure, 1801 California Street symbolizes Denver’s economic growth during the late twentieth century, when the city expanded as a center of finance, energy, and regional corporate power.


The Colorado State Capitol: Democracy in Stone and Gold

The Colorado State Capitol, located at 200 East Colfax Avenue, is one of the most iconic civic buildings in the western United States. Serving as the home of the Colorado General Assembly and the offices of the Governor, Lieutenant Governor, and State Treasurer, the building stands at the symbolic and geographical heart of the state’s political life.

Designed by architect Elijah E. Myers and completed in November 1894, the Capitol was intentionally modeled after the United States Capitol. Constructed primarily from Colorado white granite, the building reflects the ambition of a young state eager to assert its importance within the Union.

One of its most distinctive features is its gold dome, covered in real gold leaf added in 1908 to commemorate the Colorado Gold Rush. The shimmering dome is visible from many points across the city and serves as a reminder of the mineral wealth that fueled Colorado’s early economic development.

The Capitol stands slightly elevated above downtown Denver at the beginning of the Capitol Hill district. Inside, the main entrance hall rises 180 feet to the interior of the dome—roughly the height of an 18-story building—creating a dramatic sense of space and grandeur.

Outside the west entrance lies one of Denver’s most famous markers: the engraved fifteenth step reading “One Mile Above Sea Level.” At 5,280 feet (1,609 meters), Denver proudly embraces its nickname as the “Mile High City.” Later resurveying identified the 13th step as the most accurate mile-high point, and an additional marker was installed there in 2003.

The building forms part of the Denver Civic Center and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It also became part of the Denver Civic Center National Historic Landmark District in 2012. Major safety renovations completed between 2001 and 2009—designed by Fentress Architects—carefully integrated modern security features while preserving the original nineteenth-century design.


The Closing of an Era: Art, Memory, and the American West

Perhaps the most emotionally complex of these landmarks is The Closing of an Era, the bronze sculpture installed on the east side of the Colorado State Capitol.

Created in 1893 by sculptor Preston Powers, son of the renowned neoclassical artist Hiram Powers, the statue depicts a Native American hunter standing over a dying bison. The composition is dramatic and symbolic: the hunter gazes downward as the once-mighty animal collapses beneath him. The scene is not triumphant but somber.

Originally created for the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago, the sculpture was later donated to the state of Colorado and placed on a granite base sourced from Cotopaxi in Fremont County. The work represents what nineteenth-century Americans perceived as the “end” of the traditional Indigenous way of life in Colorado and the broader West.

The title itself—The Closing of an Era—reflects a late nineteenth-century worldview shaped by Manifest Destiny, westward expansion, and the near-extinction of the American bison. By the 1890s, bison populations had been reduced from tens of millions to only a few hundred animals. Their destruction was not only ecological but also deeply tied to federal policies aimed at weakening Native American tribes who depended on the buffalo for food, clothing, tools, and spiritual practices.

The statue captures this historical turning point. The Native hunter is portrayed with dignity and strength, yet the imagery implies loss, finality, and irreversible change. It embodies the idea—popular at the time—that the frontier had closed and that Indigenous cultures were disappearing. Today, however, the meaning of the sculpture is more complex and sometimes controversial.

From a modern perspective, the statue invites reflection on colonization, displacement, and cultural survival. While it was originally intended to symbolize progress and transition, contemporary audiences may interpret it as a reminder of cultural resilience and historical injustice. The narrative that Indigenous life had “ended” is contradicted by the ongoing presence and cultural vitality of Native communities in Colorado and throughout North America.

Preston Powers even commissioned a poem from John Greenleaf Whittier to accompany the sculpture, further emphasizing its symbolic weight. The statue’s origins also reveal its promotional intent: real estate investors initially sought a dramatic monument to attract settlers to the Perry Park area. When that plan failed, members of the “Fortnightly Club,” including Mrs. E. M. Ashley and Eliza Routt, redirected the project to represent Colorado at the World’s Fair.

