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How come classical audiences don't get to take home a piece of what they experienced?

By John Terauds on May 21, 2013

The Disney Concert Hall begs to be photographed, even when the performers are just setting up.
The Disney Concert Hall begs to be photographed, even when the performers are just setting up.

While scanning my Facebook news feed this morning, a shot of a friend taking a picture reminded me of how obsessive most of us are about capturing special little slices in time — usually with our still and/or video cameras. It’s for a mountain view (something few lenses can do justice to), a delicious appetiser (we can see it but not smell or taste), or Madonna (the blond speck on the left).

Part of my brain always says it’s futile; that the real treasure lies in our memory. And then I remember how memory plays tricks on even the finest minds.

So back to the obsessive picture- and video-taking, and tweeting and Facebook posting. The “I was there and I ate that” is proof to others, but, above all, to myself.

But in a world bursting with postable moments, what does a classical music concert or opera production offer the zealous chronicler?

Purists argue that asking an audience to put away all mobile devices and cameras forces everyone in the hall to respect the sanctity of the performance and enter into a special relationship with it unmediated by lenses or mobile keyboards. The beauty is in the moment, in the communion, in the suspension of everything connected to the world as we experience it outside the sound-blocking doors.

This is how I like to experience my music and my opera, and don’t want to have it any other way.

But I also remember being a (perhaps slightly fidgety?) kid who could not wait for recitalist A to finish or opera B to un-knot itself.

Now let’s put ourselves in the Converses of a 19-year-old who is about to come face to face not only with Brahms’ German Requiem but a 150-voice choir and an 87-member symphony orchestra for the first time.

It’s a very powerful, moving, foreign experience. Yet this audience member who shares most Wow! moments in her life instantly, is forced to sit on his hands and thoughts for a little more than an hour.

Think for a sec what an hour means on Twitter: the time between a person’s death and the whole world knowing about it.

Think about how foreign and straightjacketing this concert visit becomes in this context.

Many people have suggested (and a couple of classical concert presenters not in Toronto are trying this) setting aside a block of Tweet Seats.

I have a compromise suggestion to allow interested audience members to take a little something home while being able to sit in the location of their choosing, and without disturbing anyone else in the hall:

1. Let all ticketholders know that a professional will be taking shots as well as capturing a 60-second video of the performance.

2. Ask anyone who would like these to supply their email or text coordinates before the lights go down in 5 minutes.

3. Sent out the mementos during the final applause.

What do you think?

John Terauds

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