The material presented here is largely based on and freely adapted from the author’s
previous and ongoing research (Zuccarini, 2006). This psychoanalytic exploration
of opera – primarily operas of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries – is not
intended to be a definitive study. Rather, it provides a springboard for a
number of theoretical considerations dealing with some aspects that characterise
the interplay between the various layers (narrative, music and singing) of this
multi-layered art form, with reference to Lacanian theory relating to the gaze
and, in particular, the voice as part-objects. In addition, it considers the resulting
erotic nature of the relationship between the vocal object of desire and the listener/audience,
which culminates in the jouissance, or extreme pleasure, of the ‘operatic
orgasm’ (Abel, 1996). It is perhaps the erotic nature of this relationship between
opera and the listener/audience that has ensured the continued health and
vitality of this art form, despite claims that opera is dead: “The very
historical connection between opera and psychoanalysis is thought provoking;
the moment of the birth of psychoanalysis (the beginning of the twentieth century)
is also generally perceived as the moment of opera's death" (Žižek and Dolar, 2002, p. vii).
The ‘Layers’ of Opera
Opera consists essentially
of three main elements, or ‘layers’, namely: narrative (the storyline and
dramatic action set out in the text of the libretto), music (the musical score played
by the orchestra) and singing (the vocal performance by the singers of the
lyrics in the libretto according to the musical score). The narrative element
in opera, as defined above, can be said to serve three basic functions.
Firstly, it fulfils a fundamental requirement of providing material for the
plot and dramatic action of the storyline. Secondly, it creates a space for
the development of an appropriate dramatic structure and forward progression.
It turns the story that is being told into something more than just a factual account,
which as such would provide little dramatic impact on the stage. Thirdly, and
perhaps most importantly, the way in which the narrative is put to use serves
to justify the presence of the orchestra and singers. The narrative provides a
carefully crafted framework that allows musical variation of climax and
anti-climax. But the narrative does even more than this: it justifies the operatic
voice itself. The dramatic structure is put to the service of the music and,
ultimately, to the voice.
However, as will be discussed later, the voice follows a trajectory both
because of the dramatic action and despite it. The voice ultimately transcends
the storyline, the visual elements and the music and follows its own trajectory
to its final destination, even despite itself. As Michel Poizat1 (1986/1992,
p. 145) states in his psychoanalytic approach to opera, based on the theory of
vocal jouissance in response to the soprano’s ‘cry’, “the voice does not
express the text – that is what theatre is for; the text expresses the voice.”
Poizat (ibid.) illustrates this by explaining that, although the dramatic logic
of the libretto may lead to the death of a female character (the soprano),
causing her to cry out before she dies, it is the logic of the developing vocal
jouissance that creates the dramatic conditions for the cry to occur, demanding
a death. This would explain how the vocal component of an opera can remain
unaffected even when the narrative structure of the storyline may appear to be
illogical, far-fetched or even absurd – which is the case in many operas.
Abel (1996, p. 113) addresses
this actual or perceived ‘weakness’ in operatic storylines by explaining that
the position of opera in modern times is with the cultural elite and not
potential revolutionaries. The political impact of storylines is largely lost
on modern audiences, and parallels missed, leaving apparently disjointed plots
in which the only readily appreciable elements that remain to impact us today
are sexuality and the voice itself. However, both of these elements are actually
removed from the text, from the action and even from the singer, as a
disembodied vocal object (Poizat, 1986/1992).
No matter how far-fetched the storyline may appear to be, the moments of dramatic
jouissance – as opposed to vocal jouissance – are mediated by the
voice. They are possible because of the voice. As such, they occur
both as a result of the dramatic development and despite it. These are the
cathartic moments of extreme pathos, in which we experience pleasure in
sorrow. The dramatic conditions are created by the “logic of vocal jouissance
[…] driving at the cry” (ibid., p. 145), as will be discussed later. Although
these moments provide a raison d’ętre for particular qualities in the
music and singing, they do not shape the singing as much as they are shaped
by the singing. When salient elements of the plot surface to produce a
climax in the narrative, and we experience the pathos to its fullest extent,
beyond the text and even the action being played out on stage, the dramatic jouissance
of theatre becomes subservient to the music and ultimately to the voice. For
operatic (i.e. vocal) jouissance can only be found in the voice (Abel,
1996, p. 46).
