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.
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
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.
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?
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.
05 January 2010
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.
19 December 2009
a Trittico à la Danielle
I was in London twice this month, and my timing was impeccable, as I was able to catch a concert version of Otello (Verdi) with Gerald Finley as Iago!!! with the LSO on Dec 3 and Der Rosenkavalier at the Royal Opera on Dec 13.
While Finley's interpretation of Iago was pretty much revolutionary and well-matched by the masterful playing of the LSO with Sir Colin Davis at the helm (and would we have expected anything different? The LSO IS RAD), I am sad to say his colleagues paled in comparison.
Otello was actually a pinch singer, whose name I am embarrassed to forget (the program is safely packed away in the suitcase heading to Canada with my mom) and I forgive him for any indiscretions (ie vowel modifications) he committed during the performance. I bet he'd gotten off the plane that morning; these things must be considered.
Entrances were made during the music, as it was a concert performance; Ms Tufano, who had 3 lines as Emilia, sashayed onstage with as much ado as she could muster during a very dramatic bit of Otello's, completely upstaging him, in a black strapless number that left absolutely nothing to the imagination from my seat in the rafters. She took her seat and proceeded to drink water, play with her hair, and rifle repeatedly through her score before completely botching her miniscule bit in the ensemble near the end of the first(?) act. I was unimpressed.
Anne Schwanewilms as Desdemona left a little to be desired as well -- absolutely not artistically, though, and I am sure she had a pretty voice, but I couldn't hear her at all for a good 90% of the opera. Good thing the orchestra was making pretty sounds.
As I mentioned, Finley absolutely stole the show. His Iago was ruthless and technically impeccable. The colours he achieved -- at one point subsiding to barely a whisper that was audible in every corner of the hall -- brought shivers and the notion that here was a man who had not a good bone in his body.
Der Rosenkavalier was certainly more polished, well-balanced, and overall, enjoyable. It boasted Sophie Koch (who is DROP DEAD GORGEOUS) as Octavian, Lucy Crowe (young and up and coming and really quite charming) as Sophie, and Soile Isokoski (no idea who she is, but a nice light lyric) as Marschallin, and the three made a very very dynamic trio. The cast included Thomas Allen as Faninal, which was a treat, and Peter Rose was an excellent Ochs. The production was a revival of the 1986 Covent Garden production , for which I give them props: the dress the Te Kanawa is wearing on the front cover is worth the price of admission (£12.50, I stood) alone.
I left the theatre that evening feeling as though I myself had done the opera: drained but wired, as you often are after a show, and craving human contact. I ended up writing something like 6 pages in my journal. I felt as though the performers really took me on a journey; I was inspired as I am not very often inspired after a night at the theatre. I can't say much more about it because some things you don't have words for.
The third opera of my Trittico is Carmen, here in Milano, which I have gotten sneak peeks of by way of my obliging colleague who is singing a supporting role. Sitting in on rehearsals of the opera that will open La Scala's season and chatting with JONAS KAUFMANN (who should be People's next Sexiest Man Alive, if only because he's SUUUUCH the Gentleman) is certainly how I like to spend my Friday nights. Tomorrow I will stand in line for one of 140 10-euro gallery seats to see the finished product. This is Emma Dante's new production which has gotten a lot of hype; from what I saw in rehearsal, there is a good deal of Roman Catholic imagery, as well as many allusions to the Sicilian mafia. It isn't really updated, though; it seems as though it will be suspended in time as more of an allegory than anything.
Stay tuned...
While Finley's interpretation of Iago was pretty much revolutionary and well-matched by the masterful playing of the LSO with Sir Colin Davis at the helm (and would we have expected anything different? The LSO IS RAD), I am sad to say his colleagues paled in comparison.
Otello was actually a pinch singer, whose name I am embarrassed to forget (the program is safely packed away in the suitcase heading to Canada with my mom) and I forgive him for any indiscretions (ie vowel modifications) he committed during the performance. I bet he'd gotten off the plane that morning; these things must be considered.
Entrances were made during the music, as it was a concert performance; Ms Tufano, who had 3 lines as Emilia, sashayed onstage with as much ado as she could muster during a very dramatic bit of Otello's, completely upstaging him, in a black strapless number that left absolutely nothing to the imagination from my seat in the rafters. She took her seat and proceeded to drink water, play with her hair, and rifle repeatedly through her score before completely botching her miniscule bit in the ensemble near the end of the first(?) act. I was unimpressed.
Anne Schwanewilms as Desdemona left a little to be desired as well -- absolutely not artistically, though, and I am sure she had a pretty voice, but I couldn't hear her at all for a good 90% of the opera. Good thing the orchestra was making pretty sounds.
As I mentioned, Finley absolutely stole the show. His Iago was ruthless and technically impeccable. The colours he achieved -- at one point subsiding to barely a whisper that was audible in every corner of the hall -- brought shivers and the notion that here was a man who had not a good bone in his body.
Der Rosenkavalier was certainly more polished, well-balanced, and overall, enjoyable. It boasted Sophie Koch (who is DROP DEAD GORGEOUS) as Octavian, Lucy Crowe (young and up and coming and really quite charming) as Sophie, and Soile Isokoski (no idea who she is, but a nice light lyric) as Marschallin, and the three made a very very dynamic trio. The cast included Thomas Allen as Faninal, which was a treat, and Peter Rose was an excellent Ochs. The production was a revival of the 1986 Covent Garden production , for which I give them props: the dress the Te Kanawa is wearing on the front cover is worth the price of admission (£12.50, I stood) alone.
I left the theatre that evening feeling as though I myself had done the opera: drained but wired, as you often are after a show, and craving human contact. I ended up writing something like 6 pages in my journal. I felt as though the performers really took me on a journey; I was inspired as I am not very often inspired after a night at the theatre. I can't say much more about it because some things you don't have words for.
The third opera of my Trittico is Carmen, here in Milano, which I have gotten sneak peeks of by way of my obliging colleague who is singing a supporting role. Sitting in on rehearsals of the opera that will open La Scala's season and chatting with JONAS KAUFMANN (who should be People's next Sexiest Man Alive, if only because he's SUUUUCH the Gentleman) is certainly how I like to spend my Friday nights. Tomorrow I will stand in line for one of 140 10-euro gallery seats to see the finished product. This is Emma Dante's new production which has gotten a lot of hype; from what I saw in rehearsal, there is a good deal of Roman Catholic imagery, as well as many allusions to the Sicilian mafia. It isn't really updated, though; it seems as though it will be suspended in time as more of an allegory than anything.
Stay tuned...
Bartoli or Bust...??
I just got back from London, where I had the privilege of seeing Der Rosenkavalier in an excellent production with a stellar cast at Covent Garden. It prompted me to dig out a reflection I wrote after seeing La Bohème in a regional house in Italy.
October 15, 2009
I went to see an opera in Cremona on Tuesday night. It was La Bohème, a standard, and I was curious what the quality of a regional opera produciton would be here, and what the audience would be like. The theatre looked big and classy, and their season has a lot of interesting things: Weill's Seven Deadly Sins, Bernstein's Trouble in Tahiti, and La Voix Humaine which really piqued my curiosity, besides the usual fare (Verdi, Bellini, etc). Naturally, I wanted to check out any theatre company that would bring in Poulenc one-woman shows.
It turned out to be a real trial to get there. I worked until 6.30 that evening and caught a taxi to the Central Station for a 6.50 train. I was in a bad romantic comedy, chasing the lead to the airport, stuck in traffic, tapping my fingers on the armrest and praying for the light to turn green. I did make the train but only because I RAN; it got in at 7.50 and the show began at 8.30. I was in my seat in good time, but not without a few grey hairs.
