Cecily: Verdi is incredible. To wake up to, with coffee and crêpes and windows flung open and a white shirt. I am an adventurous traditionalist splaying my dreams out across a crisp mis en scène.
Nino: As long as you are not cheesy, it is fine with me.
Cecily: Cheesy would be Bach, not Verdi.
Nino: Shame on you! Bach is one of the most transcendental musicians on earth.
Cecily: Of course, but waking up in a white shirt to Bach seems a little trite, don’t you think?
Nino: We should make a list of the connections between white shirts and music.
Cecily: It would be indispensable to the modern man.
Nino: I have a crunchy one: a white shirt with Mahler sounds like a rough night with a young boy.
Cecily: Symphony number 1 is indeed perfect for a rough night with a shiny stripling. It is of course simply Frère Jacques in minor, with black shirts and red roses and amaretto. Prokofiev is to be consumed with galliano, orchids and millefeuille.
Nino: Excellent! An easy one: Beethoven’s 9th with a white shirt, a glass of milk and your compadrés. And a historical one: Wagner’s Walkürenritt with a green shirt and the invasion of Poland.
Cecily: Rachmaninoff’s violin concerto in G minor with Vienna coffee and a lace dress, in light rain with a useless sun parasol.
Nino: Berg violin concerto “à la mémoire d’un ange” would be better, if I may.
Cecily: That was quick, sir. But I disagree.
Nino: If I may, sir, this parrot IS dead. It is deceased. It has ceased to LIVE.
Cecily: Berg requires white, or at least cream, and I imagined the lace dress in black. Maybe I should have included more detail. The western wind is blowing fair, across the dark Aegean Sea. So take your dead parrot, sir, and raise me a whole sky, with a sea below and a shore within sight.
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