Thus, The Closing of an Era is not merely a sculpture but a historical document in bronze. It encapsulates late nineteenth-century attitudes toward Native Americans, westward expansion, and the myth of the American frontier. Standing in front of the Capitol, it creates a powerful contrast: a democratic government building representing the present and future of the state, and a monument symbolizing a past shaped by displacement and transformation.


Conclusion: A City Told Through Stone, Steel, and Bronze

Together, 1801 California Street, the Colorado State Capitol, and The Closing of an Era illustrate the layered identity of Denver. The skyscraper reflects economic ambition and modern growth. The Capitol embodies political authority, state pride, and civic tradition. The statue offers a solemn meditation on cultural change, loss, and historical memory.

Denver’s built environment is not merely decorative; it is narrative. Its skyline tells a story of aspiration. Its civic architecture speaks of governance and identity. Its monuments remind observers that progress often carries complex and painful histories.

In walking through Denver, one moves not only through space, but through time—across eras of gold rush optimism, frontier mythmaking, political development, and contemporary urban dynamism.



Wednesday, February 12, 2025

Moscow - Le Corsaire by Adolphe Adam






















Le Corsaire is one of the most fabulous ballets in the classical repertoire and unquestionably one of those endowed with the most impressive and sumptuous musical scores. Its music is exquisite, rich in color, drama, and melodic invention, making it a jewel of 19th-century ballet.

Le Corsaire is a ballet in three acts, five tableaux, and an epilogue, based on a libretto by Jules-Henry Vernoy de Saint-Georges, inspired by Lord Byron’s poem The Corsair (1814). The original music was composed by Adolphe Adam, though the score as it is performed today includes significant additions by other composers. The ballet was first created on 23 January 1856 at the Paris Opéra, with choreography by Joseph Mazilier. The principal roles were originated by Carolina Rosati as Médora and Domenico Segarelli as Conrad. The work remained in the repertoire for two years and was revived in 1867 for the Paris Universal Exposition.

During this revival, a grand Pas des fleurs was added in honor of the ballerina Adèle Grantzow, who danced Médora. The music for this new number was commissioned from Léo Delibes. Despite this success, Le Corsaire later fell into obscurity in France and was never again staged by the Paris Opéra.

The survival of the ballet is largely due to its transmission in Russia. On 24 January 1858, Jules Perrot presented Le Corsaire at the Imperial Bolshoi Kamenny Theatre in Saint Petersburg, adapting Mazilier’s version. Marius Petipa participated in this production both as a dancer and as Perrot’s assistant. In subsequent years, Petipa took charge of reviving and reshaping the ballet, continuing his work on it until the dawn of the 20th century.











One of Petipa’s most significant contributions was the expansion of Delibes’s Pas des fleurs into a large and lavish tableau known as Le Jardin animé, enriched with additional music. Through these Russian revivals—and thanks to the choreographic notations made during Petipa’s lifetime—the ballet was preserved. While it is now impossible to determine precisely how much of Mazilier’s original choreography survives, a substantial portion of Petipa’s work can be reliably reconstructed.

The celebrated Pas de deux (or Pas de trois in full productions) that is now inseparable from Le Corsaire owes most of its music to Riccardo Drigo, assembled from various works by Andrianov. Drigo composed the entrance adagio, the male variation, and the final coda, while the female variation is attributed to Baron Schell. From 1915 onward, this Pas de deux—with Drigo’s music and Andrianov’s choreography—achieved worldwide fame and was incorporated into nearly all subsequent productions, replacing an earlier Pas de deux composed by Drigo in 1887.

Le Corsaire was first staged in Russia for the Imperial Ballet of Saint Petersburg by Jules Perrot, who served as Premier Maître de Ballet of the Imperial Theatres from 1849 to 1858. The premiere took place on 24 January (12 January O.S.) 1858, with Ekaterina Friedbürg as Médora and the young Marius Petipa dancing Conrad. For this production, Petipa assisted Perrot in rehearsals and revised several key dances.

Petipa’s final and most important revival premiered on 25 January (13 January O.S.) 1899 at the Imperial Mariinsky Theatre. This production was mounted especially for the benefit performance of Pierina Legnani, Prima ballerina assoluta of the Imperial Theatres. Olga Preobrajenskaya danced the role of Gulnare, and Pavel Gerdt appeared as Conrad.

