Drawing the Curtain: Maurice Sendak’s Designs for Opera and Ballet

Showing at The Morgan Library and Museum from June 14 through October 6

Growing up with my brother, I was a proud co-owner of the shelf of books that stood against one of our rooms humbly painted walls. There were many classics that I loved; among them, Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree, Panda Bear, Panda Bear, What do you See? by Eric Carle, and Dr. Suess’ witty tongue twister, Fox in Socks, between other timeless gems. All of these books submerged me in a world of great storytelling and limitless, itinerant imagination that lives on greatly in my life now, serving as a honorable compass, as well as an endless source of inspiration in most any venture.

But there is one tale that stands out, like black on white, amongst my mixed reminiscence, which is the fantastical 1964 adventure of Where the Wild Things Are. The celebrated book from creative legend, Maurice Sendak, follows Max, a imaginative and fiery little boy who, after being sent to his room for mischievous play, goes on a long journey to find a home and a place where the wild things are.

Even though I (probably) didn’t read this story more than 5 times, it has been a lasting staple in the aesthetic path of many arts I’ve discovered over many years. And [this] also being my first introduction to the remarkable oeuvre of Sendak as a writer, illustrator, and designer, I can think of no finer way to further explore his expansive work than taking a visit to The Morgan Library and Museum. An exhibition titled Drawing the Curtain: Maurice Sendak’s Designs for Opera and Ballet, curated by Rachel Federman, gives an near endles, and newfound perspective of the late artist’ watercolors and sketches, yes, but pertaining to (you guessed it) his great contribution to theatre design. Like many other things that have yet to reach my knowledge, I had no idea of the extent to which Sendak was spread out in the creative world. But in this article, we’ll take a look at some of his greatest stage productions of varied work that brought him even further to the recognition and delight of audiences everywhere. So without further adieu, here we start:

Notice: The arrangement of the productions’ listings are not necessarily in chronological order; rather the organization the exhibit’s sub sections. And all artworks will be regarded as those of Maurice Sendak

The Magic Flute (1981)

This renowned classic from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart has been taken on by many talented and surprisingly apposite artists to design for, such as David Hockney, William Kentridge, and Jun Kaneko. Sendak joins these fascinating ranks, but for starters, a story summary.

The story of The Magic Flute follows Tamino, a young prince who, after being saved from a serpent, accepts a quest from helper, The Queen of the Night, to save and win the hand of her beautiful daughter, Princess Pamina, from the evil sorcerer, Sarastro. He embarks on a journey through a magical world to rescue the captive princess, with new “sidekick”, Pompegino, and must resist many a temptation along the beautiful, but treacherous path.

It is amazing to see someone’s creative process and sources of inspiration, in all of its awesome strides, as well as times of dallying (Sendak made little drawings he called ‘fantasy sketches’, where he would sit down to a piece of classical music— usually Mozart— and draw a little comic of what he felt the song embodied and told. You can see one here); though with never a moment wasted. Sendak was known to research extensively before commencing work on his projects, and often played heavily on the hints and impressions that lept off the pages and musical notes to create something true, but new at the same time (which I’ll return to briefly) .

A dedicated excitement and passion shines through every pristine election of aesthetic and thought as Sendak composes on paper what he thought was a fitting homage to Mozart, his creative idol of many decades. With this strong connection forged with the maestro’s music, from early childhood, Sendak’s concepts for the dream-like world leap off the page to tackle the humorous and moral aspects of the opera, as well as the struggle between the light and dark, and its effect on every character, good and bad.

Renowned theatre director, Frank Corsaro, was added to the project by Sendak to to work together in delivering these truths and visuals, in a collaborative relationship that would span many productions and decades.

