Over the years, my objection to the opera press in general has rarely had to do with reviews of my own performances. What always upsets me about critics is their failure to report the shared sense of something so unusual happening that no one who witnesses a particular performance will ever forget it. I still don't know why critics dash out of the theater before observing an audience's reaction. Do they think the public doesn't know what's good or bad?... [There was] a performance by Itshak Perlman, Pinchas Zuckerman, and Isaac Stern in celebration of Stern's sixtieth birthday. Getting the world's three best violinists to play together was as momentous an event ... as putting together a pop concert with Stevie Wonder, Bruce Springsteen, and Barbra Streisand would be. The next day the reviews were fine, but none of the critics commented on the unique nature of the occasion or the extraordinary reaction of the audience.
I do believe criticism is necessary, but criticism is not a defined art form. It's just one person's opinion... A critic may have read more about opera than most of the other people in the audience, but that's about it. A critic's art also lies in their writing ability... critical writing that is boring is just as unacceptable to me as critical writing that's uninformed.
Both quotations from Beverly Sills' memoir entitled Beverly, by the singer and Lawrence Linderman.
I think it's really interesting to read things like this from one of the world's best-loved performers, someone that you cannot imagine ever got a really bad review. Certainly she would have, or at least productions she was involved with were reviewed badly; otherwise the second quotation would be odd coming from her. But I think her first point is even more pertinent at the moment.
It made me think about our experiences of music or of theatre, and how they can be coloured by "what we're listening out for". These days, in a bit of a vocal rut, I listen to singing with an extremely technical ear, and having had a sampling of many types of productions over the last few months, I watch with a director's eye. Thus, if the singing or production is not of relatively high quality, I have been known to tune out.
However, it's so important to me, and I remind myself of this all the time, not to forget that there may be other elements that make a performance special: the personnel involved (special collaborations? Debut? Farewell performance? Signature role?), the occasion (opening of La Scala? New production or commission?) or simply, personal reasons (first visit to Deustche Oper?) and those things are often much more important to your attitude going in, and therefore your experience, than the cut-and-dry, easily reviewed elements.
I'm of the opinion that if you decide you're not going to like it, you're not, and vice versa. Certain critics that write for the Toronto Star come to mind. But I find you're also in the position to decide how the audition or performance is going to go, too, and it can be a slippery slope if you've gotten into a negative cycle. As much as we should not take criticism from critics, colleagues, teachers, and directors to heart, it's pretty hard not to, and then it is useful to remember Beverly: It's only one person's opinion.
What it comes down to, in no particular order, is: audience reaction. personal bests. contribution, large or miniscule, to music history. Maybe. I mean, I cannot think what else could matter if you are doing your best, your audience is moved, and especially if our tradition benefits in some way from the occasion in which you participated.
It's been a hard, hard audition season for me. The criticism that I have received has been surprising, but consistent. Maybe that is the sign it should be taken to heart. I still have to be careful that I don't allow that criticism to define my conception of my artistry. After all, I know myself best, and I really know whether or not that's something that is under my control. And I wouldn't want Beverly to think I'd lost sight of the real reason we do this: to move people.
Bonjour, c'est moi.
- Danielle
- Your average Canadian soprano sallies forth into the big bad world of classical music in search of integrated, meaningful experiences as a performer and spectator. Currently in Baltimore, MD, pursuing a Masters degree in voice performance under the tutelage of Phyllis Bryn-Julson. Special interest in contemporary and experimental classical music, as well as interdisciplinary projects.
20 March 2010
18 March 2010
breaking on through
I was not exactly excited to sing in St Catharine's yesterday night. Mostly, it's because it's been a really long time since I put on a gown and sang Puccini - a year, to be exact. I haven't been feeling too great about my singing lately, either, which I'll go so far as to say is understandable after a very unsuccessful audition season and a nagging feeling that what I really need is to get back in the studio with a teacher who's willing to really kick my butt.
But it began well. It was a beautiful day. The drive west was spectacular, easy and in good company - I rode with Grenville, the violinist for the evening (which was in essence a sort of variety show, presented as entertainment at a wine tasting event for the clients of Investors Group of Niagara). We weren't sure what to expect from the event, having only been in contact via email with the presenter and the other acts.
I was pleasantly surprised. Also involved were Alchemy Unplugged, Mark Lalama of considerable and varied fame in his own right, and Elton Lammie. We had opera, popular Italian song, Beatles covers, original pop, remixes of Canon in D... and it was all gloriously mixed by an expert sound team resident to the venue, which was an enormous complex called Bethany Community Church.
That's right. I sang into a mic. And I sang to tracks.
It was my first Karaoke experience, and I can't say I was thrilled to be doing it. Principles aside, because certain things can't be avoided and I am all for entertainment value, my reticence had to do 100% with comfort level. I was afraid to sing with my full voice knowing it would be amplified, and had visions of horrible technical malfunctions, leaving me to sing a cappella, or worse, to someone else's track. I had never dealt with the prospect of an inflexible, conductorless orchestra - the recorded tempo was the tempo I was stuck with, whether it was the tempo I liked in my voice, and their interpretation of the music was the one I had to reconcile myself to, whether I thought there should be a breath here and a fermata there, or not. And if I needed an emergency breath, I'd better make up the time myself, because they sure weren't stopping for me. This, you can imagine, is a really frightening and uncomfortable experience if you are accustomed to things being the other way around. Orchestras normally follow soloists, and I am the soloist. How could this end well?
It ended well. It was a great exercise in listening. I pretended there was a conductor but that he was not looking at me, and I followed him as best I could. The monitor provided about as much orchestra in my ear as you can hear from the stage, and so overall, it approximated a performance within my realm of experience more than I could have imagined.
I was so thankful for the extremely warm reception we got, and the other artists did good business on their CD's. It's an idea I have been toying with, and the evening really drove home a point - audiences want to leave with more than a memory. They want to own their experience. I directed them to my website (which I am also overhauling), but music is not available for download there. Do I really expect them to continue to visit my Myspace page to listen to obscure 20th century music that I enjoy, and so do many of my colleagues, but has very little relevance to the audience that, like it or not, is much bigger and would rather hear me sing something they know?