Among modern recordings, the complete score performed by the English Chamber Orchestra under the direction of Richard Bonynge (Decca, 1990, 2 CDs) is widely regarded as the finest available today—a true treasure, frequently listened to and deeply cherished by ballet and music lovers alike.


















Le Corsaire à Moscou : une histoire de transmissions et de métamorphoses

L’histoire de Le Corsaire à Moscou occupe une place essentielle dans la survie et l’évolution de ce ballet. Dès le XIXᵉ siècle, le Ballet du Théâtre Bolchoï impérial de Moscou joua un rôle déterminant dans la transmission et la transformation de l’œuvre, en dialogue constant avec la tradition pétersbourgeoise.

En mars 1858, Marius Petipa fut envoyé à Moscou afin de monter pour le Ballet du Théâtre Bolchoï impérial la version de Le Corsaire créée par Jules Perrot à Saint-Pétersbourg. Cette production s’inscrivit durablement au répertoire du théâtre, qui continua à la représenter régulièrement au fil des décennies, au travers de multiples reprises et adaptations. En 1888, Petipa supervisa personnellement la création d’une nouvelle production pour la troupe moscovite, laquelle connut un succès retentissant et confirma l’importance de son autorité chorégraphique dans la Russie impériale.

En 1894, le nouveau maître de ballet du Bolchoï, Ivan Clustine, présenta sa propre mise en scène de Le Corsaire, créée le 22 mars (9 mars, ancien style). Cette production suscita toutefois la controverse : Petipa affirma par la suite que Clustine avait largement plagié sa chorégraphie, notamment dans la célèbre scène du Jardin animé, l’un des tableaux les plus emblématiques du ballet.

Un tournant majeur survint le 25 janvier 1912 (12 janvier, ancien style), lorsque Alexandre Gorsky, alors Premier Maître de Ballet du Théâtre Bolchoï, présenta sa grande reprise de Le Corsaire. Les rôles principaux furent interprétés par Ekaterina Geltzer (Médora) et Vassili Tikhomirov (Conrad). Pour cette production, Gorsky entreprit une révision approfondie de la partition d’Adolphe Adam, enrichie d’un grand nombre d’interpolations musicales destinées à accompagner de nouvelles scènes, variations et divertissements.

Gorsky intégra des musiques de compositeurs aussi divers qu’Edvard Grieg, Anton Simon, Reinhold Glière, Karl Goldmark, Frédéric Chopin, Piotr Ilitch Tchaïkovski et Antonín Dvořák. Parmi les ajouts les plus remarquables figurait une scène de rêve sur un Nocturne de Chopin, dans laquelle Médora imagine son bien-aimé Conrad. Un autre épisode marquant fut l’introduction d’un divertissement pour esclaves turques, persanes et arabes lors de la scène du bazar à l’acte I. Malgré l’abondance de ces ajouts, Gorsky conserva également de nombreux pas et tableaux hérités des versions de Mazilier et de Petipa, créant ainsi une synthèse entre tradition et modernité.

La version de Gorsky demeura au répertoire du Théâtre Bolchoï jusqu’en 1927. Par la suite, bien que des extraits de Le Corsaire continuassent d’être fréquemment présentés, le ballet dans son intégralité ne fut plus repris à Moscou avant 1992, année où Konstantin Sergueïev en proposa une nouvelle production pour la compagnie.

Au début du XXIᵉ siècle, le Bolchoï renoua avec l’ambition historique du ballet en présentant, le 21 juin 2007, une reprise fastueuse de Le Corsaire, mise en scène par Iouri Bourlaka en collaboration avec le directeur artistique Alexeï Ratmansky. Cette production se distingua par son approche historiquement informée : Bourlaka s’appuya sur les notations chorégraphiques de la collection Sergueïev, ainsi que sur des documents conservés à la Bibliothèque nationale de France, au musée théâtral Bakhrushine et au Musée d’État du théâtre et de la musique de Saint-Pétersbourg.