The essential elements of opera, as discussed throughout this exploration, are
summarised below in the figure of the Borromean rings (Figure 1).
This diagram
provides a two-dimensional illustration of the various ‘layers’ of opera and
their dynamic interactions. The ring on the left relates to the major dramatic
themes in the narrative, while the ring on the right relates to the singing,
and in particular to the soprano as the locus of the quest for vocal jouissance.
The overlap between these two upper rings relates to the music played by the
orchestra, which mediates the interaction between drama and singing towards
vocal jouissance. The lower ring, which overlaps both of the upper
rings, relates to the audience and the way it perceives and reacts to the
drama, music and singing, namely synaesthesia and ultimately (vocal) jouissance.
The overlapping areas of the lower ring relate to mediation of audience
perception: on the left to visual perception and on the right to auditory
perception. Visual perception includes the dramatic action on the stage, the
scenery, lighting, special effects, and so forth. The visual aspect is
indicated as reality in the context of dramatic fiction, as it refers to
tangible objects rather than the ethereal vocal object. Whereas auditory
perception includes the singers’ voices, in particular the soprano. This has
been indicated as fantasy, in that it represents the quest for the vocal
object, which is ethereal. The orchestral music provides mediation both for
the dramatic action and for the singing. The overlap between the auditory and
visual elements produces a synaesthetic effect on the side of the audience.
Lastly, the central area, where all three rings overlap, represents the vocal
object mediated by all of the other elements. This is the object of the quest
for vocal jouissance.
The Voice and the Gaze
Dolar (2006, pp. 30-31)
suggests that, by virtue of its focus, singing risks losing the voice by
transforming it into a fetish object, which as such becomes the opposite of the
voice as object a (the unattainable object cause of desire). However,
he points to an ambivalence in this concept, in that music both evokes the
voice as object and renders it less distinct by opening “the gap that cannot be
filled” (ibid.).
Not surprisingly, the
main focus of an opera audience lies in the gaze and, even more so, in the
voice – the two partial objects of desire that Lacan added to Freud’s list of lost
objects: breast, faeces and phallus (Salecl and Žižek, 1996, p. 90). These
objects of desire, particularly the voice in the form of vocal jouissance,
are central to an understanding of the dynamics of opera. Unlike spoken drama, opera
has additional levels and dynamics that need to be considered in order to gain
a thorough understanding of this art form both of itself and how, in turn, the
audience relates to it. The key elements of ‘the text expressing the voice’,
‘the voice’, ‘the cry’ and ‘vocal jouissance’ have already been
mentioned. Although
useful, the analysis of narrative themes and constructs in the storyline of the
libretto can only account for one of the multiple layers of opera which, for
the purposes of this exploration, is essentially secondary in its subservience
to the dynamics of vocal jouissance.
The same applies to
the visual elements of opera, such as the stage sets, effects and even the
singers themselves. Even though it is tempting to consider these visual
elements as appealing to an audience’s scopophilic side, they actually are or
become of secondary importance. It is paradoxical that the “dialogic” and
“multi-layered” (Tambling, 1996, p. 109) qualities of opera – in the sense that
this art form makes use of words and music, images and sound – disappear at the
moments of most intense emotion, or jouissance, experienced by the
listener. At these times, the signifying order can be said to fall away (Poizat,
1986/1992, p. 36). When the voice as object achieves the status of ‘pure cry’,
the visual order ceases to exist, albeit momentarily. This paradox is all the
more striking given the often lavish stage sets employed in the opera house.