Here is the impasse. I don't consider myself a crossover artist, though I sing musical theatre when I can and I enjoy doing this type of concert with other, non-classical musicians. I think my background as a classical artist is something I can bring to the table, and I want desperately to extend the audience for this music. But I have to remember that I am also an entertainer, and that my livelihood, my "life's blood", as Pavarotti (the legendary crossover artist - let's be honest - he was, at least a little) put it, is the audience. If they go away having been bored or alienated, I have failed. How to serve the music, and also serve the audience?
Perhaps a look at Pavarotti's ventures can begin to answer this question. I just finished reading the famous publicist Herbert Breslin's expose/bio on the great tenor. He tempered his concert repertoire with simple, moving popular song when he began to do arena concerts. O Sole Mio shared the stage with Nessun Dorma. It was in this way that his already considerable fame and his careful programming catapulted Nessun Dorma to nearly anthem status, and got it into the mainstream consciousness. Few people would consider that "modern classical music", but guess what -- it's 20th century opera. Yep. GO PAV.
So what if I made a little CD with some arias, Ave Maria, and some musical theatre, English art song, and maybe The Prayer? Who would crucify me? Certainly not last night's audience, and I bet I could sell a few copies besides to them. Have I compromised the value of those arias by juxtaposing them with "popera" and other music from popular genres? I don't think so; so long as I'm true to the style in every case, nothing is compromised. And that way, everyone's happy.
But it began well. It was a beautiful day. The drive west was spectacular, easy and in good company - I rode with Grenville, the violinist for the evening (which was in essence a sort of variety show, presented as entertainment at a wine tasting event for the clients of Investors Group of Niagara). We weren't sure what to expect from the event, having only been in contact via email with the presenter and the other acts.
I was pleasantly surprised. Also involved were Alchemy Unplugged, Mark Lalama of considerable and varied fame in his own right, and Elton Lammie. We had opera, popular Italian song, Beatles covers, original pop, remixes of Canon in D... and it was all gloriously mixed by an expert sound team resident to the venue, which was an enormous complex called Bethany Community Church.
That's right. I sang into a mic. And I sang to tracks.
It was my first Karaoke experience, and I can't say I was thrilled to be doing it. Principles aside, because certain things can't be avoided and I am all for entertainment value, my reticence had to do 100% with comfort level. I was afraid to sing with my full voice knowing it would be amplified, and had visions of horrible technical malfunctions, leaving me to sing a cappella, or worse, to someone else's track. I had never dealt with the prospect of an inflexible, conductorless orchestra - the recorded tempo was the tempo I was stuck with, whether it was the tempo I liked in my voice, and their interpretation of the music was the one I had to reconcile myself to, whether I thought there should be a breath here and a fermata there, or not. And if I needed an emergency breath, I'd better make up the time myself, because they sure weren't stopping for me. This, you can imagine, is a really frightening and uncomfortable experience if you are accustomed to things being the other way around. Orchestras normally follow soloists, and I am the soloist. How could this end well?
It ended well. It was a great exercise in listening. I pretended there was a conductor but that he was not looking at me, and I followed him as best I could. The monitor provided about as much orchestra in my ear as you can hear from the stage, and so overall, it approximated a performance within my realm of experience more than I could have imagined.
I was so thankful for the extremely warm reception we got, and the other artists did good business on their CD's. It's an idea I have been toying with, and the evening really drove home a point - audiences want to leave with more than a memory. They want to own their experience. I directed them to my website (which I am also overhauling), but music is not available for download there. Do I really expect them to continue to visit my Myspace page to listen to obscure 20th century music that I enjoy, and so do many of my colleagues, but has very little relevance to the audience that, like it or not, is much bigger and would rather hear me sing something they know?
Here is the impasse. I don't consider myself a crossover artist, though I sing musical theatre when I can and I enjoy doing this type of concert with other, non-classical musicians. I think my background as a classical artist is something I can bring to the table, and I want desperately to extend the audience for this music. But I have to remember that I am also an entertainer, and that my livelihood, my "life's blood", as Pavarotti (the legendary crossover artist - let's be honest - he was, at least a little) put it, is the audience. If they go away having been bored or alienated, I have failed. How to serve the music, and also serve the audience?
Perhaps a look at Pavarotti's ventures can begin to answer this question. I just finished reading the famous publicist Herbert Breslin's expose/bio on the great tenor. He tempered his concert repertoire with simple, moving popular song when he began to do arena concerts. O Sole Mio shared the stage with Nessun Dorma. It was in this way that his already considerable fame and his careful programming catapulted Nessun Dorma to nearly anthem status, and got it into the mainstream consciousness. Few people would consider that "modern classical music", but guess what -- it's 20th century opera. Yep. GO PAV.
So what if I made a little CD with some arias, Ave Maria, and some musical theatre, English art song, and maybe The Prayer? Who would crucify me? Certainly not last night's audience, and I bet I could sell a few copies besides to them. Have I compromised the value of those arias by juxtaposing them with "popera" and other music from popular genres? I don't think so; so long as I'm true to the style in every case, nothing is compromised. And that way, everyone's happy.
17 March 2010
15 March 2010
New outlets for opera?
Media, media, media.
To an artist, it means so many things. It can refer to our modes of expression -- visual media, electronic versus acoustic music -- or more readily, television, newspapers, radio, and all those other outlets that bring us publicity and exposure, criticism and accolades, and more recently, artistic possibilities. We've been creating for TV and radio for a long time. Now, with the youtube symphony orchestra behind us, it's easier to imagine creating art and music via web.
It's recently been brought to my attention that artists have begun to move in that direction with the help of the online alternative universe, Second Life. A band that I was researching appears to use Second Life to access audiences around the world, people that might not ever get the chance to come and hear them, or, for that matter, discover them. They take a line out of their real-life studio and basically create a webcast, which is not really a new idea because it's a lot like radio. In Second Life, the music that the community is hearing is being played by real people but also, simultaneously, their Second Life avatars, on a Second Life stage, and the audience is made up of the real people who are listening, and also their avatars. Two universes exist at once, and the venue is the Internet, so that the audience, which has bodies, unlike a radio audience, can be made up of people who are sitting in their living rooms in Cameroon, Egypt, Manitoba, and New Zealand, all at the same time. So it's a whole new level that is added to the performance, and it's mindblowing.