Cette version, estimée à 1,5 million de dollars, devint la production de ballet la plus coûteuse jamais montée à ce jour. Elle confirma une fois encore le rôle central de Moscou — et du Théâtre Bolchoï — dans l’histoire, la préservation et la réinvention de Le Corsaire, ballet dont la richesse n’a cessé de se renouveler au fil des générations.





Thursday, February 6, 2025

New York - The Metropolitan Life Nort Building

In the heart of Manhattan, where Madison Avenue meets East 24th and 25th Streets, rises a massive structure that feels strangely unfinished — not because it lacks beauty, but because it was meant to become something far greater.

The Metropolitan Life North Building, known today as Eleven Madison, is not merely a large office block. It is the physical remnant of one of the boldest architectural ambitions in New York City’s history — a skyscraper that was once designed to rise one hundred stories into the sky and become the tallest building on Earth.

During the roaring 1920s, New York was gripped by a fever of vertical ambition. Steel towers were no longer just practical structures; they were declarations of power, optimism, and modernity. Corporations raced one another upward, each seeking to redefine the skyline and claim a place in history.


The image shows the skyscraper with only 28 floors, next to the completed Metropolitan Life Insurance Company Tower

Metropolitan Life Insurance Company envisioned something extraordinary — not just a tall building, but a monumental vertical city. Their new headquarters was planned as a 100-story tower crowned with dramatic setbacks, following the latest zoning laws while maximizing interior space. When complete, it would have welcomed more than 30,000 workers and visitors every single day.

The lower thirteen floors were to be linked by escalators — a radical concept for such a massive building at the time — while an immense system of elevators would carry people directly from the ground floor to the highest levels without sky lobbies. It was efficiency on a heroic scale.

And they didn’t build small.

From the very beginning, the foundation was designed to support a skyscraper unlike anything the world had ever seen. The base was colossal — wide, powerful, and almost fortress-like — because it was meant to bear the weight of one hundred floors of steel and stone. Elevator shafts were dug for a tower that reached far beyond what would ever be constructed, occupying enormous portions of the lower levels.

Even the roof was prepared for the future giant, fitted with sixteen electrical generators capable of powering the building independently for days — infrastructure sized for a vertical metropolis.

Everything pointed upward.

By November 1929, the final design was unveiled: a stepped tower of breathtaking height that would surpass the Empire State Building — which itself was still only a vision on paper. It would have reshaped Manhattan overnight.

And then history intervened.

The stock market crashed. The Great Depression swept across the nation with devastating force. Projects were halted, budgets vanished, and architectural dreams suddenly collided with economic reality.

The 100-story skyscraper was quietly reduced.

First revised. Then drastically scaled back.

In the end, only 28 to 30 floors were constructed.

The building rose in stages, its vast footprint broken into a polygonal form with multiple setbacks that softened its bulk while still leaving it immense by any standard. Though officially “completed,” it was in truth only the base of a giant that never arrived.

Inside, the building still carried the anatomy of a skyscraper meant for the clouds:
eight elevator banks, thirty elevators in total — absurdly excessive for a structure of just thirty floors, yet perfectly logical for the 100-story titan it was designed to serve.

It was a body built for greatness, forced to live at a fraction of its intended height.

Today, Eleven Madison still dominates its block with quiet authority. Standing beside it, you can feel the weight of unrealized ambition. Its broad shoulders seem to expect another seventy floors that never came. The oversized infrastructure whispers of crowds that were supposed to surge upward each morning toward offices in the sky.

It feels less like a finished building — and more like the pedestal of a vanished monument.

And one cannot help but imagine an alternate Manhattan.

Had the Metropolitan Life North Tower been completed, the skyline of the 1930s would have looked profoundly different. Before the Empire State Building pierced the heavens, before Midtown became a forest of steel spires, this colossal tower would have ruled the city — a solitary giant dominating the horizon.

It may have accelerated the skyscraper race.
It may have shifted the center of architectural ambition southward.
It may have changed how the world viewed New York as the capital of vertical modernity.

