Hidden on the edge of the bustling Covent
Garden piazza, there is an oversized, handle-less door that, understated and inconspicuous, blends into the side of Bow Street. A swipe of your pass and it swings open, admitting you into a box-like corridor. Painted a dark red, it is home to little
more than two lifts and a sorry-looking vending machine. Welcome to the innards
of the opera house: a multi-storeyed, colour-coded network of narrow corridors
that hug the main auditorium and historic front of house areas. A grid-like system, it should be
easy to navigate. In reality, it´s a labyrinth. On some floors, certain
corridors are inaccessible, and a handful of departments can only be reached by
one particular lift. Several staircases seem to bypass all floors and deposit you on
a street-level fire exit, while other corridors suddenly open onto lofty
terraces with views across London.
Since starting at the House in March, I’ve often found myself circuiting the building in search of a meeting room: I’ve come across glass cases displaying manuscripts from the 19th century and lingered on passages to listen to arias resonating from private rehearsal rooms; crossed workshops lined with elaborate wigs and passed studios dotted with ballerinas chatting while stretched out comfortably in the box splits. On these disorientated wanderings, though I struggle to re-trace my steps exactly each time, I have learnt to avoid ground level Yellow Core at all costs (choose the wrong door and you could unwittingly stumble onto the main stage) and have developed a preference for certain areas…
Since starting at the House in March, I’ve often found myself circuiting the building in search of a meeting room: I’ve come across glass cases displaying manuscripts from the 19th century and lingered on passages to listen to arias resonating from private rehearsal rooms; crossed workshops lined with elaborate wigs and passed studios dotted with ballerinas chatting while stretched out comfortably in the box splits. On these disorientated wanderings, though I struggle to re-trace my steps exactly each time, I have learnt to avoid ground level Yellow Core at all costs (choose the wrong door and you could unwittingly stumble onto the main stage) and have developed a preference for certain areas…
+2 is a particularly good floor to be lost on. The corridors overlook the enormous set-build area – a warehouse-like space big
enough for a house. Look left and who knows what you might see. Last week it
was the bloodied stump of a headless corpse, its dismembered limbs resting next
to a snowy white elk; the next window revealed two giant forearms with
claw-like hands, the pink muscles and sinews stretched taut over gleaming white
bone: just some of the props for Wagner’s Ring Cycle. In April, I looked
through the same windows and saw the entire city of Carthage – a towering Arabian metropolis of
golden sandstone (reinforced polystyrene). An enormous circular structure, it
was backed by a battle-torn Troy
– a tarnished edifice of board-planks and scaffolding (artistic paintwork): the
set for Berlioz’s Les Troyens.
Riding up and down in the lift can also be interesting,
particularly so in Blue Core. Doors open on +2 to reveal costume rails
heavily laden with elaborate period dress and posts stacked high with
sparkling, netted tutus; stop on +4 and you get a quick glimpse of the twinkling
mirrors and glass walls in the ballet studios. Interesting characters always
alight the lift when in Blue Core. Once, the Mad Hatter stepped in next
to me. His face daubed white, with dark eyebrows penciled in permanent
surprise, he wore bright white, furry breaches and a waistcoat. Another time
two baboons entered, both moaning about aching quad muscles from too much
monkey-based choreography.
The Props Department is one of my favourite destinations. A
light and airy workshop, it is hidden in the rooftops of the house (+6, access
via Blue Core lifts only). On entry, you are greeted by an ominous looking
black raven, its wings spread in mock flight. One of the only permanent
residents in the workshop, it oversees proceedings from atop the corner of a
heavily laden bookshelf. Though the team there works to a strict timetable on
tight deadlines, the workshop resembles an over-sized, junk shop that is
constantly accumulating new stock. Tables are cluttered with everything from
rubber kidneys and fake jewels to paintbrushes and blow-torches. From the back
corner, a disembodied baby’s head protrudes from a workbench; fashioned onto
the end of a light-stand and cocked sideways, it watches the work going on with
blank eyes. Last time I visited, two life-size plastic horses – one a vibrant
red, the other a canary yellow – occupied a corner of the workshop, standing alongside a morbid collection of entombed nuns and a rustic fruit wagon laden with gourds and impossibly conical heaps of
herbs and spices.
Needless to say, I have been late to quite a few meetings!