The influences of ancient Egyptian art and architecture, as well as the profound stimuli lent by late 17th-century painter and poet, William Blake, beam bright in many scenes, where temples, statues, and ruins give beautiful, and, at seldom, haunting visuals to the story, where a fresh tale of discovery and bravery seems to wondrously travel over the memories of a 1000 years (it really is difficult to describe the degree of beauty and pleasure experienced within this curation of work just through mere words, and a few photos, so I recommend purchasing the gorgeous book from of this show [Drawing the Curtain: Maurice Sendak’s Designs for Opera and Ballet], which I may refer to again in this piece for your convenience).

The Love for Three Oranges (1982)

Originally composed by Sergei Prokofiev (also the creator of the classic children’s symphony Peter and the Wolf),The Love for Three Oranges follows a recent and profound melancholy experienced by (our main character) The Prince, which subsequently is beginning to flow to the rest of his kingdom, as he has fallen into this debilitating state of hypochondria caused by an over-indulgence of tragic poetry. Attempting to mend this condition, The King of Clubs arranges for events of comedy and jest to fulfill the only possible cure available to the prince. Laughter. Many failed attempts and acts of foolery pass the sullen demeanor of the prince, until finally Fata Morgana (a witch who secretly schemes to thwart plans for a stable kingdom) inadvertently causes the young royal to burst with laughter as she is knocked over by another subject, thus exposing her undergarments (I’d probably laugh too, in all fairness. Not about me…). Fata Morgana, in fury, lays a curse on the Prince, forcing him to obsess over “a love for three oranges”. This sends The Prince, and the royal advisor Truffaldino, on a quest to find the citrus trio, where they will encounter sorcerers, guardian creatures, and invisible plotters, all in the name of love.

The art behind this production joins the classic work of Sendak, which can be, but certainly isn’t, defined by being incredibly diverse, habitually whimsical, dark, and/or comedic to charming and delightful ends. And earning the status as the first American, alongside returning director, Frank Corsaro, invited to premiere a production at the Glyndebourne Festival Opera in June of 1982, he was depicted in this show to have been unable to fully connect with this narrative in particular. (And please forgive my memory, as I’m not able to remember the reason for this “incompatibility”) But as to the degree of which he did or didn’t connect with this tale, he certainly didn’t let that fact stop him, as he loved to answer the call for a good challenge.

So, setting off with the initiative to deliver something special and spectacular to the audience, he made a visit to The Morgan Library (just wait a moment…), a locale he often went to to gain inspiration and ideas for his designs (I love this guy). And in the search to find the pieces and artists that might speak to him, he took a great liking to the work of Giovanni Domenico Tiepolo, an Italian painter from the 1700s. [Tiepolo’s] humorous drafts and studies remarkably and curiously aligned with what Sendak might very well do, with character expression and positioning (?), I feel, to be very much ahead of its time.

The delightful sketches of characters and demons inspired by Tiepolo’s drunken Punchinello impressions, and Sendak’s storyboards of adventure and deception really make this show something worthwhile, and, after actually thinking about Three Oranges in a much deeper manner, I’m enjoying it more than could’ve imagined.

Where the Wild Things Are (1983)

Sendak would go on to design many anomalous renditions of some well known, as well as the precious ___productions of operas and plays (of which we will see some more of in a bit). And though understanding each project in a very different and profound way, I doubt any adaption was closer to his heart than with his return to his 1964 classic, Where the Wild Things Are. The story read by millions across the world, and regarded as his greatest success, he would adapt the characters in a physical form that stayed true to its essence. And even with a virtually built-in audience, the difficultly and process of such a task would be meticulous, but undoubtedly fun (which was probably one the bold reasonings for his love of theatre in the first place).

(To give a familiar, but "brief" synopsis) We follow the story of feisty Max, a boy who hungers to pursue anything and everything in sight, but, for now, is confined to his humble home, where he conquers his makeshift forts, and terrorizes the poor dog with instinct. More animal than boy, really, his mother sends him to his room after one, final, disrespectful growl. He angrily waits in his room, when all of a sudden (and as if by some planned event) his room begins to magically grow up into an open forest, where a boat with his name inscribed on its side rests in the near bay. He mounts the the small vessel, and sails for what seemed a day that grew into weeks, into months, maybe even into a year. He finally reaches shore, where he is met by a terrible throng of roaring and glaring creatures. Though they wouldn’t frighten for long as Max delivered a nasty scowl of his own. Amazed at his furious potency, the monsters crown him 'king of all the wild things’. They then set out on an untamed night of howling, climbing, and swinging in grand celebration.