Finding my way to the theatre was easy, but wandering around in the dark after the show trying to find my hostel was not. It turned out to be on the other side of town (which is actually maybe 1 km, but everything is relative) and thanks to the help of two very nice Cremonesi ladies, I arrived relatively intact at 11.45, a good hour after the rumpled, disgruntled priest who opened the door would have liked, by the looks of things.
I sat next to a tenor who was also there alone, and we got to chatting. When he learned that I was from Milano, he did a double take. "You came all that way to see THIS?" He got me thinking. I did come all this way, not without a good deal of effort, from the city of La Scala, to see what turned out to be a mediocre production of La Bohème, an opera that I will probably see a hundred more times in my life. To be fair, Cremona is about as far from Milano as Aurora is from Toronto, but Italy is a lot smaller than Canada, so what doesn't seem like a lot to me certainly does to your average Italian; you can also get home from Aurora late at night, while the trains from Cremona finish at 10 pm, hence my having to stay over.
Anyway, I sat there and thought about all the fuss I had to go to in order to get my butt in the seat that night. Was it worth it?
Well let's answer that quantitatively. I've definitely seen better operas, and definitely better Bohèmes, even on DVD or youtube. Some of the Bohèmes I've seen had singers that actually acted, even. They had a cool black and white 20's flapper thing going on, which really suited the production but isn't a new idea, really, but the music itself left something to be desired. The orchestra was often too loud for the younger singers (ie Rodolfo and Mimì), a common problem in my experience with Bohème, and the singers actually didn't have the most wonderful timbres, though they were technically pretty solid. As I said, very little acting went on and the direction definitely didn't help with that. The exception was Musetta, who admittedly has more to work with, as she is, after all, Musetta. My big complaint with the singing, though, was something that really surprised me-- there was a lack of understanding of the Puccini style. The singing was not speech-like in the lower register and there was a lack of refinement in general, phrases poorly shaped and demonstrative of an ignorance of the textual significance of the melody in certain places, especially in the ensembles.
So why, when I live in Milano and can be at La Scala in 15 minutes, did I even bother?
That's a really, really good question.
Opera fans and would-be opera fans, as well as opera singers and would-be opera singers, now are able to get their hands on a plethora of media showcasing la crème de la crème of opera then and now. Think youtube, HD broadcasts, and digital remastering of all the old vinyls. We can even subscribe to online players like the Met's and listen to historical recordings on demand. We have developed extremely sophisticated tastes as a result of this, and are less forgiving of things we perceive as faults but might actually just be differences in taste, style, or performance practice.
So if it's not Alvarez, Domingo, Fleming, Frittoli, why bother? Well, I want to be an opera singer, and at least a few other people reading this blog too, and there just isn't room for that many people at the top. There has to be stops along the way. Think about it. Let's say we decided that there wasn't any point in going to the opera unless it was as good a Violetta as Renée Fleming (I happen to like her Traviata). We'd all end up forswearing our regional and independent companies, not to mention university opera programs, and opera would be relegated to a handful of huge, well-oiled corporations worldwide, the Emperor of which would be the Met, churning out polished productions attended by the highest bidders. Nothing would exist in a lower price bracket or in a smaller city than London, Milano or Toronto.
It would also mean that a lot of us would be out of jobs with no hope of a career, and some of us want a different career than Covent Garden, anyway.
It isn't practical to declare an all-or-nothing situation when it comes to art; even though we all acknowledge that perhaps Pavarotti was the best of his kind, or Picasso, or whoever, all those other people doing the same work in their own way are reaching a miltitude of people on a variety of other levels.
Even if that means that some seriously mediocre theatre has to exist, that's OK. It just means we have to lower our standards to "realistic" and know what it is we are about to see before we see it. Because someday, it's going to be me up there, or you, in Teatro Ponchielli in a small Italian town, or some backwater German regional house, and all the bluehairs and twenty somethings who want a little culture in their Friday night expect me to do my best for them.
So I consider my travails not in vain; in fact, you can conceive of them as an investment in my career. In some small way my bum in the seat helps that theatre stay open one more year and have a budget to hire new talent, and therefore maybe me or someone like me when we're ready to grow up and get paid to sing. On top of that grassroots and independent opera and regionally funded companies not only diversify the industry and provide jobs on many levels and in a lot of ways (who else has to be there for the show to go on?) but they also provide a service to the community they are in, maybe a community who would not think to make a pilgrimage like I did to the nearest La Scala. A community that goes to opera because it's there and maybe wouldn't have otherwise is not a community on which opera is wasted. There's a little opera for everyone this way, and not just the die-hards.
October 15, 2009
I went to see an opera in Cremona on Tuesday night. It was La Bohème, a standard, and I was curious what the quality of a regional opera produciton would be here, and what the audience would be like. The theatre looked big and classy, and their season has a lot of interesting things: Weill's Seven Deadly Sins, Bernstein's Trouble in Tahiti, and La Voix Humaine which really piqued my curiosity, besides the usual fare (Verdi, Bellini, etc). Naturally, I wanted to check out any theatre company that would bring in Poulenc one-woman shows.
It turned out to be a real trial to get there. I worked until 6.30 that evening and caught a taxi to the Central Station for a 6.50 train. I was in a bad romantic comedy, chasing the lead to the airport, stuck in traffic, tapping my fingers on the armrest and praying for the light to turn green. I did make the train but only because I RAN; it got in at 7.50 and the show began at 8.30. I was in my seat in good time, but not without a few grey hairs.
Finding my way to the theatre was easy, but wandering around in the dark after the show trying to find my hostel was not. It turned out to be on the other side of town (which is actually maybe 1 km, but everything is relative) and thanks to the help of two very nice Cremonesi ladies, I arrived relatively intact at 11.45, a good hour after the rumpled, disgruntled priest who opened the door would have liked, by the looks of things.
I sat next to a tenor who was also there alone, and we got to chatting. When he learned that I was from Milano, he did a double take. "You came all that way to see THIS?" He got me thinking. I did come all this way, not without a good deal of effort, from the city of La Scala, to see what turned out to be a mediocre production of La Bohème, an opera that I will probably see a hundred more times in my life. To be fair, Cremona is about as far from Milano as Aurora is from Toronto, but Italy is a lot smaller than Canada, so what doesn't seem like a lot to me certainly does to your average Italian; you can also get home from Aurora late at night, while the trains from Cremona finish at 10 pm, hence my having to stay over.
Anyway, I sat there and thought about all the fuss I had to go to in order to get my butt in the seat that night. Was it worth it?
Well let's answer that quantitatively. I've definitely seen better operas, and definitely better Bohèmes, even on DVD or youtube. Some of the Bohèmes I've seen had singers that actually acted, even. They had a cool black and white 20's flapper thing going on, which really suited the production but isn't a new idea, really, but the music itself left something to be desired. The orchestra was often too loud for the younger singers (ie Rodolfo and Mimì), a common problem in my experience with Bohème, and the singers actually didn't have the most wonderful timbres, though they were technically pretty solid. As I said, very little acting went on and the direction definitely didn't help with that. The exception was Musetta, who admittedly has more to work with, as she is, after all, Musetta. My big complaint with the singing, though, was something that really surprised me-- there was a lack of understanding of the Puccini style. The singing was not speech-like in the lower register and there was a lack of refinement in general, phrases poorly shaped and demonstrative of an ignorance of the textual significance of the melody in certain places, especially in the ensembles.
So why, when I live in Milano and can be at La Scala in 15 minutes, did I even bother?
That's a really, really good question.
