A group of students attended “Carmen” in Chicago in March.
Michael Bachmann | Collegian

When a friend told me that he was organizing a trip to see “Carmen” at the Lyric Opera of Chicago last semester, I jumped at the opportunity to attend. 

I had never been to the opera but, as an aspiring socialite, I knew it was something I had to experience to claim the mantle. 

The trip was planned in October for a show on March 22, which meant I would have had to wait five long months before reaching the height of culture. 

Thankfully, the opera gods ushered me to their temple much sooner than I had expected. While home in Connecticut, I ended up going to the Metropolitan Opera House twice — once over winter break and again over spring break, both times spontaneously. 

Including my recent trip to Chicago, I have now been to three operas in the last three months. I have become something of an opera regular and expert. 

The opera is the performing art that most resembles the epic. It is the human condition on steroids — a visceral drama in a language that you can’t understand unfolding in perfect clarity. 

Much like an epic, the opera reaches beyond the scope of a regular performance. I repeatedly found myself lost in its grandeur — the complex music, the dazzling sets, the gilded architecture. 

And yet, the opera is surprisingly simple. It opts for strength, not subtly. Solid tableaus rather than flashy dance sequences command the stage and actors commit to almost absurd displays of emotion that can be seen even from the nosebleeds. 

There is never any doubt who is in love with who or who is angry at who or is displaying any other emotion at any other character. 

Thanks to these bold choices, the opera is perfectly understandable. Although opera houses project the lyrics in English, you can allow yourself to get entirely swept up in the story without reading them. The music itself, not the lyrics, are what convey the emotions. 

Admittedly, my favorite part of the opera is the spectacle surrounding it. What happens in the audience is the perfect complement to what happens on stage. 

I quickly learned, after attending my first opera in khakis and a dress shirt, that one cannot merely go to the opera. Among floor-length gowns and three-piece suits, I might as well have been wearing my sweatpants.

Looking respectable is not enough at the opera. The epicness of such an art form demands an equally epic commitment from the audience. 

What would be out of place nearly anywhere else is at home at the opera — rows of Bentleys parked out front, champagne and cigarettes during intermission, elderly couples that look more like English aristocrats than city dwellers.

Each time I have attended the opera, I’ve appreciated the formality and extravagance more and more. 

My trip to Chicago in March was no different. 

I had never been to the city before, and as I stepped onto the sidewalk for the first time, I felt like I was transported to the 1950s. The art deco architecture and racketing L trains created a distinctly industrial glam. 

While we weren’t able to spend much time in the city before the performance began, somehow just eating deep-dish pizza in a suit made the day feel more grand. 

After getting back to Hillsdale at 3 a.m., I was exhausted, but the trip was worth it. The opera turned my weekday into an excursion of art and fellowship. It invited me to partake in its epic splendor.