The city’s silhouette — now iconic — could have evolved around this single monumental presence.

But instead of the tallest building on Earth, history gave us something quieter and perhaps more poetic.

A dream frozen in mid-rise.

Eleven Madison stands today as a monument not to failure, but to ambition interrupted — a reminder that even in the city built on endless upward momentum, the forces of history can stop a tower halfway to the clouds.

It is the skyscraper that almost ruled the world.

And in its massive base, its surplus elevators, and its sky that was never reached, it tells one of New York’s most fascinating architectural “what ifs.”

En el corazón de Manhattan, donde Madison Avenue se cruza con las calles 24 y 25, se alza un coloso que parece incompleto… pero no derrotado. El Metropolitan Life North Building —hoy conocido como Eleven Madison— no es solo un edificio grande: es la huella visible de un sueño que quiso tocar el cielo.

En los años veinte, cuando Nueva York vivía su edad dorada de ambición vertical, la Metropolitan Life Insurance Company imaginó algo nunca visto: un rascacielos de 100 pisos, destinado a ser el más alto del mundo. Más alto incluso que el futuro Empire State. No sería solo una torre, sino una ciudad vertical capaz de recibir a 30.000 personas cada día, con escaleras mecánicas en los primeros trece niveles y una red de ascensores pensada para una altura casi inimaginable en su tiempo.

Y el proyecto empezó con fuerza.

La base se construyó como si ese gigante fuera inevitable: ancha, poderosa, mastodóntica. Bajo sus pies se excavaron los fosos de decenas de ascensores que subirían desde la planta baja hasta el piso 100, sin sky lobbies ni transbordos —un flujo humano continuo hacia las nubes. Incluso el techo se diseñó con generadores suficientes para alimentar durante días a una torre que aún no existía. Todo estaba preparado para un titán.

Pero entonces llegó 1929.

La Gran Depresión cayó sobre Nueva York como un apagón sobre un escenario brillante. La ambición se volvió prudencia, y el rascacielos de 100 pisos se redujo primero, y luego definitivamente, a poco menos de treinta. El edificio se levantó en etapas, con sus característicos retranqueos impuestos por las leyes urbanísticas de 1916, que terminaron dándole esa forma poderosa y escalonada que aún hoy impresiona.

Treinta pisos.
Solo una tercera parte del sueño.

Y, sin embargo, la infraestructura de un gigante quedó dentro: ocho bancos de ascensores, treinta elevadores en total, pensados para una torre que nunca llegó. Un cuerpo preparado para una altura que jamás alcanzó.

Hoy, cuando uno lo mira desde la calle, sigue pareciendo la base de algo mucho más grande. Como si el cielo hubiese sido reservado para una continuación que el tiempo no permitió. Es un edificio que no grita su historia, pero la susurra en cada muro ancho, en cada espacio sobredimensionado, en cada ascensor que parece esperar a miles de personas que nunca llegaron.

Y es inevitable preguntarse:

¿Qué habría pasado con el skyline de Manhattan si ese rascacielos hubiera sido completado?

Antes del Empire State, antes de que Midtown se llenara de agujas de acero, una sola torre monumental habría dominado la ciudad —un faro de piedra y ambición marcando una nueva era. Tal vez la carrera por tocar el cielo habría comenzado antes. Tal vez Nueva York se habría vuelto vertical aún más rápido. Tal vez la silueta que hoy conocemos sería completamente distinta.

Pero la historia eligió otra cosa.

En lugar del edificio más alto del mundo, nos dejó un gigante contenido. Un monumento a los sueños interrumpidos. Una prueba de que incluso las ciudades más poderosas también conocen la fragilidad.

Eleven Madison no es un fracaso.
Es una cicatriz hermosa del pasado.

Un rascacielos que iba a rozar las nubes… y que terminó enseñándonos que la grandeza también puede existir en lo que nunca llegó a ser.