Opera fans and would-be opera fans, as well as opera singers and would-be opera singers, now are able to get their hands on a plethora of media showcasing la crème de la crème of opera then and now. Think youtube, HD broadcasts, and digital remastering of all the old vinyls. We can even subscribe to online players like the Met's and listen to historical recordings on demand. We have developed extremely sophisticated tastes as a result of this, and are less forgiving of things we perceive as faults but might actually just be differences in taste, style, or performance practice.
So if it's not Alvarez, Domingo, Fleming, Frittoli, why bother? Well, I want to be an opera singer, and at least a few other people reading this blog too, and there just isn't room for that many people at the top. There has to be stops along the way. Think about it. Let's say we decided that there wasn't any point in going to the opera unless it was as good a Violetta as Renée Fleming (I happen to like her Traviata). We'd all end up forswearing our regional and independent companies, not to mention university opera programs, and opera would be relegated to a handful of huge, well-oiled corporations worldwide, the Emperor of which would be the Met, churning out polished productions attended by the highest bidders. Nothing would exist in a lower price bracket or in a smaller city than London, Milano or Toronto.
It would also mean that a lot of us would be out of jobs with no hope of a career, and some of us want a different career than Covent Garden, anyway.
It isn't practical to declare an all-or-nothing situation when it comes to art; even though we all acknowledge that perhaps Pavarotti was the best of his kind, or Picasso, or whoever, all those other people doing the same work in their own way are reaching a miltitude of people on a variety of other levels.
Even if that means that some seriously mediocre theatre has to exist, that's OK. It just means we have to lower our standards to "realistic" and know what it is we are about to see before we see it. Because someday, it's going to be me up there, or you, in Teatro Ponchielli in a small Italian town, or some backwater German regional house, and all the bluehairs and twenty somethings who want a little culture in their Friday night expect me to do my best for them.
So I consider my travails not in vain; in fact, you can conceive of them as an investment in my career. In some small way my bum in the seat helps that theatre stay open one more year and have a budget to hire new talent, and therefore maybe me or someone like me when we're ready to grow up and get paid to sing. On top of that grassroots and independent opera and regionally funded companies not only diversify the industry and provide jobs on many levels and in a lot of ways (who else has to be there for the show to go on?) but they also provide a service to the community they are in, maybe a community who would not think to make a pilgrimage like I did to the nearest La Scala. A community that goes to opera because it's there and maybe wouldn't have otherwise is not a community on which opera is wasted. There's a little opera for everyone this way, and not just the die-hards.
a meditation
disclaimer: this is merely what the title suggests. comments for this are disabled so as to avoid the "oh but you're so good" feedback. it's a subject every performer must come to terms with. I hope those of you who are artists find it helpful in some small way.
My students are often perplexed or pleasantly surprised to find out I study opera as well as teach English. I think many are surprised, most of all, to discover that it's what I'd rather be doing. Of course it's a very glamorous idea, but they are wise to the fact that there are many obstacles on this particular road.
I just quit my job, but if one of my students had asked me what the most difficult thing about my other career is, I'd get them to take out their vocabulary lists and add:
re‧jec‧tion
1 [uncountable and countable] the act of not accepting, believing in, or agreeing with something [≠ acceptance]
rejection of
What are the reasons for his rejection of the theory?
2 [uncountable and countable] the act of not accepting someone for a job, school etc [≠ acceptance]:
They sent me a rejection letter.
3 [uncountable] a situation in which someone stops giving you love or attention:
He was left with a feeling of rejection and loss.
Definition from the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English
Advanced Learner's Dictionary.
It's important, when you're learning new vocabulary, to understand its full range of usages, as well as the expressions and contexts usually associated with it. An artist's situation most readily falls into entry number two in the above definition, but humour me, my hypothetical English class, while I try and find a bright side to this very difficult noun.
1. In this case, rejection is synonymous with disagreement, or with the absence of belief in something. Rejection of an ideology, a religion, a political bent, a theory or hypothesis; or, rejection of one's interpretation of the role, perhaps. Sometimes it's a question of taste, isn't it, especially when we're dealing with conductors and directors who have specific visions for a production or ideas about performance practice of early music.
Would I be willing to compromise my artistic concept in an audition? No, I don't think so -- what if I guessed wrong as to what they might be thinking of, anyway? Then I wouldn't be any farther ahead, and I wouldn't have shown my particular brand of artistry, which might have been what they were looking for in the first place. To thine own self be true, even if you're scared it isn't to someone else's liking.
2. This is more straightforward, isn't it? The letter in your hand either says yes or no. When you audition for Guildhall, you finish singing and wait in the hall for 2-3 minutes before that very letter is in your hand: you've barely had time to form an objective opinion about your singing, and you're still in a very vulnerable place, so when the letter says no, it comes as a really big slap in the face.
There is no easy answer to this. The only consolation is that often, it has nothing to do with how you performed. After a while, and a stack of rejection letters, you start to wonder who IS looking for your particular voice and look and whether you'll be there when the chance comes up?
I have thought about collecting my rejection letters in a folder, so that when I start to get acceptances, I might look back at how far I've come and what rollercoasters I had to ride to get there, and feel thankful. But many of us fear: what if the acceptances never come! And then I'd be stuck with a pile of salt to rub into my wounds.
3. This could be applied to the relationship the singer has with her voice: let me tell you, it exists. The voice takes on a life of its own; sometimes it is nothing but obedient and sweet, even generous and unexpected; sometimes, it has its own ideas about how it's going to go; and sometimes, it deserts you entirely in your hour of need. It's tempting to have something to blame other than yourself. Indeed, there are many who would advise to think of your voice as separate from yourself, so that criticism and rejection do not appear to you are personal attacks, but commentary on an instrument.
The relationship goes two ways. Your voice can appear to reject you when you sing a terrible audition for which you should have theoretically sung the shit out of, pardon my French; the high notes just don't work like they should, or your runs are sloppy. What gives?
In the long term, after years of diligent practice and near-obsession and a whole string of no's, Voice begins to resemble an absent spouse: there in your life, but present in name only, remiss in giving the support you need in your endeavours, and failing to provide what things it promised implicitly to provide by entering this relationship with you: after all, why, when you have poured your blood, sweat, and tears into the relationship and given Voice everything you have, are you left with nothing? The relationship shouldn't be one-sided! Hard work should pay off; you've done your part, so it can't be your fault. The blame must fall somewhere.
At a certain point, and that point is different for everyone, either Voice starts pulling its weight, or you reject it: you get a divorce. You leave; you quit.
Perhaps that is what I find hardest about this line of work: in many careers, hard work and complete devotion results in raises, promotions, and recognition. To boot, you feel as though something very personal is on the line.
The fear to overcome is not fear of rejection, I think; your artistry should not be affected so easily by outside forces. The fear of giving your all to your relationship with your voice is much more pertinent. If you hold anything back from that relationship you can never be sure that Voice will deliver 100% either. A great deal of faith, trust and love of yourself, your voice, and your art is required.
This is what I am learning.
My students are often perplexed or pleasantly surprised to find out I study opera as well as teach English. I think many are surprised, most of all, to discover that it's what I'd rather be doing. Of course it's a very glamorous idea, but they are wise to the fact that there are many obstacles on this particular road.
I just quit my job, but if one of my students had asked me what the most difficult thing about my other career is, I'd get them to take out their vocabulary lists and add:
re‧jec‧tion
1 [uncountable and countable] the act of not accepting, believing in, or agreeing with something [≠ acceptance]
rejection of
What are the reasons for his rejection of the theory?
2 [uncountable and countable] the act of not accepting someone for a job, school etc [≠ acceptance]:
They sent me a rejection letter.
3 [uncountable] a situation in which someone stops giving you love or attention:
He was left with a feeling of rejection and loss.
Definition from the Longman Dictionary of Contemporary English
Advanced Learner's Dictionary.