However, the lavishness of the sets and the complexity of the storylines
perform the dual function of developing and adding to the dramatic interest and
pathos, while at the same time concealing the audience’s ultimate progression
towards the infinite void of vocal jouissance. Tambling (1996, p. 112)
remarks that opera as discourse draws its power from its “pleonastic utterances”,
with orchestral music supporting the narrative of the singing and acting. But
this statement undervalues somewhat the role of music in opera. The catalyst
of the dramatic and vocal elements in this elaborate mélange is the
music, which modulates the tempo and determines (despite itself and the plot)
the inevitable moment of non-return, in the form of vocal jouissance. Poizat
(1986/1992, pp. 32-34) explains that the lavishness and complexity of the mise-en-scčne
is an integral element, in that it serves to create a perspective leading to a
point of emptiness, by preventing a certain immediacy. As a result, those
parts of the action which are most significant can take place around this
point, the void around which art revolves, according to Lacan (1959-1960/1992,
p. 135). When an enraptured listener reaches the point of musical jouissance
mediated by the voice as object, they close their eyes to the stage apparatus
that has led their gaze to the point of infinity and terminates in the void,
that is, the point at which the void begins. Everything else up to that point
outside of or around the voice as object (which on account of it being a lost
object, is in itself a lack and thus a void) has contributed to the momentum,
the crescendo required to achieve the ‘pure cry’. Even the singer, Poizat (1986/1992,
p. 35) explains, almost becomes annihilated as a subject in order to achieve
pure voice.
The spectacle of the
visual elements (the stage set, lighting and effects) can be said to arouse the
desire in the gaze of the Other. It is like Salomé’s ‘Dance of the Seven
Veils’ which, through the gaze mediated by the music, conceals and then
gradually reveals and leads to the object of the listener’s desire. It is the
foreplay leading to the supreme moment of jouissance that results in the
spectators/listeners ‘losing their heads’, not literally like John the Baptist
in Salomé’s story, but in the sense of losing control of their emotions,
becoming one with the voice as incorporeal object, the lost ‘pure cry’,
fleeting in its evanescence like the pleasure of orgasm.
Barthes (1973/1975, p. 13)
claims that the response to art in general – and therefore to the singing voice
– involves sexual pleasure with climactic instances of jouissance. As
such, it defies rational judgment, so that the only judgment can be “that’s
it! And further still: that’s it for me!”
The culminating point
of vocal jouissance as ‘the cry’, or sometimes the ‘pure cry’ (as
explained below), is the interface between performer and spectator. In addition, it is the
point at which both performer and spectator together transcend and ultimately
transgress in their quest for jouissance.
As described by Salecl
and Žižek (1996, pp. 92-93), and discussed by the art critic Joannes Késenne (n. d.) in the context of
synaesthetic metaphor, when we enter the symbolic order, that is the order of
language, we lose the immediacy of our experiences. Voice is permanently separated
from the body and becomes autonomous, an evacuated object as soon as it is
spoken, a mute voice resonating in a void, where the tone of voice represents a
lost object of immediacy, a lament for a lost object. However, the ambiguous
nature of the lament for the lost object means that the resonance in the void
also serves to keep the voice as object at a safe distance. This is why we
derive pleasure from listening to music: so that we do not have to confront the
voice as object. When the music breaks down and becomes “a pure unarticulated
scream” (Salecl and Žižek, 1996, p. 93), at that point we encounter the voice
as object. In this way, Lacan explains the relationship between voice and
silence, where the resonating voice provides a background against which the
figure of silence becomes visible. This illustrates, in turn, the relationship
that exists between voice and image, where the voice points at the gap in the
field of the visible, at what cannot be seen by the gaze, so that “we hear
things because we cannot see everything” (ibid.).
The synaesthetic
experience of sound (the voice) surfacing in the visual field (the gaze) (Késenne, [n. d.]) has an interesting parallel
in opera. There is an overlap between our senses of vision (the stage set and
action) and hearing (the singers’ voices and the orchestra’s music), as well as
the paradox of the written word (the libretto) that is not spoken but sung. As
a result of the music and singing, the words become harder to understand and
the narrative detail is potentially harder to follow. In the ongoing interplay
between orchestra and singer, voice and meaning, a point is reached at which
the voice exists as a (lost) vocal object beyond meaning and is enjoyed for its
own sake amid vocal embellishment and ornamentation. An example of this might
be a soprano’s high C (C6, two octaves above middle C), Lacan’s ‘pure cry’ as
object of jouissance, the objet petit a, as discussed by Poizat (1986/1992, pp. 101-102) in relation to
opera. Davies (1994, p. 207) remarks that the expressiveness of music, and
therefore of singing, does not lie in a similarity with the speaking voice, but
rather with wordless sounds such as howls and groans, even though music
attempts to imitate vocal inflections.