Sendak often spoke of the inspiration his family provided for his stories and beliefs. Growing up in a Polish-Jewish immigrant family in Brooklyn, he described life as being tough, with many relatives affected by the Holocaust, but also healthy as it taught him to imagine and make do with what was at his disposal. He spoke of the Wild Things as exaggerated impressions of his relatives (big noses, fierce personalities, etc.), and, further more, dubbed each creature with one of their Jewish names when it came to writing the play version of the tale (such as Tzippy, Ira, Moishe, and Bernard).

Making a few tweaks to stretch the story out to anything more than what was usually a ten minute reading, certain tangents were implemented to keep things smooth, but enganging for all (e.g. their wild party, the rumpus, becomes so crazed that one monster actually loses their head! Good addition for adventure I suppose).

An initial version of the opera premiered in Brussels in 1980, followed later by a revised production with a return to the Glyndebourne Festival Opera in Sussex. As he looked to find someone that would aid in bringing both uniformity and new atmosphere to the production, Sendak decided to bring on British composer Oliver Knussen to carry out this specific vision. As for the orchestral work and composition, I yet to watch it (but I’m excited). I have so much more I could say, but, alas, there is not enough time or room on these pages. I will finish by stating my excitement to watch the recording of this play, my honest enjoyment of this section of the exhibition (very personal and beautiful), and my recommendation to you of both of partaking in both of these experiences (Idea: Follow up on Spike Jonze’s cinematic adaption from 2009?).

The Nutcracker (1984)

Based on the beloved Christmas classic from E.T.A. Hoffman, and initially adapted into the ballet we all know and cherish today, by Russian composer, Pyotr Illyich Tchaikovsky, comes Sendak’s take on, The Nutcracker. Over a hundred years since its popularity announced itself in the world of art and music in 1892, its resounding success has led to a countless number of productions and renditions that have made their way to cinema, literature, and, most of all, families of all shapes and sizes (I guess that’s a little out of context), able to share in the pleasure of a symphonic and visual splendor for the ages.

In this edition though, we are met by sweet Clara as she is rudely awoken by a rat-entailing nightmare. The alarm soon dispersing, she prepares to receive guests, food, and gifts as the famed annual Christmas Eve party is on the verge of completion. Fast forward a bit (only for the tale’s vast familiarity), families are having a jolly old time, laughing and chatting as the children begin to receive their many presents from mysterious magician Drosselmeyer. Clara stumbles upon a beautiful nutcracker among the small mass of receivers, instantly taking a liking to it. But in a scheme of vexation, her younger brother snatches the small soldier away, accidentally breaking it in a craze. The crafty Drosselmeyer mends doll with a handkerchief, and the night goes on until the fill of enchanting entertainment, caroling, and good spirits soon reaches the night’s end. Clara attempts to sneak and retrieve the wooden figure from under the tree, when suddenly, as the clock strikes 12, the tree lit in the night begins grow, and the toys start coming to life. This thrusts young Clara into a dreamy evening adventure that involves rats, exotic dancers, and the discovery of young romance, I a slightly more mature take on her growth.

Being one of Maurice Sendak’s more renowned stage productions, it was pretty interesting to read about the undertaking of this surprisingly “flexible” tale. Another fun fact was of [Sendak’s] reluctance in approaching this story, when pitched by artistic director Kent Stowell; his reasoning being partly due to its repetitive telling, an alleged dislike for the ballet arts, and an accusation of being “too cutesy". According to Stowell though, Sendak began to open up more when he realized that they actually had a somewhat similar vision in mind; Stowell had the desire to bring a very different atmosphere to the infinity of the ballet, as Sendak could masterfully conceive visuals of light and the dark, the latter of which he always loved to utilize. Thus, with this understanding, they agreed to proceed with the project of great, exciting potential, which coincided with many other theatrical works (most of them in this article, he was simultaneously working on about 4-5 different productions at point!), yielding some fabulous concepts and designs; all great, though not all used as we see on display.