It's important, when you're learning new vocabulary, to understand its full range of usages, as well as the expressions and contexts usually associated with it. An artist's situation most readily falls into entry number two in the above definition, but humour me, my hypothetical English class, while I try and find a bright side to this very difficult noun.
1. In this case, rejection is synonymous with disagreement, or with the absence of belief in something. Rejection of an ideology, a religion, a political bent, a theory or hypothesis; or, rejection of one's interpretation of the role, perhaps. Sometimes it's a question of taste, isn't it, especially when we're dealing with conductors and directors who have specific visions for a production or ideas about performance practice of early music.
Would I be willing to compromise my artistic concept in an audition? No, I don't think so -- what if I guessed wrong as to what they might be thinking of, anyway? Then I wouldn't be any farther ahead, and I wouldn't have shown my particular brand of artistry, which might have been what they were looking for in the first place. To thine own self be true, even if you're scared it isn't to someone else's liking.
2. This is more straightforward, isn't it? The letter in your hand either says yes or no. When you audition for Guildhall, you finish singing and wait in the hall for 2-3 minutes before that very letter is in your hand: you've barely had time to form an objective opinion about your singing, and you're still in a very vulnerable place, so when the letter says no, it comes as a really big slap in the face.
There is no easy answer to this. The only consolation is that often, it has nothing to do with how you performed. After a while, and a stack of rejection letters, you start to wonder who IS looking for your particular voice and look and whether you'll be there when the chance comes up?
I have thought about collecting my rejection letters in a folder, so that when I start to get acceptances, I might look back at how far I've come and what rollercoasters I had to ride to get there, and feel thankful. But many of us fear: what if the acceptances never come! And then I'd be stuck with a pile of salt to rub into my wounds.
3. This could be applied to the relationship the singer has with her voice: let me tell you, it exists. The voice takes on a life of its own; sometimes it is nothing but obedient and sweet, even generous and unexpected; sometimes, it has its own ideas about how it's going to go; and sometimes, it deserts you entirely in your hour of need. It's tempting to have something to blame other than yourself. Indeed, there are many who would advise to think of your voice as separate from yourself, so that criticism and rejection do not appear to you are personal attacks, but commentary on an instrument.
The relationship goes two ways. Your voice can appear to reject you when you sing a terrible audition for which you should have theoretically sung the shit out of, pardon my French; the high notes just don't work like they should, or your runs are sloppy. What gives?
In the long term, after years of diligent practice and near-obsession and a whole string of no's, Voice begins to resemble an absent spouse: there in your life, but present in name only, remiss in giving the support you need in your endeavours, and failing to provide what things it promised implicitly to provide by entering this relationship with you: after all, why, when you have poured your blood, sweat, and tears into the relationship and given Voice everything you have, are you left with nothing? The relationship shouldn't be one-sided! Hard work should pay off; you've done your part, so it can't be your fault. The blame must fall somewhere.
At a certain point, and that point is different for everyone, either Voice starts pulling its weight, or you reject it: you get a divorce. You leave; you quit.
Perhaps that is what I find hardest about this line of work: in many careers, hard work and complete devotion results in raises, promotions, and recognition. To boot, you feel as though something very personal is on the line.
The fear to overcome is not fear of rejection, I think; your artistry should not be affected so easily by outside forces. The fear of giving your all to your relationship with your voice is much more pertinent. If you hold anything back from that relationship you can never be sure that Voice will deliver 100% either. A great deal of faith, trust and love of yourself, your voice, and your art is required.
This is what I am learning.
18 December 2009
apples and oranges
November 4, 2009
Furniture exhibit at the civic museums, Castello Sforzesco, Milano
It's not so much that there is a fresco hanging in a gallery near a furniture exhibit in a gallery.
It's that these frescoes are hanging everywhere. I would not be surprised to see frescoes hanging over the toilets and leaning against walls in closets in my apartment.
As I come from a country several centuries younger than most of these frescoes I don't have to explain why this is novel.
The image as microcosm of the city itself:
Italy is littered with 2,000-year-old stones, preserved saints' bodies, most of the wonders of the art world in full restored glory, and boasts an incredibly rich cultural and military history.
Cars whiz past the Colosseo in Rome. People on cell phones or headsets weave through tourists on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.
The subway system in Milano houses several glassed-in ruins they found while digging the tunnels.
It's 1200 and 2009 in Italy right now.
Milano is an incredibly modern city. It's on the very edge of design and fashion, and the Milanesi strive to one-up each other with the latest in this technology, that runway trend, this car, that artist. There is some serious money here, which makes it all possible (there exists the other extreme, unfortunately, and I have yet to really define a middle class). Although like in other great Italian cities, the ancient presides silently over the progress and the velocity and chaos and traffic and noise of modern Milano, there seems to me here a tension between the old and the new.
This is really only speculation, but let's take Rome. It is really, really difficult to ignore the Colosseo and the Foro Romano, and the rocks strewn about the city, and eventually you make peace with the fact that your past will always haunt you, kind of like the old-fashioned stodgy uncle you really hate because he's always talking about how you should be more like he was at 20-whatever but you can't really hate him, because he's family and you can't choose your family.
Milano, on the other hand, has little ancient treasures hiding in unexpected places. I turned a corner yesterday and came face to face with an enormous Baroque church I had never noticed before, because it was obscured by a modern building housing a bank (Milano is the financial seat of Italy... let's call this symbolism).
I was a little shocked but in a pleasant way, as I am discovering the city as an outsider/tourist and everything is a little bit magical. But humour me and imagine I am a Milanese: I am a self-styled Modern European. I am on the cutting edge, always. I can't find the balance between where we came from and where we are, because I move forward, not in circles, contemplating, pondering. I like fast lunches and long work days like they have in America. Sometimes I eat McDonald's. Maybe I have an inferiority complex... maybe that's why I can't stand the backward, old-fashioned south.
It's hard to put a finger on it. But in my opinion, the table wasn't happy about being next to the old-fashioned uncle fresco.
Emanuele Arciuli played a great solo piano program on Monday night. I sat above him in the gallery and watched his hands.
The Liszt and Schumann were played beautifully with a lot of sensitivity. Visually, they make so much sense to our well-conditioned brains. The keyboard is used in the ways we expect -- up and down and up and down go the hands, moving together or away from each other, moving in parallel lines from left to right and making broad strokes in one direction or the next. There is always a linear relationship between them. Tension grows and is resolved. Western music is so satisfyingly predictable.
The Carter he played, Night Fantasies, took linear relationships and said, "This crap is useless." I described Arciuli's hands to a friend as "robot spiders"; not only was the piece full of 64th and 128th notes (I don't know, it just seemed that way), it worked out musical ideas in circular, repetitious patterns that left the listener stewing over them even after the piece was done. There was cadence and discernible shape to the form, to be sure. But in terms of pitch content and for lack of a better word, musical "shapes", it resembled a scatter graph or an Etch-a-Sketch when realized. While Liszt and Schumann seem to muse out loud, Carter seems to need to brood introspectively over musical "problems" in order to develop and resolve them. In fact, I think this says a lot about the sociocultural "mood" in each relevant epoch. Extremely provocative; caused me to realize all over again that I think of music visually and how important that element of it is.
Today I went straight to the practice room following a particularly harrowing reading comprehension lesson with my class from hell.
Some things just don't feel like work. Some things make you forget anything that's bad in your life and obscure stress, worries, insecurity. They clarify priorities and put your life in perspective. Even a passive experience, like being a spectator, instills calm and replenishes what soul has been sucked that day.
