Vanity Foyer

“Sweetie, it doesn't matter if someone else writes it first, I will write it better.” This phrase, heard for years with terms of endearment of varying degrees of viciousness, has always comforted me. In a field where there is a lot of content, but the news has to be invented, it is a glimmer of wisdom. On the other hand, the press office, even when it really was small, never dreamed of taking this as permission. Natalia would always come out first (and often would be first, to everyone's delight). Natalia Aspesi recently turned 95, two-thirds of her years marked by the endless December 7 risottos at La Scala, offset by the hundred-thousand-yolk crème caramels in Pesaro every August. She welcomed me into her bright home in a dress with large blue and white flowers and sat at her book-cluttered desk in front of the computer on which she is writing an article about Truman Capote. First, she shows me the catalogue of the exhibition on Henry VIII's wives at the National Portrait Gallery, stories of queens used, abused and killed, and asks me about Emma Dante, whom we had met together a few months before to talk about her colourful and carnal Rusalka. Elements of a female geography destined to surface again and again in conversation. But we are here to talk about her life at La Scala. When asked about her first time in the grand theatre, she replies that she remembers nothing, then quickly recounts.

“I used to come with a colleague from Il Giorno who would take me to his barcaccia seat. In his wallet, he kept a wrinkled photo of the girlfriend he adored and who of course, poor thing, had died. I at first hoped that maybe he would marry me, but then I was told he had other friends beyond the one who had died: so, hiding was inevitable. He still forced me to read the librettos and then he would quiz me. I saw Anna Bolena with Callas in Visconti's production; I will never forget her in that blue velvet dress. And then I cannot forget Norma, wonderful, with Simionato who to me looked old but was 45.”

PAOLO BESANA When did you start writing about La Scala?
NATALIA ASPESI I started at La Repubblica before it was founded. Scalfari came to Milan looking for collaborators, saw that I was vivacious and told me he was going to start this newspaper, but he didn't know if it would work or not. That was 1976 and it's still there. I covered La Scala from the time I started at Il Giorno. I used to be the witty one, the one who told the stupid stories, even styling my hair with curls. I used to have fun looking around and I would make up the pieces on the spot; I wasn't a part of that world. My mother was a schoolteacher, we had come out of the war, we were poor people, and I liked to speak ill of these beautiful, important people with titles, who, from the outside, seemed quite ridiculous. But I must also say that with La Scala, I was always confident because I didn't know anything, I didn't know the music or how the theatre worked. I was not used to beautiful things, so when I arrived, I also had an awe-struck perspective. I really had never been in the midst of so much beauty. There was Castelbarco, elegant and beautiful with her mother Wally Toscanini. It was a big world, and I was making fun of everyone a little bit, but I liked it. 

PB On your computer screen, you have a piece on Truman Capote. Writing about society, especially high society, have you had any role models?
NA Not really. You know, in journalism there were no women, and they treated us a bit like witches. At La Repubblica, I was the only one, and after seven months, I became a correspondent because they didn't want me in the editorial office, but later we all became friends because I pretended not to understand anything and humbly asked for advice, “since you know how to...” At Il Giorno there was Adele Cambria, who was very good. And then there was Camilla Cederna; I have so many memories of her, a genius. There was never anyone like her again.

PB While always pretending not to understand anything, you started with lifestyle and arrived at political commentary, and in between you also did interviews with artists. 
NA I remember Abbado, very informal. I used to go and interview him at his house. Muti was fantastic; I had done a piece jokingly treating him a little badly, and one day while having a coffee on via Sant'Andrea, I saw him coming straight at me and I thought, “Oh my God what have I written.” He hugged me, showering me with compliments, so much so that I had doubts he had even read it.

PB But your articles are usually read. Speaking of conductors, you have often written about Daniel Barenboim. 
NA A wonderful man. I was impressed by his desire for peace, his ability to go beyond his own side to build this wonderful orchestra in which Israelis and Palestinians play together. The desire to get things done instead of chatting and hurting each other. We need at least three such men: one in America, one in Europe and one in the Middle East. The Barenboim and Lissner years were important for La Scala. They even said that I was in love with Lissner. I have not been in love since the 19th century; however, I liked his idea of the function of music.

PB Natalia, how do you explain the Scale?
NA I have always come to collect interviews before and after. It used to be that in the newspapers, people who wrote about film or theatre or music were important; now they look at them and wonder what they want. Of course, if there is someone important maybe they talk, but it is La Scala that is important, that should be untouchable. And anyway, even the newspapers don't matter so much anymore. So, you must make an effort. It is no longer enough to talk about the big characters -- if there are any – you need to remember even less obvious stories that people are interested in, though. You need a more visceral look that notices detail and puts the reader in the mood. For example, Franco Pulcini, who has been your editorial director, is very good at this. But Donatella Brunazzi was also very good at telling the story of Callas from the point of view of contemporary art in the last exhibition at the Museum.

PB “The La Scala premiere, out in the square and inside in the foyers, made one think, in its inebriated, crammed, vain splendour, of the Sanremo Festival.” You wrote this about December 7, 1999, even with a certain fondness for Sanremo. How has the ritual changed over the decades?
NA This somewhat modest audience had arrived, with lots of ladies with bad lip jobs and breasts out. Boobs had already been shown and better by Marina Ripa di Meana had already shown breasts and better; a beautiful woman, she had done it in an intelligent way. But I was writing it as a nice thing for La Scala, which remains a unique and somewhat old-fashioned place. If I go to La Scala, I also expect to find beautiful people, who know why they are there.

PB In a piece on an important premiere of Dominique Meyer's superintendent years, that of Macbeth, you cited the interminable applause to President Mattarella, “the sparkling, colourful beauty of the enormous floral decorations donated by Giorgio Armani.” “The passion of conductor Chailly and director Livermore.” "Anna Netrebko's Lady Macbeth is astounding with the wickedness that women once knew how to be, and the witches too." Then concluded that the Premiere ”suddenly restored to us a sense of confidence in the city, the country and its future, and in ourselves, too.” So, the identification between La Scala and the city, La Scala and the country still holds.
NA Symbolically it does. You go to La Scala knowing that it is an important and festive thing. But if you think about it, there are other countries that love music. In Northern Europe, music education is more widespread, and people go to the theatre because of what happens on stage. Think also of Venezuela. And yes, opera was born here and was formed and grew over time. Italy has had great composers, very good performers, important directors, but music is not taught in schools. Much remains to be done.

As I leave Natalia to finish her piece on Capote, I think back to how many times the words “beauty” and “important” came up in conversation. The girl who knew nothing but understands everything has accustomed us to mixing thoughts on theatre and film, politics and custom, bringing even the naughtiness and mischief for which we all read her to an idea about the civic purpose of culture and music. This is an idea that Natalia continues to share through her great loves for Daniel Barenboim but also for Mario Martone or Emma Dante, and ultimately for this theatre. Then there's her demurely dissimulating mantra: “I care about the three or four people I love and being able to work; the rest can disappear.” Obviously.

Paolo Besana
Translation by Alexa Ahern