The implications are endless. Think of the possibilities. An entire company of operatic avatars simultaneously online to partake in a performance of Verdi's Requiem -- Jonas Kaufmann singing into his microphone from Zurich while the concertmaster saws away in Mannheim, and Levine conducts into a camera from his Manhattan apartment that broadcasts to each artist - and I can be there, in avatar form, to see their avatar forms make it happen. And isn't it only a matter of time before talent scouts, agents, and publicists begin exploiting online communities like Second Life? I think they probably do already, to some extent -- Facebook is a testament to that. But Second Life goes way beyond Facebook.
Does it scare you? I'm a bit of a Luddite, and it does scare me, a lot, actually. But I think that in order to survive in this fairly hostile artistic environment (or at least that is how I see it), you have to carve out a niche, and if all the real life niches are taken, why not carve out a virtual one?
It may not be for everyone. In fact, it may not be for me. A Met broadcast in HD leaves something to be desired for me; you just cannot beat being there.
But it's a thought.
To an artist, it means so many things. It can refer to our modes of expression -- visual media, electronic versus acoustic music -- or more readily, television, newspapers, radio, and all those other outlets that bring us publicity and exposure, criticism and accolades, and more recently, artistic possibilities. We've been creating for TV and radio for a long time. Now, with the youtube symphony orchestra behind us, it's easier to imagine creating art and music via web.
It's recently been brought to my attention that artists have begun to move in that direction with the help of the online alternative universe, Second Life. A band that I was researching appears to use Second Life to access audiences around the world, people that might not ever get the chance to come and hear them, or, for that matter, discover them. They take a line out of their real-life studio and basically create a webcast, which is not really a new idea because it's a lot like radio. In Second Life, the music that the community is hearing is being played by real people but also, simultaneously, their Second Life avatars, on a Second Life stage, and the audience is made up of the real people who are listening, and also their avatars. Two universes exist at once, and the venue is the Internet, so that the audience, which has bodies, unlike a radio audience, can be made up of people who are sitting in their living rooms in Cameroon, Egypt, Manitoba, and New Zealand, all at the same time. So it's a whole new level that is added to the performance, and it's mindblowing.
The implications are endless. Think of the possibilities. An entire company of operatic avatars simultaneously online to partake in a performance of Verdi's Requiem -- Jonas Kaufmann singing into his microphone from Zurich while the concertmaster saws away in Mannheim, and Levine conducts into a camera from his Manhattan apartment that broadcasts to each artist - and I can be there, in avatar form, to see their avatar forms make it happen. And isn't it only a matter of time before talent scouts, agents, and publicists begin exploiting online communities like Second Life? I think they probably do already, to some extent -- Facebook is a testament to that. But Second Life goes way beyond Facebook.
Does it scare you? I'm a bit of a Luddite, and it does scare me, a lot, actually. But I think that in order to survive in this fairly hostile artistic environment (or at least that is how I see it), you have to carve out a niche, and if all the real life niches are taken, why not carve out a virtual one?
It may not be for everyone. In fact, it may not be for me. A Met broadcast in HD leaves something to be desired for me; you just cannot beat being there.
But it's a thought.
22 February 2010
off again.
Excuses, excuses...
I got home on Feb 13 at 2 am and left for Baltimore on Feb 14 in the morning. I spent 3 days there, arriving home in the evening of Feb 17. I spent these days at home doing a big audition, going to a friend's wedding celebration, and gettin gover jet lag. I leave today for New York. I haven't really felt like, or even thought of, using my free time to blog... I've been sleeping, or reading Les Miserables.
In any case, here I am. My travels, at least for the moment, are nearly over. I said I'd write here more regularly but I haven't - I've been writing for myself, elsewhere, and I think I will designate this blog space as travel writings only. Blogs can run their course, as I told one friend; they can reach a point where what needs to be said has been said. I don't think I'm there with this one yet, as I am still digesting a lot of what I learned and experienced on the road, and so there will be some activity yet.
But I think when I decide what it is I truly have to say, I will create another space. I have a lot of opinions about music, opera, and art in general, and about a lot of other things that have already become famous blogs: Julie Powell finding purpose and meaning in a quarter-life-crisis; Vanessa Farquharson's Green as a Thistle that turned into a book about her exploits in the world of green living; Alex Ross and his really really good music and book blog, and La Cieca's incredibly funny Parterre Box, an opera blog for you and me and other snarky young opera goers, and Joyce diDonato's excellent blog on the life and times of a professional opera singer. So why add to the mix? I'm looking for something that's mine.
I'm spending the next week in New York, seeing friends and soaking in the city. I audition for Bard College on Friday and feel really strongly that it's where I am supposed to be, so send me your vibes, vibes of any positive sort, that afternoon. I'll be back sort of for good, on Saturday! I can't wait to hibernate in my parents' house for an indefinite amount of time. It seems that a 6-month trip leaves you with a certain deficiency in the "home sweet home" department ... who knew?
I got home on Feb 13 at 2 am and left for Baltimore on Feb 14 in the morning. I spent 3 days there, arriving home in the evening of Feb 17. I spent these days at home doing a big audition, going to a friend's wedding celebration, and gettin gover jet lag. I leave today for New York. I haven't really felt like, or even thought of, using my free time to blog... I've been sleeping, or reading Les Miserables.
In any case, here I am. My travels, at least for the moment, are nearly over. I said I'd write here more regularly but I haven't - I've been writing for myself, elsewhere, and I think I will designate this blog space as travel writings only. Blogs can run their course, as I told one friend; they can reach a point where what needs to be said has been said. I don't think I'm there with this one yet, as I am still digesting a lot of what I learned and experienced on the road, and so there will be some activity yet.
But I think when I decide what it is I truly have to say, I will create another space. I have a lot of opinions about music, opera, and art in general, and about a lot of other things that have already become famous blogs: Julie Powell finding purpose and meaning in a quarter-life-crisis; Vanessa Farquharson's Green as a Thistle that turned into a book about her exploits in the world of green living; Alex Ross and his really really good music and book blog, and La Cieca's incredibly funny Parterre Box, an opera blog for you and me and other snarky young opera goers, and Joyce diDonato's excellent blog on the life and times of a professional opera singer. So why add to the mix? I'm looking for something that's mine.
