New horizons

Today it was announced that on September 30^th, 2020, I will be taking early retirement from my role at Opera Holland Park.

 

Ernest Hemingway once said that 'retirement is the ugliest word in the language' and in recent months, as I contemplated my own, I have come to know what he meant. Even though it is merely a word to describe my departure from Opera Holland Park after thirty-one years, it does 'catch' a bit. Which brings me onto George Burns who said that 'retirement at sixty-five is ridiculous. When I was sixty-five I still had pimples.'  I still have metaphorical pimples and remain as childish as ever, so I'm sticking with George's philosophy. 

 

I'm not retiring in the conventional sense. I am retiring from Opera Holland Park, a formal, recognised conclusion of a life's work. It says 'my work here is done', not that my working life is. There are one or two big projects still in me. I am grateful to the board for allowing me to bring my involvement with the company to a close with an ornamental flourish that marks the end of an era, rather than any fizzling out, like a wet firework.

 

In truth, few people have been genuinely puzzled by my decision; everybody can appreciate that thirty-one years in any one place is a long time and my desire to march to a different beat hasn't raised too many eyebrows among those I told before today. There is still a curiosity that a person so intrinsically associated with one place should decide to leave it just as it flourishes and grows, but fewer people understand that for me, the greatest satisfaction will come from knowing that it can live fruitfully without me. Any theatrical season brings with it anxieties and trepidation, but one that repeats, as festivals do, bring with them a rhythm of life that becomes locked into one's psyche. I would like to change the metronomic time signature of my life.

 

Of course, I love what we do at OHP, and all that we have achieved, but there is a selfish desire to apply the lessons of thirty years to a wider spectrum of interests. Pressing the reset button is sometimes necessary, too. I have often written about how OHP is interwoven throughout most of my adult life, how I associate great moments of joy or grief with being here and especially with the music we have performed. In recent years, the grief – the real kind - has been present in equal measure to the joy, but that's life and I've changed as a consequence.

 

Anyway, the question I am often asked is 'what next?' That's the beauty of it; I don't yet know and I have nine months to work it out. I sometimes joke about wanting to find a shed on a Caribbean beach and whittle wood (I was only half joking and have enrolled on a woodworking course) but I intend to continue working full-time and I doubt it will be a job in a workshop making spice racks out of cheap pine. Shouting about the importance and value of culture will no doubt continue, but I might also pursue a creative route with music, writing (is there another book in me?) and I have an idea for a theatrical endeavour I might finally try to realise. 

 

The next nine months will probably feel a little peculiar, but there is much to be done in that time and transitions can be a lot of fun. It is above all else an opportunity for everybody in the company to bring their own ideas and energy to everything it does. This is especially relevant to the young professionals who work so hard for OHP; they have the chance to emerge and shine.

 

Inevitably, the next few months will be full of 'goodbyes' but more importantly, I think I'll be saying 'thank you' to a great many people who took the OHP project to heart and supported it – and will, I hope, continue to do so.