Si quieres, puedo convertir este texto en estilo documental, narración poética aún más intensa, o incluso en guion para video de arquitectura e historia urbana 

The history of tramway

 

Moscow

The history of the tramway — a journey through cities and time

A tramway — also known as a tram, streetcar, or trolley — is a form of urban rail transport that runs along tracks built into city streets. For more than two centuries, trams have helped people move through growing cities in a clean, efficient, and friendly way.

Although they may seem modern today, their story began long ago.


The earliest trams: rails before engines

The very first passenger tram system appeared in 1804 in Wales, with the Swansea and Mumbles Railway. At first, these early trams were pulled by horses.

Interestingly, tramways developed earlier in the United States than in Europe. This happened because American streets were often poorly paved, making horse-drawn buses uncomfortable and slow. Rails made travel smoother and easier.

One of the earliest recorded trams operated in Baltimore in 1828, and soon after, in 1832, New York opened what is considered the first true urban street railway along Bowery and Fourth Avenue.

By 1835, New Orleans launched a line that still exists today — the famous St. Charles Streetcar Line, one of the oldest continuously operating tram lines in the world.


🇪🇺 Trams arrive in Europe and the world

Europe followed soon after. The first European tramway opened in Paris in 1855, and quickly spread to cities like:

Berlin, London, Vienna, Budapest, Lisbon, Madrid, Barcelona, and Saint Petersburg.

Trams also expanded globally:

Santiago de Chile opened South America’s first tram in 1858
Sydney followed in 1860
Alexandria, Egypt in 1863
Jakarta (Batavia) in 1869

Soon, trams were connecting neighborhoods across every continent.


New technologies: cable cars and electric trams

Not all early trams used horses.

In the late 1800s, cable cars appeared — pulled by underground moving steel cables. San Francisco tested the first practical system in 1873, and cities like Chicago and Melbourne built massive cable networks.

Then came the greatest revolution: electric trams.

In 1875, inventor Fyodor Pirotsky tested the world’s first electric tram near Saint Petersburg.
By the 1880s and 1890s, electric streetcars spread rapidly across Europe and America, transforming urban transport forever.

Cities like Prague, Kyiv, Milan, Berlin, Vienna, Madrid, Barcelona, and many others adopted this cleaner, faster system.


The golden age of tramways

By the early 20th century, trams were the backbone of city transport.

Some networks became enormous:

• Paris once had over 1,000 km of tram lines
• Buenos Aires, Chicago, Berlin, London, and St. Petersburg had hundreds of kilometers of track
• Melbourne eventually became the largest tram system in the world — a title it still holds today

Trams shaped how cities grew, creating lively streets and connected neighborhoods.

 Decline — and rebirth

After World War II, many cities removed their tram systems, replacing them with buses and cars. Streets were redesigned for automobiles, and railways were seen as old-fashioned.

But something important was lost: clean transport, smooth rides, and human-friendly streets.

From the late 20th century onward, cities began to bring trams back — realizing their huge benefits:

✔ less pollution
✔ less traffic
✔ more passengers than buses
✔ quieter and smoother travel
✔ beautiful, green tracks in modern cities
✔ encouragement to leave cars at home

Today, tramways are symbols of sustainable urban life.


Trams today — moving cities into the future

Modern trams are fast, accessible, electric, and comfortable. They glide through city centers, connect to metro and train systems, and even help revive neighborhoods.

Many cities now design green corridors along tram tracks, planting grass and flowers that reduce noise and make streets more pleasant.

When trams appear, people naturally use cars less and enjoy the city more.

Networks in the world by route length as of 2016 are: Melbourne (256 km; 159 mi)Kyiv (231 km; 144 mi) Saint Petersburg (205.5 km; 127.7 mi) Cologne (194.8 km; 121.0 mi)Berlin (191.6 km; 119.1 mi) Moscow (183 km; 114 mi) Milan (181.8 km; 113.0 mi)Budapest (172 km; 107 mi)


 A transport system with soul

Trams are not just vehicles.
They are part of city life.

They carry workers in the morning, families in the afternoon, tourists discovering streets, and students heading home at night. They connect history with modern life — past with future.

From horse-drawn cars in the 1800s to today’s silent electric trains, tramways remain one of the most beautiful ways to move through a city.

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