Some things are a job that make you money while you pursue more lofty ambitions and don't deserve time or energy off the clock. This is taught to you by the enlightening experiences you have singing Verdi and Massenet, a clandestine locked away in the corner of the conservatory where no caretakers will find you and evict you from your not-booked, totally not-yours practice room, before a concert in which you hear the Brahms string sextet and Verklarte Nacht.
Or... I mean... other enlightening experiences.
(Aside: I see most of the concerts I go to alone and it's during this time I usually have weird abstracted brain experiences. I think it's why I have never been tempted to try drugs. Verklarte Nacht put me on another plane tonight; I had forgotten how much I love it.)
a wee taste.
To finish:
Further proof of Italy's schizophrenia follows in the form of two towns on the same lake (Como).
Colico in the north...
and Lecco in the south.
Furniture exhibit at the civic museums, Castello Sforzesco, Milano
It's not so much that there is a fresco hanging in a gallery near a furniture exhibit in a gallery.
It's that these frescoes are hanging everywhere. I would not be surprised to see frescoes hanging over the toilets and leaning against walls in closets in my apartment.
As I come from a country several centuries younger than most of these frescoes I don't have to explain why this is novel.
The image as microcosm of the city itself:
Italy is littered with 2,000-year-old stones, preserved saints' bodies, most of the wonders of the art world in full restored glory, and boasts an incredibly rich cultural and military history.
Cars whiz past the Colosseo in Rome. People on cell phones or headsets weave through tourists on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.
The subway system in Milano houses several glassed-in ruins they found while digging the tunnels.
It's 1200 and 2009 in Italy right now.
Milano is an incredibly modern city. It's on the very edge of design and fashion, and the Milanesi strive to one-up each other with the latest in this technology, that runway trend, this car, that artist. There is some serious money here, which makes it all possible (there exists the other extreme, unfortunately, and I have yet to really define a middle class). Although like in other great Italian cities, the ancient presides silently over the progress and the velocity and chaos and traffic and noise of modern Milano, there seems to me here a tension between the old and the new.
This is really only speculation, but let's take Rome. It is really, really difficult to ignore the Colosseo and the Foro Romano, and the rocks strewn about the city, and eventually you make peace with the fact that your past will always haunt you, kind of like the old-fashioned stodgy uncle you really hate because he's always talking about how you should be more like he was at 20-whatever but you can't really hate him, because he's family and you can't choose your family.
Milano, on the other hand, has little ancient treasures hiding in unexpected places. I turned a corner yesterday and came face to face with an enormous Baroque church I had never noticed before, because it was obscured by a modern building housing a bank (Milano is the financial seat of Italy... let's call this symbolism).
I was a little shocked but in a pleasant way, as I am discovering the city as an outsider/tourist and everything is a little bit magical. But humour me and imagine I am a Milanese: I am a self-styled Modern European. I am on the cutting edge, always. I can't find the balance between where we came from and where we are, because I move forward, not in circles, contemplating, pondering. I like fast lunches and long work days like they have in America. Sometimes I eat McDonald's. Maybe I have an inferiority complex... maybe that's why I can't stand the backward, old-fashioned south.
It's hard to put a finger on it. But in my opinion, the table wasn't happy about being next to the old-fashioned uncle fresco.
Emanuele Arciuli played a great solo piano program on Monday night. I sat above him in the gallery and watched his hands.
The Liszt and Schumann were played beautifully with a lot of sensitivity. Visually, they make so much sense to our well-conditioned brains. The keyboard is used in the ways we expect -- up and down and up and down go the hands, moving together or away from each other, moving in parallel lines from left to right and making broad strokes in one direction or the next. There is always a linear relationship between them. Tension grows and is resolved. Western music is so satisfyingly predictable.
The Carter he played, Night Fantasies, took linear relationships and said, "This crap is useless." I described Arciuli's hands to a friend as "robot spiders"; not only was the piece full of 64th and 128th notes (I don't know, it just seemed that way), it worked out musical ideas in circular, repetitious patterns that left the listener stewing over them even after the piece was done. There was cadence and discernible shape to the form, to be sure. But in terms of pitch content and for lack of a better word, musical "shapes", it resembled a scatter graph or an Etch-a-Sketch when realized. While Liszt and Schumann seem to muse out loud, Carter seems to need to brood introspectively over musical "problems" in order to develop and resolve them. In fact, I think this says a lot about the sociocultural "mood" in each relevant epoch. Extremely provocative; caused me to realize all over again that I think of music visually and how important that element of it is.
Today I went straight to the practice room following a particularly harrowing reading comprehension lesson with my class from hell.
Some things just don't feel like work. Some things make you forget anything that's bad in your life and obscure stress, worries, insecurity. They clarify priorities and put your life in perspective. Even a passive experience, like being a spectator, instills calm and replenishes what soul has been sucked that day.
Some things are a job that make you money while you pursue more lofty ambitions and don't deserve time or energy off the clock. This is taught to you by the enlightening experiences you have singing Verdi and Massenet, a clandestine locked away in the corner of the conservatory where no caretakers will find you and evict you from your not-booked, totally not-yours practice room, before a concert in which you hear the Brahms string sextet and Verklarte Nacht.
Or... I mean... other enlightening experiences.
(Aside: I see most of the concerts I go to alone and it's during this time I usually have weird abstracted brain experiences. I think it's why I have never been tempted to try drugs. Verklarte Nacht put me on another plane tonight; I had forgotten how much I love it.)
a wee taste.
To finish:
Further proof of Italy's schizophrenia follows in the form of two towns on the same lake (Como).
Colico in the north...
and Lecco in the south.
04 December 2009
London: Round One
the hyde park christmas MONSTER!
My first trip to London this year was early in the month of December, when it was just beginning to get chilly, and got dark around 4 pm.
(Europe in the winter never ceases to surprise me -- for example, the idea of temperatures so high as to allow rain all winter is such a novelty. 4 pm darkness would be something I was accustomed to if I were from Edmonton, but I'm not.)
A guy butted in front of me in the boarding pass line, I think without knowing he was doing it; his belated "so sorry, sorry" immediately tipped me off as to his provenance. When I spotted his passport I asked where he was from exactly; turns out we are from the same province, same city, same PART of same city.. and.. SAME HIGH SCHOOL. It is a truly small world.
Aside from a minor broken-boot incident that resulted in a day and a half of sopping foot in incessant downpours, the trip was really lovely. I stayed with an old singer friend and saw another few friends from school and my travels here; I was refreshed by the sight of familiar faces even in unfamiliar locales. London isn't that unfamiliar to me, as I spent three weeks exploring it in 2007 when a good friend was living there. So that probably helped too.
I finally ticked Brick Lane off my London bucket list with a soul-searing curry and a good friend from university. My soul was revived by a rambunctious and truly uplifting production of La Cage aux Folles. Who doesn't need a little drag in their life?
While I haven't been offered admission to the Royal Academy, I was placed on the waitlist for the final round of auditions for the Aix-en-Provence summer residency for lied and contemporary repertoire. A small success, but a pertinent one: the audition was a true learning experience. I went in to that audition about as cold as I could have gone into any audition; they were running early and I was running late, having got lost in the maze that surrounds Waterloo station. It was cold and I had walked for half a hour. I went in and the first sounds I made were.. well.. honks. But I am convinced that there is nothing I do better than contemporary repertoire and art song, especially if it's Hymnen an die Nacht, and I swear to you, there is nothing more valuable than your strongest warhorse on a bad day. That piece has pulled me through I don't know how many auditions. It's not just that though; we all have to enumerate our strengths and play on them, and one of mine is being myself on stage. (It's when you ask me to be a character that I freeze up.) And who better to be singing something as outré as Hymnen an die Nacht or as intimate as, say, An den Mond?
Lessons learned...
23 November 2009
Monday, Monday..