I'm spending the next week in New York, seeing friends and soaking in the city. I audition for Bard College on Friday and feel really strongly that it's where I am supposed to be, so send me your vibes, vibes of any positive sort, that afternoon. I'll be back sort of for good, on Saturday! I can't wait to hibernate in my parents' house for an indefinite amount of time. It seems that a 6-month trip leaves you with a certain deficiency in the "home sweet home" department ... who knew?
12 February 2010
the best of all possible worlds?
On one of my very cold days in Berlin, I participated in the Lange Nacht das Museen, and one of the museums I went to on my unlimited ticket was the Deutsche Guggenheim. The Deutsche Bank does a lot of purchasing, and it was a very interesting museum for this reason. They had a special exhibit on utopian laboratories, as the curator called them -- art that either embodied a utopian ideal or sprang from an artistsì colony, or a society, that was built upon these principles, and for whatever reason (nazis closed it down, it was the soviet union, etc etc), "failed", or as the curator puts it, simply ended. The article is interesting, and I am going to reproduce it or find it on the internet so that you may read it if it interests you as well, but I'll highlight a couple of points that resonated with me. It was interesting that both the curator (Vivien Greene of the Guggenheim i nNY) and her interviewer, Susan Cross, herself an art historian and curator, noted that the Internet is both providing opportunities for utopian reality, perhaps nowhere so obviously as Second Life, the online alternate world complete with economy and government, but that these possibilities are being misused: instead of reinventing or transforming their reality to achieve the utopian life they crave, people replicate what they know elsewhere -- for example, in Second Life they may buy the big house in the city that they cannot own in real life, but this is still playing into the capitalist model.
I find this interesting especially after a visit to the Wagenhausen in Freiburg, where people are living literally in caravans without electricity, heat, water, internet, and all the other comforts of life, to try to live in harmony with nature and with other people as much as possible. The concept was interesting but I have to say I was shocked upon visiting, though I consider myself pretty open-minded. Just how far is too far, in search of some other life than the one that we have, which can be so unfulfilling at times?
Or -- completely fulfilling. I am writing this from the Paris airport at the end of the 6-month journey that our globalized society permits a person of some means to take. I am grateful for this, truly, because now I know how much knowledge and experience one might forsake in pursuit of a non-impact or less consumerist lifestyle. There are battles to be picked.
I shall have to recount the torturous tale of getting home in my next entry, which will be soon now that my internet will be reliable 24/7 (Imagine!! A life without 24/7 internet?!) But for now I will say how happy I am to be returning to my home.
I find this interesting especially after a visit to the Wagenhausen in Freiburg, where people are living literally in caravans without electricity, heat, water, internet, and all the other comforts of life, to try to live in harmony with nature and with other people as much as possible. The concept was interesting but I have to say I was shocked upon visiting, though I consider myself pretty open-minded. Just how far is too far, in search of some other life than the one that we have, which can be so unfulfilling at times?
Or -- completely fulfilling. I am writing this from the Paris airport at the end of the 6-month journey that our globalized society permits a person of some means to take. I am grateful for this, truly, because now I know how much knowledge and experience one might forsake in pursuit of a non-impact or less consumerist lifestyle. There are battles to be picked.
I shall have to recount the torturous tale of getting home in my next entry, which will be soon now that my internet will be reliable 24/7 (Imagine!! A life without 24/7 internet?!) But for now I will say how happy I am to be returning to my home.
31 January 2010
becoming friends with berlin
For the first while, as I trudged around icy and snow-laden Berlin, staring up at enormous, boxy edifices that are miles apart, and looking acorss squares a kilometre in area, I asked myself, "What is it about Berlin that I am missing?"
Because Berlin is one of the world's top tourist destinations, at least in my age group. There had to be something I wasn't seeing.
Each thing I do here, though, gives me a glimmer of what that is. It turns out Berlin is just playing hard to get -- a lot like Toronto, actually, in that a first impression of Toronto isn't always dazzling, but once you get to know the city you realize just how much it has to offer.
Last night was a Nuit Blanche of sorts - all of the museums and many other attractions were open and accessible on one (cheap) ticket. I saw the Dom, the Guggenheim, and the Musical Instruments museum, where they were showing silent films with a man playing a historically accurate organ as accompaniment. Berlin is full of incredible museums and galleries; I wish I could have seen more.
Tomorrow I leave for Freiburg, where I hope to frolic in the Black Forest and spend some time with a new friend, a fellow singer I met in Arezzo. She's Texan! I think my hosts live in the hippie commune near Freiburg so I will get a chance to see exactly how green I can handle my life...
Because Berlin is one of the world's top tourist destinations, at least in my age group. There had to be something I wasn't seeing.
Each thing I do here, though, gives me a glimmer of what that is. It turns out Berlin is just playing hard to get -- a lot like Toronto, actually, in that a first impression of Toronto isn't always dazzling, but once you get to know the city you realize just how much it has to offer.
Last night was a Nuit Blanche of sorts - all of the museums and many other attractions were open and accessible on one (cheap) ticket. I saw the Dom, the Guggenheim, and the Musical Instruments museum, where they were showing silent films with a man playing a historically accurate organ as accompaniment. Berlin is full of incredible museums and galleries; I wish I could have seen more.
Tomorrow I leave for Freiburg, where I hope to frolic in the Black Forest and spend some time with a new friend, a fellow singer I met in Arezzo. She's Texan! I think my hosts live in the hippie commune near Freiburg so I will get a chance to see exactly how green I can handle my life...
30 January 2010
Ich bin ein donut!
The dust has settled a little and I have a few minutes to write something.
I arrived here on a train from Den Haag -- it still amazes me that only 6 hours can pass and I am in a different country -- on Wednesday, and was greeted by a Canadian blizzard that had decided to holiday in Germany this year. The next day was already a million times better, however, and I got the chance to wander around the core for a first glance at Berlin and see the New Museum, which has just been reopened following post-war renovations. I did spend about an hour wandering around looking for the music school at which I had an audition today (for the Britten Pears program) - Berlin is just SO BIG that it takes you forever to walk around buildings and get from one block to the next. Moreover, you never run into anyone -- the city appears empty because it is so spread out. Also, the buildings in their Cold War splendour rise up around you like humungous building blocks. It's an intimidating city.