In this respect,
music is capable of letting us hear what we cannot see, as “it renders directly
the drive of the life substance that words can only signify […] bypassing the
detour of meaning” (Salecl and Žižek, 1996, p. 94). By allowing us to ‘see
with our ears’, music mediates fantasy and daydreams (Késenne, [n. d.]). Interestingly enough, at
the culminating moments of opera, the singing voice loses its connection with
speech and language and becomes increasingly unintelligible as pure music until
it finally builds up to the point of the ‘pure cry’. At this point, the listener
experiences a melting away of everything else outside of the (soprano) voice,
including the singer’s body itself, and becomes lost in the voice. The
listener identifies with the voice as it becomes a vocal object and deep
emotion is aroused that can only find expression in a breathless sob signifying
absolute loss (Poizat, 1986/1992, p. 37).
Poizat (ibid., pp. 99-104)
attributes the intense pleasure derived from opera to the jouissance experienced
by the listener during the seemingly indescribable and unexplainable moments of
musical ecstasy produced by the voice. He does so in relation to Lacanian
theory concerning the voice and gaze as objects of a drive, which were
mentioned above. According to this theory, a preverbal baby who is dependent
on the Other for the satisfaction of his/her needs emits an empty cry in
reaction to a need or some displeasure or discomfort that s/he is experiencing.
This cry is then attributed meaning by the Other, who responds to the cry and
provides satisfaction in some form, based on the Other’s interpreted meaning.
This satisfaction, as well as the associated details of the situation, leave a
trace in the baby’s mind with a link to his/her cry. Prior to this attribution
of meaning, the baby’s cry was a ‘pure cry’ that had not entered the signifying
order of the Other. The Other can only experience the baby’s cry as a demand,
a ‘cry for’ something. As soon as meaning is attributed to the baby’s cry, the
‘purity’ of the cry is lost, as every subsequent cry will have signification as
speech. However, the initial jouissance experienced by the baby at
his/her first cry can never be repeated, it becomes lost, as the subsequent
situation and satisfaction provided by the Other will not match the initial
trace of the baby’s experience. In this way, the sound of the voice, the ‘pure
cry’ devoid of meaning, becomes a partial (lost) object when the baby enters
the realm of language through the desire of the Other, and as such becomes the
object of a drive in the (impossible) quest to recapture it.
The
‘Operatic Orgasm’
According to Freud (1905
or 1906/1942, p. 305), drama serves the purpose of arousing “‘sympathetic
suffering’” in order to “‘purge the emotions’” by opening up “sources of
pleasure or enjoyment in our emotional life”. In addition to providing an
outlet to discharge emotions through enjoyment, the affect that is aroused by
drama is accompanied by sexual excitation, which allows us to experience the
sensation that the potential of our psychical state has been raised.
In relation to the
erotic nature of an audience’s enjoyment of opera, Abel (1996, p. 86)
perceptively notes that operatic orgasms do not occur off-stage, as some plots
would have it, nor do they occur between the characters, despite gushing love
duets that would indicate as much, but rather they occur as part of the
performance and are experienced between the singers and the audience. He
affirms that the narrative of opera is punctuated by these orgasms. The
stimulation experienced by the audience becomes a narrative itself, often
replacing what may be perceived as an opera’s ‘weak’ storyline, by virtue of it
being far-fetched or hard to follow. It mirrors sexual intercourse, in which
there is foreplay, a development of tension and finally a climax, and the cycle
is then repeated. This additional “orgasmic musical narrative” is what holds
the interest of audiences, carrying them forward through the opera and allowing
them to follow the plot, however absurd or unintelligible it might be, and even
despite language barriers (ibid.).
This concept of forward
motion in the music, aiming towards a goal, can be considered “dissonance
striving to resolve in consonance” (Rose, 2004, p. 134). It is this sense of
forward motion inherent in music that is believed to convey affect (ibid.). By
extension, this movement in music reflects the variations in the listener’s
desire, where rhythm provides a recurring stimulation (ibid., p. 135). Freud (1924,
p. 160) proposed that sensations of pleasure and unpleasure are determined by
variations in the strength of rhythmic movement. Therefore, this motion in
music can be said to provide a framework that allows for an awareness of
feelings (Rose, 2004, p. 135). The silences in the music mould the sound to
create various depths in feeling, which are not necessarily understood right
away (ibid., p. 3). The rise and fall in pitch, the forward movement, the
crescendo, climax and anti-climax of music in general, and within the
narrative/musical/vocal multi-layered structure of opera in particular,
reinforce the sexual nature of the pleasure derived by opera-lovers.
