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.

ketchup catch up

In the interest of playing catch-up, my second post today will take us back to December 20, when I fought my way, tooth and claw, into the second-last available seat at La Scala and settled in to see Emma Dante's new production of Carmen.

I LOVED IT!

Half the symbolism went right over my head - I went home and did a lot of googling - but the overwhelming feeling that I was witnessing some sort of pagan cult ritual was what was really important about the production. The costuming and props recalled, I am told, a lot of Sicilian religious imagery, and in my opinion, there was something more deep-seated than that. The images and symbols meant something to me though I didn't know what they meant; Emma Dante has succeeded, I think, in touching some part of the collective unconscious of her audience that, depending on education and experience, will be articulated more or less easily by each member, but nonetheless felt.
Let me give you a few examples.
Micaela, ever the angelic voice on Don José's shoulder, had a black robe pinned up around her that opened to reveal a white dress beneath, which denoted "Don José's mother"; something as simple as white and black imagery made the shift between the two characters impossible to mistake. She was accompanied by a robed priest, lanky and topped with a broad-brimmed hat that my googling told me was a "padre hat", typically worn by itinerant priests of rural congregations, as well as 4 altar boys, who set up a cross at a 40 degree angle to the ground wherever she went and prayed fervently while she sang.
I wish I could find a picture of the quadrilla of the toreador Escamillo for you. Nowhere in my googling could I find a quadrilla that dresses like this traditionally, so I have to assume there is some religious significance. There were 6 or so, and they were dressed in long white robes with sticks in the arms, so they could swish their sleeves when they danced. Their headdresses were comprised of white masks with white veils, recalling the KKK, but topped with an elaborate arrangement of white flowers. It was the strangest thing I have ever seen and if you know anything about this type of costuming, leave a comment!
The cigarette girls were nuns with flowers in their mouths who undressed, jumped in a bath, and frolicked in the water like sirens while the men gaped and Carmen sang the Habanera; the gypsy girls frequently had choreography that recalled rabid beasts. In fact, the only people that seemed untouched by symbolism were Carmen and Don José themselves, and maybe that is because the opera does a fine job of setting Carmen up as the archetypal femme fatale that is the demise of the Everyman, José, and that's enough symbolism as it is (by the way, Jonas Kaufmann is no Everyman. Apparently that wasn't even his best show, and I wanted to cry every time he opened his mouth. He also spent a good deal of the scene in Carmen's den with his shirt off, which was fine with me).
As you might have guessed the singing and direction (Daniel Barenboim) was exceptional across the board and the 25-year-old Anita Rachvelishvili was a sensational Carmen. Apparently she's booked all over the place for the role now. What a heady feeling it must be, at 25, to look up into the theatre and see a full house on their feet for you, and that house be one of the toughest crowds in the world to please. I feel like I witnessed a bit of history in the making.

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...

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!

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.

Incominciamo!

Seeing as the one-month anniversary of the beginning of my sojourn in Italy has come and gone and nary a blog entry is in sight, I have decided to bite the bullet and post something -- anything. When you put something off for so long because you are waiting for the perfect circumstances, it tends to build in import until you can never find it in you to live up to your now obscenely out-of-proportion expectations. To avoid such an imbroglio I humbly present Blog the First.

Where to begin? Because I am beginning mid-journey I will begin where I am and fill in the gaps as the drift of the discourse allows. I am currently in Milano, living happily in a small room in a family's apartment. (If I had a camera right now, I'd post a picture of it, but I don't-- and that's another blog entry altogether...) There are five of us -- Valentina, Ilario and their two daughters Emma and Bianca who are rather cute, but tend to be up pretty early in the morning, doing as children do... Valentina and Ilario couldn't be nicer people, though. I am very happy to be living with a built-in family; it makes me feel like if I needed it, someone has my back. For instance, Vale' took a morning to go with me to get a certain form for which we thought she would also need to sign -- she didn't but it was no problem for her to put that time aside to do me the favour. I like people like that.