I can't say just yet that it's my absolute favourite. There hasn't been a spark for me with Berin just yet, though I approached one viewing the information at Checkpoint Charlie and the markings showing the former location of the Wall. It more just makes me heart hurt than anything, though, that this city is so full of pain and suffering in its history, and the tourist attractions are basically grim recollections and testaments as if the inhabitants of the city have resigned themselves to reliving the horror each day so that it will never be repeated. I'm not saying that all tourist attractions are sunshine and rainbows, and certainly Italy has its share of pain and suffering in its history too, and many, many other countries, but this city has a different flavour. Maybe because the Wall fell in recent history, the atmosphere of the time still lingers in the air.
One thing I can say about Berlin -- opera, opera, opera!!! Literally -- there are three houses. I took my couchsurfing host to his first opera tonight -- Lohengrin (everyone marvel at the courage of this first-timer to take on such a beast as that). Ben Heppner sang the lead but I was also blown away by Ortrud, played by Waltraud Meier. She got the biggest shout outs from the audience, too.
I'm spending the weekend here and I have an evening train to Freiburg on Monday. I'll be pleased to leave the snow but I know that I will be leaving Berlin with the intention of coming back.
I arrived here on a train from Den Haag -- it still amazes me that only 6 hours can pass and I am in a different country -- on Wednesday, and was greeted by a Canadian blizzard that had decided to holiday in Germany this year. The next day was already a million times better, however, and I got the chance to wander around the core for a first glance at Berlin and see the New Museum, which has just been reopened following post-war renovations. I did spend about an hour wandering around looking for the music school at which I had an audition today (for the Britten Pears program) - Berlin is just SO BIG that it takes you forever to walk around buildings and get from one block to the next. Moreover, you never run into anyone -- the city appears empty because it is so spread out. Also, the buildings in their Cold War splendour rise up around you like humungous building blocks. It's an intimidating city.
I can't say just yet that it's my absolute favourite. There hasn't been a spark for me with Berin just yet, though I approached one viewing the information at Checkpoint Charlie and the markings showing the former location of the Wall. It more just makes me heart hurt than anything, though, that this city is so full of pain and suffering in its history, and the tourist attractions are basically grim recollections and testaments as if the inhabitants of the city have resigned themselves to reliving the horror each day so that it will never be repeated. I'm not saying that all tourist attractions are sunshine and rainbows, and certainly Italy has its share of pain and suffering in its history too, and many, many other countries, but this city has a different flavour. Maybe because the Wall fell in recent history, the atmosphere of the time still lingers in the air.
One thing I can say about Berlin -- opera, opera, opera!!! Literally -- there are three houses. I took my couchsurfing host to his first opera tonight -- Lohengrin (everyone marvel at the courage of this first-timer to take on such a beast as that). Ben Heppner sang the lead but I was also blown away by Ortrud, played by Waltraud Meier. She got the biggest shout outs from the audience, too.
I'm spending the weekend here and I have an evening train to Freiburg on Monday. I'll be pleased to leave the snow but I know that I will be leaving Berlin with the intention of coming back.
25 January 2010
I'm in Holland!
Forgive me. My internet access is dubious at best these days as I city-hop and roam for unsecured connections. Updates are therefore going to be a bit spotty, and in the case of this one, a little more uninspired, though there is much to be inspired about. It's more a question of time.
I stepped off the train in Amsterdam yesterday and nearly cried. What a shock after the terracotta and whitewash of Italy. The architecture of Holland, after so long on the peninsula, seems exotic to me, and the flavour of the city is significantly late 17th and early 18th century, and smacks of the affluence the Dutch bourgeoisie enjoyed at that time. Holland was incredibly successful on the international markets and culture thrived; there is no shortage, surely, in Amsterdam.
I find myself now in the Hague for a couple of days, which is a city of smaller proportions but great international importance. The Peace Palace against the sky at dusk takes your breath away. The city is home to over 100 other international organizations, as well as the Dutch Parliament, and the city centre is full of gorgeous 18th century buildings.
The snow has stopped so it has been truly enjoyable to walk and gawk. Tomorrow I tour the Conservatory and meet some teachers -- the fun begins!
Pictures will come.
Postscript:
Remember the shoe drama of Italy? Well, I think I have learned my lesson... NEver buy Italian shoes if you're made for comfort, not fashion. The only shoes I ever bought in Italy gave me grief. I have either extreme strain, a stress fracture, or arthritis in my right big toe on account of the boots I wore all fall and winter... and they were good boots. They are living with my Milanese family now... good riddance.
I stepped off the train in Amsterdam yesterday and nearly cried. What a shock after the terracotta and whitewash of Italy. The architecture of Holland, after so long on the peninsula, seems exotic to me, and the flavour of the city is significantly late 17th and early 18th century, and smacks of the affluence the Dutch bourgeoisie enjoyed at that time. Holland was incredibly successful on the international markets and culture thrived; there is no shortage, surely, in Amsterdam.
I find myself now in the Hague for a couple of days, which is a city of smaller proportions but great international importance. The Peace Palace against the sky at dusk takes your breath away. The city is home to over 100 other international organizations, as well as the Dutch Parliament, and the city centre is full of gorgeous 18th century buildings.
The snow has stopped so it has been truly enjoyable to walk and gawk. Tomorrow I tour the Conservatory and meet some teachers -- the fun begins!
Pictures will come.
Postscript:
Remember the shoe drama of Italy? Well, I think I have learned my lesson... NEver buy Italian shoes if you're made for comfort, not fashion. The only shoes I ever bought in Italy gave me grief. I have either extreme strain, a stress fracture, or arthritis in my right big toe on account of the boots I wore all fall and winter... and they were good boots. They are living with my Milanese family now... good riddance.
15 January 2010
I think a post every other day is a much more reasonable resolution..
I head off on my epic adventure tomorrow, so I thought I would post my itinerary in case anyone was curious or had TIPS or THINGS TO DO so that they can live vicariously through me.
16-18 Jan -- Arezzo
19-22 Jan -- Avellino
23 Jan -- Amsterdam
24-27 Jan -- The Hague
27-30???31???? Jan -- Berlin
end of Jan -- 5 Feb -- Koln, Mannheim, Heidelberg, Freiburg
5 Feb - 10 Feb -- Basel, Genève, Lausanne (with detour to French countryside)
10 Feb - 12 Feb -- Berlin
I come home with great pomp and ceremony (that's a lie) on 12 Feb and arrive in the late afternoon. I leave shortly thereafter for Baltimore to do an audition at Peabody Conservatory, and then I spend a week in Toronto before a few days at Bard College, where I am auditioning for their Masters in Vocal Arts.