In this respect, Abel
(1996, p. 91) remarks that the operatic orgasm parallels sexual intercourse
even in terms of the time that it takes (approximately seven to ten minutes):
from the foreplay of the prelude that creates musical tension, to the
development or crescendo and finally the climax, followed by a calm postlude.
However, Abel (ibid., p. 87) explains that although the operatic orgasmic
narrative claims to be universal, its linear structure deals exclusively with
the male orgasm as imposed on the world and on language by men, and is thus
reflected in fictional accounts of the world. Perhaps this would account for
Poizat’s (1986/1992, pp. 156-157) claim that, even though opera audiences
appear to consist of approximately equal numbers of males and females, the
extent of emotional and financial involvement is perhaps greater in men than women.
According to Abel
(1996, p. 111), opera produces a delimited space which allows for sexual
transgression to be portrayed, to the extent that this transgression actually
fuels opera and is inherent in the way the audience relates to it, given that
the operatic orgasm itself is like “an elaborate form of exhibitionistic group
sex” (ibid., p. 114). However, the sexual transgressions portrayed by opera
remain safely within the bounds of the stage. They are visible, but at the
same time concealed, and cannot impact real life. The audience has power over
the operatic characters by recognising their transgressions, yet at the same
time it can overlook that power temporarily and participate in the fantasy
(ibid., p. 125).
Conclusion
If one accepts the
theoretical proposition of the erotic nature of the pleasure derived by an
audience (and more specifically, as indicated above, predominantly by those
male members of the audience who experience the most intense emotional
involvement) from the whole operatic experience mediated by the libretto, the
stage set and effects, the orchestra, and the unmediated ‘pure cry’ of the
soprano’s voice, then at those times when the operatic orgasm occurs, it can be
argued, the aim of the audience’s desire has been achieved in identifying with
the voice as object. The soprano, as woman, both fills the lack and is the
locus of lack itself. Thus, being characterised by a lack herself, as Poizat (1986/1992, p. 150) explains, woman in
opera is the natural locus from which the quest begins for the vocal object
which, being a lost object, a missing object, is itself a lack. As such, woman
as voice becomes the cause of man’s desire in being able to fill the lack.
However, the quest to recover the vocal object is impossible, just as
impossible as man’s desire of being satisfied by woman as voice, and so the
quest becomes endless. If man’s desire were to be completely satisfied by
woman as voice, this would entail the death of his desire, and ultimately his own
death. Thus, woman as (pure) voice approaches the divine and is considered a diva
(ibid.). However, the impossibility of this desire being fully satisfied
creates a feeling of disappointment and yearning for more, a phallic jouissance,
as any satisfaction that can be achieved from the elusive vocal object is fleeting
(ibid., pp. 150-151).
Given
the erotic nature of the relationship that can be said to exist between
audience and opera, with the soprano’s voice as the ultimate object of desire –
and the fleeting nature of the jouissance that results from this
encounter – the quest for the lost vocal object and its jouissance
proves to be endless in its impossibility. As Poizat (1986/1992, p. 150) points out, opera meets all of the
requirements for the voice as object of jouissance. It is an
inaccessible lost object, ethereal, impossible to recover and thus prohibited;
it is the source of a quest that results from desire; and it is a deified
object, seductive, but potentially lethal (ibid.).
The constant quest for the elusive (female) vocal object of desire and the
resulting jouissance of the ‘pure cry’ is what drives the repetition
compulsion of the committed opera fan. Because of this, it is central to opera
and the most extreme followers, naturally enough, are men (ibid., pp. 156-157).
This endless quest would also account to some extent for the fact that, despite
a potentially vast repertory, opera houses can survive by repeatedly producing
the same ‘popular’ operas. Abel (1996, p. 86) believes that this confirms how
“we never tire of hearing that great fundamental narrative, the story of sexual
climax, especially when we ourselves get to participate in its enactment.”