Sendak and Stowell would look past parts of Tchaikovsky’s adaption, often referring to the slightly darker manuscript from Hoffman, made in 1816 (which jumps to the recollection of few today), and replacing settings, such as the land of sweets, with a colorful, dry kingdom inspired Turkish culture (in this realm, the Pasha, uniquely, competes with the Nutcracker for Clara’s hand. Huh?). Another fun example, though planned, was cut from the production in the end; which was a tangential addendum mid-way through the original book titled The Story of the Hard Nut (Apologies for no further elaboration, but you can read all about it back there, bu also right here).

Throughout his career, and many wise sayings of insightful contempt, Sendak stated the belief held in his work that children are made happiest by the things that, as well as containing a sense of wonder and play, also carried some fears, and that the conquering of those worries in his stories made them all the more meaningful and deserving of use.

The acclaimed Sendak/Stowell production debuted with the Seattle-based dance company, Pacific Northwest Ballet, in 1983; recently completing a 32-year run in 2014. It was further made in to a Sendak picture book (in 1984), and (very luckily) received a live cinematic recording, which you can look further into here (wish this access was constant for the rest of these. Oh well…). I feel this to be a fantastic and distinct show for the versatility of Sendak, as well as the legacy of this dear story, and am more than delighted to add this holiday selection to my long, ever so long, list of things to watch.

The Cunning Little Vixen (1981)

Composed by Czech maestro, Leoš Janáček, in the early 1920s, The Cunning Little Vixen greatly contributes to the thorough scope of Sendak's career in stage design, as, at that point, he had been seemingly fulfilled in virtually everything he loved and pursued to convey in life (tragedy, comedy, nature, music, among other things); though he was certainly not limited to these things.

We are warmly greeted to this story with a scene of gleeful insects and woodland creatures dancing about. The local forester treads into the soft clearing, and decides to indulge a small nap. Meanwhile, a young vixen cub chases around a feisty frog, eventually leading its hunter to inadvertently leap into the lap of the slumbering worker. Startled, but then delighted at the surprise, he takes the small kit home as pet, without consent. Later, as the vixen begins to grow into a young adult, she feels she can no longer be confined to the borders of a mere yard, with only an old dachshund and chickens of increasing harassment for one’s company. So, finally deciding to chew through her rope, and killing the neighboring flock a chickens in a hasty and mighty rebellion, she escapes to the woods where she long has dreamt of return. And throughout, we watch as the peaceful realm of the woods, contrast the rather chaotic and greedy scope of man’s being in very different, but fascinating ways, in this tale of love, thievery, and death.

Janáček, considered one of the most important Czech composers, always seemed to be deeply affected and inspired by his personal life experiences, which he expressed through his many symphonies and operas. But in the case of the mass revelation that usually rose from a sudden death, or the new introduction, of a loved one, Janáček gained a new idea from a simple comic strip (by the same name), recurrently found in the local newspaper; a regular favorite of his wife's. The serialized tales, written by Rudolf Těsnohlídek and with illustrations from Stanislav Lolek, followed a crafty vixen and her dashing family adventures in the wild woods and such.

Janáček felt very in tune with this depiction of humor and nature in a story; having a lifelong infatuation with Mother Nature’s greatest works— sitting outside, observing animals, and, allegedly, calling out the birds of the sky to share the wisdom behind their sweet songs (according to…….Wikepedia) — he set out to implement all of his enthusiasm, and despair, and the redemption he so felt close with, and speak what was bursting from his heart. Sendak similarly related to the composer’s profound love of animals, as he loved to spectate the many interactions with each other and with their different environments. When the endless stream of people and their opinions, and the call of success seemed to vomit from every orifice of surrounding, (I like to think) he felt a peaceful ease with nature; an environment with which he had a mutual and immersive understanding (a reality that carried over to his 17th-century-made home/studio of 40 years in Ridgefield, Connecticut).