The sun is back out in Milano and it's time for another packed week. I'm getting ready for auditions in London, and taking in some top-notch music here in the city. This week is a Schubert recital by Matthias Goerne and possibly some symphonic music and a piano recital tonight; we'll see what we can fit in! Things at La Scala have quieted down, but let me review the happenings thus far.
The 2008/2009 season is officially over, having closed with a plaster-me-to-the-wall performance of Verdi's Requiem, as I said, with Jonas Kaufmann, Barbara Frittoli, Sonia Gassani, and Rene Pape, and Daniel Barenboim conducting (from memory. yeah.. yeah.. I know). And what a way to end it! I feel very lucky to have witnessed the tail end of the season here, as the artistry has been of very high calibre, and I've gotten to see some very big names on the stage and on the podium.
Some of the highlights I've spoken about already; Diana Damrau gave a solo recital with harp early in September, and Olga Borodina graced the stage with a fabulous pianist and they gave a very cohesive, sensitive programme of Russian art song. Both divas really brought it, and it's obvious why they were asked to perform solo recitals: Milano loves them. They each did 4 or 5 encores and we would have definitely stayed for more.
Let's not forget the fantastic performance given by Pollini and Boulez or the programme of Russian symphonic music with Pappano on the podium. This concert was fantastic! A young cellist by the name of Han-Na Chang played Shostakovich's 1st concerto with great panache. Out came this little, self-effacing china doll in a beautiful floor-sweeping emerald evening gown. She was delicate and gracious, and forced everyone on stage to bow before she would even acknowledge the audience's applause. Then she sat down and proceeded to saw away at her cello with more force and power, and CHOPS, than you would have ever expected this delicate little thing to possess! I remember the first time I heard this concerto -- it was Thomas Wiebe. I have to say she gave him a run for his money. She was fantastic -- and at the end, she stood up and became the sweet little thing she was before, embarrassed by all the attention. It was like a musical beast took her over for the duration of her performance! The orchestra went on to play Rachmaninoff's second symphony and absolutely brought the house down. The only thing that ruined it for me was the questionably perfumed man beside me following the score, and turning the pages as noisily as possible. But that was only a little blip on the radar.
Finally, Emanuele Arciuli gave that performance of solo piano music that I spoke about earlier this month. It was part of a festival to commemmorate Toru Takemitsu (there is a very strong rapport between the cultural ministries of Milano and Japan, and this year there has been a good deal of cultural exchange. There are some art exhibits I will speak about). He played a great variety of new and well-loved music, and it was nice to hear a solo piano recital in a hall as acoustically friendly as La Scala.
It really is a great hall. It is circular and not that big; the ceiling has a slight dome. In the second gallery, the topmost seats, you are not any farther from the stage than the back of the orchestra, because the seats are stacked vertically with no backwards graduation, in classic opera-house style. I have posted some pictures in a previous post. My friend Dan said that the sound in the hall was as close as he has ever heard to recording quality, and I think he's right: the acoustic provides a very intimate experience of the sound, as if it were right by your ear, or in your headphones. I must say the Verdi Requiem was a very intense piece of music to experience in this manner! It sounded like the singers were sitting all around me. Their consonants reverberated with extreme force.
The first opera I saw here was Orfeo, which did not thrill me; the design was provocative but the music itself fair to middling. There were not too many voices that excited me, save Orfeo himself, and even then the voice was interesting and not beautiful; however, the futuristic angular costuming and the blackface really got my attention.
Next up was Idomeneo, with Patrizia Ciofi as Ilia, someone I think is overlooked in the wider opera comunity. She is well-loved in Italy, and works often at La Scala; she is a consummate artist, with a beautiful, warm lyric voice, great acting chops, and she's hot. She does Mozart with a great deal of finesse. Her Susanna on the Concerto Cologne recording of Nozze di Figaro with Rene Jacobs is fantastic. I first got to know her through her Giulietta in this production of I Capuletti ed i Montecchi. Blew me away!!!
The production itself was a revival, I think; they have done Idomeneo here on a few occasions, notably in 2005 after the departure of Muti for the inauguration of the season.
The inauguration of the season is a huge deal in Milan; it happens every year on December 7, a Milanese holiday to commemmorate the city's patron saint, Sant'Ambrogio. The crème de la crème turns up in full evening wear and everyone schmoozes. THe production is usually a big deal with tons of famous people. This year, it's Carmen with Jonas Kaufmann as Don José and our VERY OWN Michèle Losier as Frasquita!!!!! How exciting is that!
Though I'll be gone before Joyce di Donato comes to play Rosina in Barber of Seville, I've still been able to see -- and will be able to see -- a good deal of the highlights from this season. How wonderful to spend time in a city with an opera house the calibre of La Scala! I am spoiled, especially since next week I'll be in London -- I'll be able to see Turandot and a staged Messiah at the ENO, and Der Rosenkavalier at the Royal Opera. Nothing beats a few months in Europe for your opera education!
The 2008/2009 season is officially over, having closed with a plaster-me-to-the-wall performance of Verdi's Requiem, as I said, with Jonas Kaufmann, Barbara Frittoli, Sonia Gassani, and Rene Pape, and Daniel Barenboim conducting (from memory. yeah.. yeah.. I know). And what a way to end it! I feel very lucky to have witnessed the tail end of the season here, as the artistry has been of very high calibre, and I've gotten to see some very big names on the stage and on the podium.
Some of the highlights I've spoken about already; Diana Damrau gave a solo recital with harp early in September, and Olga Borodina graced the stage with a fabulous pianist and they gave a very cohesive, sensitive programme of Russian art song. Both divas really brought it, and it's obvious why they were asked to perform solo recitals: Milano loves them. They each did 4 or 5 encores and we would have definitely stayed for more.
Let's not forget the fantastic performance given by Pollini and Boulez or the programme of Russian symphonic music with Pappano on the podium. This concert was fantastic! A young cellist by the name of Han-Na Chang played Shostakovich's 1st concerto with great panache. Out came this little, self-effacing china doll in a beautiful floor-sweeping emerald evening gown. She was delicate and gracious, and forced everyone on stage to bow before she would even acknowledge the audience's applause. Then she sat down and proceeded to saw away at her cello with more force and power, and CHOPS, than you would have ever expected this delicate little thing to possess! I remember the first time I heard this concerto -- it was Thomas Wiebe. I have to say she gave him a run for his money. She was fantastic -- and at the end, she stood up and became the sweet little thing she was before, embarrassed by all the attention. It was like a musical beast took her over for the duration of her performance! The orchestra went on to play Rachmaninoff's second symphony and absolutely brought the house down. The only thing that ruined it for me was the questionably perfumed man beside me following the score, and turning the pages as noisily as possible. But that was only a little blip on the radar.
Finally, Emanuele Arciuli gave that performance of solo piano music that I spoke about earlier this month. It was part of a festival to commemmorate Toru Takemitsu (there is a very strong rapport between the cultural ministries of Milano and Japan, and this year there has been a good deal of cultural exchange. There are some art exhibits I will speak about). He played a great variety of new and well-loved music, and it was nice to hear a solo piano recital in a hall as acoustically friendly as La Scala.
It really is a great hall. It is circular and not that big; the ceiling has a slight dome. In the second gallery, the topmost seats, you are not any farther from the stage than the back of the orchestra, because the seats are stacked vertically with no backwards graduation, in classic opera-house style. I have posted some pictures in a previous post. My friend Dan said that the sound in the hall was as close as he has ever heard to recording quality, and I think he's right: the acoustic provides a very intimate experience of the sound, as if it were right by your ear, or in your headphones. I must say the Verdi Requiem was a very intense piece of music to experience in this manner! It sounded like the singers were sitting all around me. Their consonants reverberated with extreme force.