On my epic adventure I have several teachers to meet for lessons, schools to see, and operas to attend, but part of it is soaking in the atmosphere of a place. With the exception of Berlin, where I have auditions and will thus be staying in a hotel, I want to couchsurf with people who are actually living in that city and can help me get a sense of what it's like.
So if you have any friends, let a girl know.
I can't wait to unleash my three sentences of German on their unsuspecting populace... they will never know what hit them.
16-18 Jan -- Arezzo
19-22 Jan -- Avellino
23 Jan -- Amsterdam
24-27 Jan -- The Hague
27-30???31???? Jan -- Berlin
end of Jan -- 5 Feb -- Koln, Mannheim, Heidelberg, Freiburg
5 Feb - 10 Feb -- Basel, Genève, Lausanne (with detour to French countryside)
10 Feb - 12 Feb -- Berlin
I come home with great pomp and ceremony (that's a lie) on 12 Feb and arrive in the late afternoon. I leave shortly thereafter for Baltimore to do an audition at Peabody Conservatory, and then I spend a week in Toronto before a few days at Bard College, where I am auditioning for their Masters in Vocal Arts.
On my epic adventure I have several teachers to meet for lessons, schools to see, and operas to attend, but part of it is soaking in the atmosphere of a place. With the exception of Berlin, where I have auditions and will thus be staying in a hotel, I want to couchsurf with people who are actually living in that city and can help me get a sense of what it's like.
So if you have any friends, let a girl know.
I can't wait to unleash my three sentences of German on their unsuspecting populace... they will never know what hit them.
14 January 2010
cultural difference tidbit of the day.
We were discussing how to say the numbers 1-5 in English over dinner today (I live with toddlers) and thus, counting on our fingers. It became apparent that we counted in different manners. The toddler's Nonno told me that once, he saw a movie in which a certain actor was playing a European character, and at first it was difficult to tell if his accent was real, if he was just a realyl great actor, until he raised his middle three fingers to indicate the number to someone -- then, related Nonno, you knew right away this was an American. Europeans use their thumb and first two fingers.
It made me reflect on the level of detail a director has to pay attention to in order to achieve authenticity. I thought of Emma Dante and her Sicilian Carmen. Noone but a Sicilian could pull it off, obviously, and having a director who is as intimately familiar with a culture as only a native can be lends a performance that much more nuance and credibility. It can be used to comic effect as well -- there were some glaring stereotypes in My big fat Green Wedding, but Nia Vardalos' subtler one-woman show was developed out of her own experience, and yes, that is what makes it authentic -- it's hers -- but what makes it culturally authentic is that she IS Greek. So what business do a lot of us have meddling in music written in Russia, or Italy even, when our level of removal from those cultures can be so vast?
Well, there is no answer to that question, actually. It's rhetorical. But I ask it of myself at nearly every performance I attend.
I saw a recital that defied the odds the other night -- a Russian baritone whose performance of Ravel's Chansons de Don Quichotte were far better than his Rach and Tchaik sets. Weird, eh? Well, there's a first for everything I guess.
It made me reflect on the level of detail a director has to pay attention to in order to achieve authenticity. I thought of Emma Dante and her Sicilian Carmen. Noone but a Sicilian could pull it off, obviously, and having a director who is as intimately familiar with a culture as only a native can be lends a performance that much more nuance and credibility. It can be used to comic effect as well -- there were some glaring stereotypes in My big fat Green Wedding, but Nia Vardalos' subtler one-woman show was developed out of her own experience, and yes, that is what makes it authentic -- it's hers -- but what makes it culturally authentic is that she IS Greek. So what business do a lot of us have meddling in music written in Russia, or Italy even, when our level of removal from those cultures can be so vast?
Well, there is no answer to that question, actually. It's rhetorical. But I ask it of myself at nearly every performance I attend.
I saw a recital that defied the odds the other night -- a Russian baritone whose performance of Ravel's Chansons de Don Quichotte were far better than his Rach and Tchaik sets. Weird, eh? Well, there's a first for everything I guess.
10 January 2010
Afghan girl and beyond...
Tonight's highlight wasn't the concert I went to at La Scala, for once, but the photography exhibit I saw beforehand.
It was the first-ever curated exhibit of Steve McCurry's work.
McCurry is best known for his portrait of the Afghan girl with the piercing green eyes, depicted on a NG 1980's cover. The exhibit incliuded some NG-type work, but mainly consisted of portraits, and I was considerably moved by those, especially of children, as he seems to communicate something of the essence of his subjects in his shots. The exhibit opened with a quote from one of his colleagues that basically outlined why and how it is difficult to label McCurry, because he's not just a photographer, but turns out painterly work, often quite spiritual; he concludes by saying, "At the risk of embarrassing him, let's just call him an artist and leave it at that."
OK. We will.
His new Sharbat Gula...
It was the first-ever curated exhibit of Steve McCurry's work.
McCurry is best known for his portrait of the Afghan girl with the piercing green eyes, depicted on a NG 1980's cover. The exhibit incliuded some NG-type work, but mainly consisted of portraits, and I was considerably moved by those, especially of children, as he seems to communicate something of the essence of his subjects in his shots. The exhibit opened with a quote from one of his colleagues that basically outlined why and how it is difficult to label McCurry, because he's not just a photographer, but turns out painterly work, often quite spiritual; he concludes by saying, "At the risk of embarrassing him, let's just call him an artist and leave it at that."
OK. We will.
His new Sharbat Gula...
07 January 2010
a wee tribute
I came back from London in December sick and was relieved of my final responsibilities to my classes. I didn't renew my contract, and am therefore finished working for the school, and it deserves a little send-off.