Reuniting with Frank Corsaro again for this project, Sendak conveyed this story with an approach that might be new, but one that was in the rounds of the oeuvre of work that previously dated, as well as the work that might follow, on all spectrums. Maurice pulled visual aid from the first interpreter of the story, [Stanislav] Lolek (the artist of the original comics), and also from renowned German painter, Caspar David Friedrich. If I’ve failed to describe any of the artworks on display, apologies. But as for this [production], I really enjoyed all of the anthropomorphic designs portraying birds, squirrels, frogs, and foxes. Sendak was very fond and articulate in his work that, for the most part, you never questioned what he said, or meant by what said, in words or on paper; you just accepted it as it was. This humorous and striking exhibition, portrays the labor behind the making of a tale that, at the heart, conveys, both, difficult and joyous truths of birth, loss, and the resolutive circle of life (hopes for something a little less cheesy).

So here we are; at the conclusion [of a show] of which, after a rather full scanning, I haven’t much to say that I haven’t already mentioned. Well, let’s see…. some things that come to mind are the incredible degree to which Sendak actually took insight from the painters and draftsmen of the past, as well as his family and friends; his ability to go completely away from a source’s material, and travel new grounds, while also adhering to the gist that attracted him in the first place; the ambidexterity used in the themes and worlds explored, and flexibility, certainly, when working alongside another in collaboration; these things, and many more, just strike me in such a curious way (and give a personal view of someone, you could say) that leaves me all the more fascinated, a little bit mournful at his passing (in 2012. A stroke at age 86), followed again by a jubilation for accessibility to his life’s work, and being able to share it with others like I’m doing now. And though I may have been a little heavy-handed on the ill-mannered appearance of our author subject, he was said to have been a very generous and respectful person, when not goaded or pigeon-holed, or something of the like. Everyday I am in awe of people who stray from the path of everyone else, and make a name for then selves through works, or sayings, or intelligent rebellion (that may, or may not, include Sendak in all of its description, but I certainly hold him in a high place of that sort).

Now (moving away from any repetition), I also wanted to, very quickly, state the relationship Sendak had with The Morgan. We know he paid many a visit when it came to working on a new project, or just for the sake of quiet appreciation. But what I wasn’t aware of was that, at the end of his life, Sendak imparted the bulk of his work, a bequest of over 900 pieces—sketches, watercolors, cardboard dioramas, etc.— to the museum. A token of gratitude, maybe, but a fine gesture indeed to the rest of the world, as we will continue to carry on his legacy and represent the man in his whole _____

SIDE NOTE: I enjoyed this show more than you can imagine, but, as a critic and an audience member (usually in film), whenever take that dive into anything, breaking it down, I always need to remind myself to not intellectualize everything, and just enjoy things as others would with an air of _____

I know I discussed the man a little more than his portfolio in theatre, specifically, but you all can receive a much more comprehensive view of this exhibition by purchasing its visual successor, the art book Drawing the Curtain: Maurice Sendak’s Designs for Opera and Ballet. In closing, I’m glad to have been introduced to Maurice Sendak’s other wonderful profession, and will forever regard the man as an idol and a mentor; that larger than life character in a world that seems to losing all of those honest talents and true identities ever so slowly (in the wake of many scandals, and all of that disappointment. Thank God for Bill Murray! There are still some out there).

This show closes October 6, 2019, and if you get the chance to see it, go see it. Thank you for enduring, (with little wear I hope), and below I’ve included The Morgan’s video presentation of the show. Have a great week all…… oh, and cheers!

All photos and artworks are a courtesy of:

The Morgan Library and Museum ©

The Maurice Sendak Foundation ©