The first opera I saw here was Orfeo, which did not thrill me; the design was provocative but the music itself fair to middling. There were not too many voices that excited me, save Orfeo himself, and even then the voice was interesting and not beautiful; however, the futuristic angular costuming and the blackface really got my attention.
Next up was Idomeneo, with Patrizia Ciofi as Ilia, someone I think is overlooked in the wider opera comunity. She is well-loved in Italy, and works often at La Scala; she is a consummate artist, with a beautiful, warm lyric voice, great acting chops, and she's hot. She does Mozart with a great deal of finesse. Her Susanna on the Concerto Cologne recording of Nozze di Figaro with Rene Jacobs is fantastic. I first got to know her through her Giulietta in this production of I Capuletti ed i Montecchi. Blew me away!!!
The production itself was a revival, I think; they have done Idomeneo here on a few occasions, notably in 2005 after the departure of Muti for the inauguration of the season.
The inauguration of the season is a huge deal in Milan; it happens every year on December 7, a Milanese holiday to commemmorate the city's patron saint, Sant'Ambrogio. The crème de la crème turns up in full evening wear and everyone schmoozes. THe production is usually a big deal with tons of famous people. This year, it's Carmen with Jonas Kaufmann as Don José and our VERY OWN Michèle Losier as Frasquita!!!!! How exciting is that!
Though I'll be gone before Joyce di Donato comes to play Rosina in Barber of Seville, I've still been able to see -- and will be able to see -- a good deal of the highlights from this season. How wonderful to spend time in a city with an opera house the calibre of La Scala! I am spoiled, especially since next week I'll be in London -- I'll be able to see Turandot and a staged Messiah at the ENO, and Der Rosenkavalier at the Royal Opera. Nothing beats a few months in Europe for your opera education!
20 November 2009
Libera me domine di morte aeterna
I have had a busy few weeks here in Milano, balancing teaching and singing, trying to maintain a social life and still get out and sightsee a bit; it's oput a bit of a strain on me, even though I am no busier than I would have been in Toronto; in fact, I am probably the least busy I have been since grade nine. Anyway, this sudden activity has helped me come to a few important realizations. Sometimes pressure can force perspective, can't it?
1. Even if I turn 35 or 40 and still am nowhere near a career, or got rejected by every single company and school I ever auditioned for, or got nodes and couldn't sing, or was the victim of some terrible accident in which my larynx was damaged and I lost my voice forever and completely, I still cannot imagine being so sad or so embittered not to find it in me to love music and especially vocal music. Yes, I am a diehard opera lover, a buff, a theatre rat; I collect paraphernelia, I internet-stalk my favourite singers, I hang out at the stage door, I am a compulsive opera youtuber. Guilty as charged.
I think this is helping me come to a more general realization, however, or more specifically, a definition: "passion" needs to encompass even the inability to participate fully in the object of the passion, and is also characterized by a lack of fear of the possibility that this may happen. I have described my passion for opera as such. Many people say they would still love their spouse if he or she cheated, or was paralyzed in a car accident, or had a strange personality disorder. Passion is a til-death-do-us-part thing; this is the type of passion you need, I think, for a career as a performer, and I am starting to realize the magnitude and reality of this. Musicians, ask yourselves: Would I still read Classical Music and listen to the BBC and go to the concert hall and the opera house and genuinely be happy for my colleagues' successes and clap happily and enjoy the music if the ability to play my instrument was taken away from me forever?
2. Practice is for real. Practice does make perfect. My teachers were not kidding. The only route to improvement and success is hard work. If there is no reason you shouldn't be able to sing a cadenza, but it's just not sitting right, it's not that it doesn't "fit your voice". You just haven't sung it enough times yet. Maybe 287 is the magic number. You don't know until you've reached 288. It may take weeks; that is not unheard of. I am a hard worker, but I think I finally get exactly how hard I need to work to make one miniscule improvement. There is no shortcut.
I've been doing some thinking as a result of these realizations, and concluded that in light of them, I need to make some changes. For the past little while, I haven't been acting like an opera singer who teaches English to make money, I've been an English teacher who also sings. That's fine, because it taught me exactly how I feel at this point in my life about the prospect of another career path. I am sure you can guess how that is. It is within my control and my control only how much or how little I sing -- and this is the biggest realization of all: I could get rejected from every single organization I ever applied to, and still sing two or three hours a day if I wanted. I shouldn't need a reason to practice or to make music. The motivation needs to come from within; this is not something you can make into a goal-oriented thing.
I saw Verdi's Requiem tonight at La Scala, with Daniel Barenboim on the podium (with no score) and Barbara Frittoli, Sonja Gassani, Jonas Kaufmann, and Rene Pape. I was lucky enough to have an incredible first-row seat in the upper galleries, where the sound is incredible; the ceiling is slightly domed, and the hall is circular, so from where I was, it sounded like the singers were all around me. It was a very moving concert.
I went to the stage door and got autographs after, and spoke with Jonas Kaufmann and another young tenor about singing, and thought about how I would like to become as successful as he is, so I can share my experiences with young singers who feel as messed up and unsuccessful as I sometimes feel right now. I'd like to be able to tell them that it IS possible; I think that I want this because I myself would like to know that it is possible. And funnily enough, these types of thoughts always circle and come to rest on me, because it is I who decides whether it happens or not. I control whether or not I am successful as a singer. It does no good at all to think, "I can work harder than anyone else out there and STILL never get a lucky break", because those are fatalistic thoughts; better is, "I can work harder than anyone else out there, and it will pay off".
Artists, my friends, we are accountable to ourselves. We need to continually ask ourselves why we do what we do, and how we plan on going about doing that; we need to take responsibility for our own lapses and also our own successes. And we need to be our own best guy in the corner. And with that said, I have some adjustments to make.
1. Even if I turn 35 or 40 and still am nowhere near a career, or got rejected by every single company and school I ever auditioned for, or got nodes and couldn't sing, or was the victim of some terrible accident in which my larynx was damaged and I lost my voice forever and completely, I still cannot imagine being so sad or so embittered not to find it in me to love music and especially vocal music. Yes, I am a diehard opera lover, a buff, a theatre rat; I collect paraphernelia, I internet-stalk my favourite singers, I hang out at the stage door, I am a compulsive opera youtuber. Guilty as charged.
I think this is helping me come to a more general realization, however, or more specifically, a definition: "passion" needs to encompass even the inability to participate fully in the object of the passion, and is also characterized by a lack of fear of the possibility that this may happen. I have described my passion for opera as such. Many people say they would still love their spouse if he or she cheated, or was paralyzed in a car accident, or had a strange personality disorder. Passion is a til-death-do-us-part thing; this is the type of passion you need, I think, for a career as a performer, and I am starting to realize the magnitude and reality of this. Musicians, ask yourselves: Would I still read Classical Music and listen to the BBC and go to the concert hall and the opera house and genuinely be happy for my colleagues' successes and clap happily and enjoy the music if the ability to play my instrument was taken away from me forever?
2. Practice is for real. Practice does make perfect. My teachers were not kidding. The only route to improvement and success is hard work. If there is no reason you shouldn't be able to sing a cadenza, but it's just not sitting right, it's not that it doesn't "fit your voice". You just haven't sung it enough times yet. Maybe 287 is the magic number. You don't know until you've reached 288. It may take weeks; that is not unheard of. I am a hard worker, but I think I finally get exactly how hard I need to work to make one miniscule improvement. There is no shortcut.