I also like people who are sympathetic to foreigners' plight here in Italy. Italy has a reputation for being rather closed to foreigners -- it is notoriously difficult to obtain any sort of documentation you may need to stay legally in the country, thus rendering it impossible to do so; the language is Italian and too bad if you need me to speak slower; political parties like the Lega Nord are spoken of in foreign media in a light which implies racism and extreme patriotism in the North of Italy. On one hand, Italy boasts something like 8,000 km of coastline (don't quote me) and is easy to use as a gateway to the rest of Europe; it is therefore home to a lot of illegal immigrants (and the displeasure at this is vocalized pretty freely; graffiti like Tutti i clandestini a casa (All clandestines go home) is not uncommon). I get it. It's hard enough to find work, let alone that pays (more on that as well); leave the jobs to the residents. Not that I espouse that viewpoint, or any, for that matter. But there are so many people here that completely debunk the stereotype. Of course, the expat community is strong; every job interview I have gone to has also been a session of legal counsel, friendly advice, or simply socializing. But store owners, railway employees, Tabacchi cashiers (where you get your phone card to add credit, or your cigarettes if you're into that), hotel owners, doormen, parents of children I teach, strangers at the bus stop -- everyone is happy to smile and repeat what it is they are trying to communicate to me, or to share advice on the cheaper grocery stores, or to make sure I know to be careful walking through the area I am in, or just to make small talk or regale me with the stories of their lives. It's nice to know advice is dispensable here, that people are not hostile or closed on an individual basis.

I make it seem like Italy has this awful reputation. In fact, it is a wonderful place and most Italians are very outgoing people. I have made some friends and rather quickly; one of the first things I did was attend a masterclass held by Mirella Freni (I audited) and a couple of the singers there have kept in touch. I went to see Olga Borodina at La Scala tonight and made fast friends with the Japanese girl beside me (hilarious that she's from Japan, I'm from Canada, and we are speaking Italian) and we are going to go out soon with some of her friends. It is true, however, that Milano has a reputation in the rest of Italy for being a miserable, grey, un-Italian wasteland; one lady at the bus stop put it like this: "We only leave our houses to work and we only go home to sleep. And we earn nothing. We live badly here." Strong words indeed! What they don't know is that that is how it is in North America, and that in fact, Milano is as Italian as it gets next to Toronto or New York. I can't imagine a typical Milanese in New York! Good luck! Everything closes on Sundays here, and at lunch a lot of places will close as well; that's typical of the rest of Italy but with Milano's reputation I thought it would be different. I was shocked and amused to discover that the Milanesi don't realize they should just count their blessings!

Speaking of feeling different, my first transformation into a true Milanese has occurred. Usually I am not one to care too much about what you think of my clothes, but I have become painfully aware of my appearance, and that most of the time, I feel terribly underdressed and undercoiffed. They use the expression tirato here which comes from the verb tirare, to pull -- someone who is tirato is therefore pulled together, with no loose ends. I, on the other hand, feel like I am trailing threads and flyaways all over the city. This week, my fixation is shoes. It rained the first few days I was here, and I had some interviews to go to. I needed some nice shoes but not anything too warm, and not the sandals I had brought; I didn't want to spend too much because soon I need to buy some shoes for the colder months (I won't say winter, it only gets to be about 5) so I picked up a pair of faux leather pumps for 15 euro. Biggest mistake of my life in recent memory. Right now the back of my right heel looks like I took a pair of scissors and removed the first 9 layers of skin; my left isn't much better. I am limited to my flats, and they are so painful to wear that I can't picture another day with them on my feet. I have therefore carefully noted the types of shoes of every woman I see on the metro and come to the conclusion that my sandals are now considered unseasonal, and I should be wearing either a ballet flat, an ankle boot, or a sharp pair of black sneakers, think Skecher or Steve Madden, or even Puma, preferably with some bling. I am going to a discount shoe store I know of tomorrow and hopefully, I'll be able to face another day a piedi.
Next up: the eighth wonder of Danielle World, La Scala, and its array of interesting ticket-procurement procedures...