My first lesson of the day on Thursdays was in Bicocca, a little "suburb" that has sprouted around one of the numerous university campuses here. The tram drops me on campus, and I walk through a series of buildings that are all the same, coloured a specific shade of burnt orange and really really square -- hey must have been built in the 70's; they have that look about them -- to a piazza that is literally an outdoor mall and food court, complete with escalators and picnic tables, "paved" with something that looks like tile, where my students live in a really nice 10-or-so-floor condo. The buildings are tall for Milano and rise up all around you. They are still constructing in this area -- it's soon to become even more of a hub, with its own metro line. It's a vibrant area, or at least has some life about it -- the students pour out of the buildings at lunchtime and line up for kebab or a slice of pizza, and sit all over the piazza. Part of the reason I love going here there and everywhere to teach is getting to discover these new areas of the city, not necessarily beautiful in the same sense as the Duomo is beautiful, or the Foro in Rome; but each face of the city lends it its own flavour and deepens my understanding of its people.
I taught the majority of my lessons in Piazza Aspromonte, a 15-minute walk from my apartment. My walk to work will be a nice memory, if banal. By now, the row of kebab shops, restaurants, knick-knack stores, and cafés is as familiar to me as the row of houses on the way to the corner store where I grew up. OK -- maybe not quite as familiar. But it only takes something as small as a daily walk or other mundane routine to instill a sense of home.
My students were all Italian. Some were children, and some of those children were insupportable, but I am going to miss the little girls who drew me pictures. I'll miss the determined university students working towards proficiency exams and the Spanish-speaking Italian businessman who went crazy for Dire Straits. I won't miss the many cancelled appointments and the students who didn't try; these taught me patience, though, and which things to get stressed about and which to let go.
As for working for an Italian school, I think the well-oiled machine that was my Toronto job spoiled me.
I'm done with the school now, my contract having expired as I said; I've chosen to not renew it and spend my last six or seven weeks travelling and focusing on my personal and artistic development, and enjoying myself. My itinerary is up in the air, and more on that will come later, but I am looking forward to an extremely productive couple of months.
My first lesson of the day on Thursdays was in Bicocca, a little "suburb" that has sprouted around one of the numerous university campuses here. The tram drops me on campus, and I walk through a series of buildings that are all the same, coloured a specific shade of burnt orange and really really square -- hey must have been built in the 70's; they have that look about them -- to a piazza that is literally an outdoor mall and food court, complete with escalators and picnic tables, "paved" with something that looks like tile, where my students live in a really nice 10-or-so-floor condo. The buildings are tall for Milano and rise up all around you. They are still constructing in this area -- it's soon to become even more of a hub, with its own metro line. It's a vibrant area, or at least has some life about it -- the students pour out of the buildings at lunchtime and line up for kebab or a slice of pizza, and sit all over the piazza. Part of the reason I love going here there and everywhere to teach is getting to discover these new areas of the city, not necessarily beautiful in the same sense as the Duomo is beautiful, or the Foro in Rome; but each face of the city lends it its own flavour and deepens my understanding of its people.
I taught the majority of my lessons in Piazza Aspromonte, a 15-minute walk from my apartment. My walk to work will be a nice memory, if banal. By now, the row of kebab shops, restaurants, knick-knack stores, and cafés is as familiar to me as the row of houses on the way to the corner store where I grew up. OK -- maybe not quite as familiar. But it only takes something as small as a daily walk or other mundane routine to instill a sense of home.
My students were all Italian. Some were children, and some of those children were insupportable, but I am going to miss the little girls who drew me pictures. I'll miss the determined university students working towards proficiency exams and the Spanish-speaking Italian businessman who went crazy for Dire Straits. I won't miss the many cancelled appointments and the students who didn't try; these taught me patience, though, and which things to get stressed about and which to let go.
As for working for an Italian school, I think the well-oiled machine that was my Toronto job spoiled me.
I'm done with the school now, my contract having expired as I said; I've chosen to not renew it and spend my last six or seven weeks travelling and focusing on my personal and artistic development, and enjoying myself. My itinerary is up in the air, and more on that will come later, but I am looking forward to an extremely productive couple of months.
06 January 2010
Happy Epifania!
Once upon a time, three wise men on their journey were stopped by an old woman with a broom who asked them where they were going. They told her that they were following a star that would lead them to a newborn baby, and invited her to come along. But she replied that she was busy sweeping and cleaning and did not go. When she realized that the baby was the Redeemer that all the world had been waiting for, her regret was so great that she continues to wander about Italy and at the Epiphany, rewards good children and disappointing those who were bad.
st nick and the dowries
la befana
Once upon a time, Santa Claus was unknown in the poor regions of southern Italy. He was imported from America, wearing the colours of Coca-Cola, in much more recent times, and passed off as the relative to St Nicholas, who was the man that anonymously threw three bags of gold into a window of a poor family so that the three daughters could be married honourably, and who was therefore equated with the generosity of spirit and of material goods that Christmas is known for. Until Santa Claus, children would wait in anticipation on the night of January 5 for La Befana to come on her broom, sneak down their chimneys, eat the cakes and sweets they left for her, and fill their socks with delicious gifts.
La Befana, a poor old woman herself, gives even the poorest of children presents as a reminder of the lavish gifts presented to the baby Jesus (who wasn't the richest of babies). She reminds me of the drummer boy, who was so poor that all he had to offer was a song, which in the end (I'd like to think) was probably more meaningful than some frankincense or myrrh.
La Befana vien di notte
con le scarpe tutte rotte
col vestito alla "romana"
viva viva la Befana !!
Porta cenere e carboni
ai bambini cattivoni
ai bambini belli e buoni
porta chicchi e tanti doni !
La Befana comes at night
In tattered shoes
Dressed in the Roman style
Long live la Befana!!
She brings cinders and coals
To the naughty children
To the good children
She brings sweets and lots of gifts.
diasporic relic?
st nick and the dowries
la befana
Once upon a time, Santa Claus was unknown in the poor regions of southern Italy. He was imported from America, wearing the colours of Coca-Cola, in much more recent times, and passed off as the relative to St Nicholas, who was the man that anonymously threw three bags of gold into a window of a poor family so that the three daughters could be married honourably, and who was therefore equated with the generosity of spirit and of material goods that Christmas is known for. Until Santa Claus, children would wait in anticipation on the night of January 5 for La Befana to come on her broom, sneak down their chimneys, eat the cakes and sweets they left for her, and fill their socks with delicious gifts.
