When I first thought of writing about Illuminata, my uncle had been a handful of ashes for more than a year. Cancer meandered north from his prostate and made lesions on his liver, then penetrated his beautiful brain. I imagined sending him this essay—I wanted to write it because I knew he would enjoy it. After all, we loved opera and we loved one another.  In opera, as in life, what we do not know will kill us. 

My uncle was a baritone with a robust, melodic voice; he sang for years in his church’s choir and in the Portland Opera’s chorus. One of his early performances was Aida. He loved to tell me how the creative director had somehow rented a real elephant to appear on stage, dragging the Ethiopian prisoners of war into Egypt in a massive fishnet. The best part of rehearsals, he said, was when the elephant took a huge shit halfway across the stage and then kept on walking, human cast members in tow.