I've been doing some thinking as a result of these realizations, and concluded that in light of them, I need to make some changes. For the past little while, I haven't been acting like an opera singer who teaches English to make money, I've been an English teacher who also sings. That's fine, because it taught me exactly how I feel at this point in my life about the prospect of another career path. I am sure you can guess how that is. It is within my control and my control only how much or how little I sing -- and this is the biggest realization of all: I could get rejected from every single organization I ever applied to, and still sing two or three hours a day if I wanted. I shouldn't need a reason to practice or to make music. The motivation needs to come from within; this is not something you can make into a goal-oriented thing.
I saw Verdi's Requiem tonight at La Scala, with Daniel Barenboim on the podium (with no score) and Barbara Frittoli, Sonja Gassani, Jonas Kaufmann, and Rene Pape. I was lucky enough to have an incredible first-row seat in the upper galleries, where the sound is incredible; the ceiling is slightly domed, and the hall is circular, so from where I was, it sounded like the singers were all around me. It was a very moving concert.
I went to the stage door and got autographs after, and spoke with Jonas Kaufmann and another young tenor about singing, and thought about how I would like to become as successful as he is, so I can share my experiences with young singers who feel as messed up and unsuccessful as I sometimes feel right now. I'd like to be able to tell them that it IS possible; I think that I want this because I myself would like to know that it is possible. And funnily enough, these types of thoughts always circle and come to rest on me, because it is I who decides whether it happens or not. I control whether or not I am successful as a singer. It does no good at all to think, "I can work harder than anyone else out there and STILL never get a lucky break", because those are fatalistic thoughts; better is, "I can work harder than anyone else out there, and it will pay off".
Artists, my friends, we are accountable to ourselves. We need to continually ask ourselves why we do what we do, and how we plan on going about doing that; we need to take responsibility for our own lapses and also our own successes. And we need to be our own best guy in the corner. And with that said, I have some adjustments to make.
20 October 2009
Tuesday Chapter Two
Sometimes, you just don't want to walk up the stairs.
Like when it's 11.30, you're tired and have to pee, haven't really had dinner, and there are seven flights of them.
You'll all be proud to know I did it! I used my feet for the entire day, and when I needed to get somewhere fast (work), I jumped on the subway.
For this week, that's fine. But I think I wouldn't choose this particular issue to be militant about. Sometimes, it's OK to take the elevator, you know? But I stand firm on gas-guzzlers.
I saw a concert tonight -- a great little Baroque orchestra that reminded me a lot of Tafel -- the 5 euro ticket reminded me of them too -- and 3 singers, performing the two cantatas that Handel wrote in Italian. It was a long concert, about 2.5 hours, but it was really well-played. It took place in the Conservatory's massive Verdi Hall, which puts VKH and Walter Hall to shame, but not Roy Thomson -- it is acoustically excellent but a bit less comfortable than RTH, and smaller, of course. It might seat about 700. It's actually a really nice hall and I have enjoyed everything I've seen there, as the sound is always great and I am always able to find a seat with an excellent view.
Anyway, the three singers -- it was interesting to hear some very dark voices singing repertoire that we normally relegate in our singer-brains to light voices without the power to cut a bigger orchestra. Well, these voices were dark, but definitely rough around the edges and though they were all excellent artists, there were some technical problems with each of them. Isn't it funny? If you can't sing opera, sing Baroque. What a shame, that this mindset/stigma/whatever exists, however subconsciously, in singers' minds. I think this is especially true in Italy, where large, rich voices are prized.
Though the concert ran long, I enjoyed it. It was conducted from the clavicembalo and the violinists and winds stood; I think the energy this brings makes for a more intimate, engaging performance for the audience, not to mention the performers.
If you don't know Tafelmusik, you should... take a second and check them out.
Anyway, I want to tell you something else. Before this concert, I had to teach my class from hell.
Colin Beavan maintains that living no-impact makes you a happier person. Is it possible that this can rub off on other people? My class from hell was not the same class today. I couldn't believe the difference -- they acted like humans, sat still, listened, spoke English, answered questions, and did their homework. Was it because I came in with more positive energy? Maybe it was because we finally had our textbooks -- kids like structure, and they feel like they're in class with a book in front of them. I'd like to think it was the former, though.
Some things just take time, I guess.
So far, this has been a week of victories, and I am glad I can say that after being turned down for the masterclass. Everything bad can be made good; everything old, new; everything used, re-used. This is the lesson!
Oh, and I did it -- I carried my snot around today and it wasn't half bad.
Like when it's 11.30, you're tired and have to pee, haven't really had dinner, and there are seven flights of them.
You'll all be proud to know I did it! I used my feet for the entire day, and when I needed to get somewhere fast (work), I jumped on the subway.
For this week, that's fine. But I think I wouldn't choose this particular issue to be militant about. Sometimes, it's OK to take the elevator, you know? But I stand firm on gas-guzzlers.
I saw a concert tonight -- a great little Baroque orchestra that reminded me a lot of Tafel -- the 5 euro ticket reminded me of them too -- and 3 singers, performing the two cantatas that Handel wrote in Italian. It was a long concert, about 2.5 hours, but it was really well-played. It took place in the Conservatory's massive Verdi Hall, which puts VKH and Walter Hall to shame, but not Roy Thomson -- it is acoustically excellent but a bit less comfortable than RTH, and smaller, of course. It might seat about 700. It's actually a really nice hall and I have enjoyed everything I've seen there, as the sound is always great and I am always able to find a seat with an excellent view.
Anyway, the three singers -- it was interesting to hear some very dark voices singing repertoire that we normally relegate in our singer-brains to light voices without the power to cut a bigger orchestra. Well, these voices were dark, but definitely rough around the edges and though they were all excellent artists, there were some technical problems with each of them. Isn't it funny? If you can't sing opera, sing Baroque. What a shame, that this mindset/stigma/whatever exists, however subconsciously, in singers' minds. I think this is especially true in Italy, where large, rich voices are prized.
Though the concert ran long, I enjoyed it. It was conducted from the clavicembalo and the violinists and winds stood; I think the energy this brings makes for a more intimate, engaging performance for the audience, not to mention the performers.
If you don't know Tafelmusik, you should... take a second and check them out.
Anyway, I want to tell you something else. Before this concert, I had to teach my class from hell.
Colin Beavan maintains that living no-impact makes you a happier person. Is it possible that this can rub off on other people? My class from hell was not the same class today. I couldn't believe the difference -- they acted like humans, sat still, listened, spoke English, answered questions, and did their homework. Was it because I came in with more positive energy? Maybe it was because we finally had our textbooks -- kids like structure, and they feel like they're in class with a book in front of them. I'd like to think it was the former, though.
Some things just take time, I guess.
So far, this has been a week of victories, and I am glad I can say that after being turned down for the masterclass. Everything bad can be made good; everything old, new; everything used, re-used. This is the lesson!
Oh, and I did it -- I carried my snot around today and it wasn't half bad.
12 October 2009
And this, ladies and gents, is why we do what we do.
If I may share something with you...
This post comes from my friend Noah, in Banff, a fellow musician (as is Bonnie his now-wife) and really all-around smart guy. He posted this in his blog after receiving it as a forward in his email and I swear it couldn't have come at a better time for me.
You have to scroll down past his news about the piano and giving a recital, but you will come to an address given to the parents of an incoming freshman class at Boston Conservatory about the importance of music and art in our crazy world. This is totally something my parents need to read!
This post comes from my friend Noah, in Banff, a fellow musician (as is Bonnie his now-wife) and really all-around smart guy. He posted this in his blog after receiving it as a forward in his email and I swear it couldn't have come at a better time for me.
You have to scroll down past his news about the piano and giving a recital, but you will come to an address given to the parents of an incoming freshman class at Boston Conservatory about the importance of music and art in our crazy world. This is totally something my parents need to read!
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