La Befana, a poor old woman herself, gives even the poorest of children presents as a reminder of the lavish gifts presented to the baby Jesus (who wasn't the richest of babies). She reminds me of the drummer boy, who was so poor that all he had to offer was a song, which in the end (I'd like to think) was probably more meaningful than some frankincense or myrrh.
La Befana vien di notte
con le scarpe tutte rotte
col vestito alla "romana"
viva viva la Befana !!
Porta cenere e carboni
ai bambini cattivoni
ai bambini belli e buoni
porta chicchi e tanti doni !
La Befana comes at night
In tattered shoes
Dressed in the Roman style
Long live la Befana!!
She brings cinders and coals
To the naughty children
To the good children
She brings sweets and lots of gifts.
diasporic relic?
05 January 2010
ketchup catch up
In the interest of playing catch-up, my second post today will take us back to December 20, when I fought my way, tooth and claw, into the second-last available seat at La Scala and settled in to see Emma Dante's new production of Carmen.
I LOVED IT!
Half the symbolism went right over my head - I went home and did a lot of googling - but the overwhelming feeling that I was witnessing some sort of pagan cult ritual was what was really important about the production. The costuming and props recalled, I am told, a lot of Sicilian religious imagery, and in my opinion, there was something more deep-seated than that. The images and symbols meant something to me though I didn't know what they meant; Emma Dante has succeeded, I think, in touching some part of the collective unconscious of her audience that, depending on education and experience, will be articulated more or less easily by each member, but nonetheless felt.
Let me give you a few examples.
Micaela, ever the angelic voice on Don José's shoulder, had a black robe pinned up around her that opened to reveal a white dress beneath, which denoted "Don José's mother"; something as simple as white and black imagery made the shift between the two characters impossible to mistake. She was accompanied by a robed priest, lanky and topped with a broad-brimmed hat that my googling told me was a "padre hat", typically worn by itinerant priests of rural congregations, as well as 4 altar boys, who set up a cross at a 40 degree angle to the ground wherever she went and prayed fervently while she sang.
I wish I could find a picture of the quadrilla of the toreador Escamillo for you. Nowhere in my googling could I find a quadrilla that dresses like this traditionally, so I have to assume there is some religious significance. There were 6 or so, and they were dressed in long white robes with sticks in the arms, so they could swish their sleeves when they danced. Their headdresses were comprised of white masks with white veils, recalling the KKK, but topped with an elaborate arrangement of white flowers. It was the strangest thing I have ever seen and if you know anything about this type of costuming, leave a comment!
The cigarette girls were nuns with flowers in their mouths who undressed, jumped in a bath, and frolicked in the water like sirens while the men gaped and Carmen sang the Habanera; the gypsy girls frequently had choreography that recalled rabid beasts. In fact, the only people that seemed untouched by symbolism were Carmen and Don José themselves, and maybe that is because the opera does a fine job of setting Carmen up as the archetypal femme fatale that is the demise of the Everyman, José, and that's enough symbolism as it is (by the way, Jonas Kaufmann is no Everyman. Apparently that wasn't even his best show, and I wanted to cry every time he opened his mouth. He also spent a good deal of the scene in Carmen's den with his shirt off, which was fine with me).
As you might have guessed the singing and direction (Daniel Barenboim) was exceptional across the board and the 25-year-old Anita Rachvelishvili was a sensational Carmen. Apparently she's booked all over the place for the role now. What a heady feeling it must be, at 25, to look up into the theatre and see a full house on their feet for you, and that house be one of the toughest crowds in the world to please. I feel like I witnessed a bit of history in the making.
Happy 2010!
A few friends of mine are doing "daily" challenges for 2010 - one (Pratik) is writing 100 words a day, and one (Katy) is taking one photo a day. I think it's a valuable exercise; at the end, you have a record of your year in real-time, as the thoughts and images put down embody the moment in which they were put down. A good reminder, perhaps, of how far you can come in a year.
I think I can manage an entry a day, don't you? My entries to this point have been epic in nature, because I have so much to say and I say it so infrequently. Doing an entry a day may mean that some of them are less earth-shattering than others, which I can guess is probably OK with you. Some may border on inane, and for this I apologize.
It's probably for the best; over the vacation I read a book called "On Writing Well" by one William Zissner, and it changed some things I used to think about writing, specifically mine.
It's January 5, but everyone knows the year only starts on the first Monday of January, so I have only missed one day. Today will therefore be a two-entry day (and maybe other days will be too, if I feel the need to make up Jan 1-3).
My latest existential struggle was brought on by the arrival of another rejection letter, this from the Royal Academy of Music. After a long day of breast-beating and forswearing of the art of song, I've decided to take charge. I've made a list of the major European conservatories that interest me, and I'm busy researching them for submission deadlines and teachers that catch my attention for whatever reason, and from this, plotting some kind of itinerary by which I will endeavour to meet said teachers and have a lesson. That way, I will have an "in" when I go to audition. I think this would have helped me immensely in London. Being unknown in a sea of similarly-skilled light lyrics and soubrettes with no leverage of any kind is a lost battle before it's fought.
One. The Hague, Netherlands...
..it's going to be a long day.
I think I can manage an entry a day, don't you? My entries to this point have been epic in nature, because I have so much to say and I say it so infrequently. Doing an entry a day may mean that some of them are less earth-shattering than others, which I can guess is probably OK with you. Some may border on inane, and for this I apologize.
It's probably for the best; over the vacation I read a book called "On Writing Well" by one William Zissner, and it changed some things I used to think about writing, specifically mine.
It's January 5, but everyone knows the year only starts on the first Monday of January, so I have only missed one day. Today will therefore be a two-entry day (and maybe other days will be too, if I feel the need to make up Jan 1-3).
My latest existential struggle was brought on by the arrival of another rejection letter, this from the Royal Academy of Music. After a long day of breast-beating and forswearing of the art of song, I've decided to take charge. I've made a list of the major European conservatories that interest me, and I'm busy researching them for submission deadlines and teachers that catch my attention for whatever reason, and from this, plotting some kind of itinerary by which I will endeavour to meet said teachers and have a lesson. That way, I will have an "in" when I go to audition. I think this would have helped me immensely in London. Being unknown in a sea of similarly-skilled light lyrics and soubrettes with no leverage of any kind is a lost battle before it's fought.
One. The Hague, Netherlands...
..it's going to be a long day.
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