I just got home from Pagliacci. It's dress rehearsal night number two, and then everyone gets a day and night to rest before opening night on Saturday. I've never seen Pagliacci before, which elicits incredulous gasps from my colleagues, but in the interest of productivity, I tend to listen to operas that I'm learning and/or operas that I could someday perform. I still have my Maria Callas collection, so don't go thinking that I only listen to Natalie Dessay and the other twitterbirds of my type. I don't shun the big rep, but let's be real for a moment - it's not like I'm going to be eligible for Isolde.
Weeks like this, it's important for me to go to the opera house and see what we do. I took my host mom with me - she'd never seen Pagliacci either so it was a new experience for both of us. As young artists we get free tickets and are allowed to sit down front in the super expensive seats during dress rehearsals (the ones that probably cost half a month's rent) so that's what we did. Sashaying past the ushers and the staff, pretending that we're really big shot donors who can afford the seats close enough to see the part in the conductor's hair. I usually sit up in the balcony or, the two times I've been to the Met, I stand in the back and squint. I acknowledge that it's a visual art form, but if my ears are pleased my eyes don't mind so much. But this was a strange treat for me, to sit down front and really look up close. I have to confess, the singing was not amazing. I wasn't blown away by the lush color or the incredible high notes that left me wanting more. I was really most moved by the acting between Nedda, Canio and Silvio. I've seen the Nedda/Silvio duet before so I was looking forward to it, but it was really beautiful tonight and I found myself back in that always unexpected but happy to be there place - the place where I'm really happy to be an opera singer because something magical is happening on stage.
It hasn't been a great week. I had to leave my husband and come back to Seattle, launch right into rehearsals for an outreach show and as of today, do double duty in rehearsals because my casting double is out of town for the next week. Today that meant running around in figure eights ten times instead of five, practicing the lifts six times instead of three, practicing the tug of war pull turn dip lift your foot in the air and hold move more times than I can remember (though my quads have not stopped reminding me) and trying very VERY hard to keep a pleasant expression on my face when the director, attempting to demonstrate how she thought my feet should get lifted off the ground, said, "WOW this really is hard - I didn't realize how heavy she is." Great. Why don't you get me a nice paper cut and pour some lemon juice on it? (movie reference, anyone?) Then, I had to have an excruciating phone conversation with a young artist administrator about why the invitation to join the program at %% Opera, made by ******, is essentially null and void because WHOOPS, ***** didn't talk to ^^^^^ and the roles that we thought we had for you are cast and contracted. But thanks for flying out to sing for us between two snow storms, we still think you're great. Keep us posted. And other niceties that we say when trying to end an awkward phone conversation.
I'm thinking of my little sister Marge and her cell phone that rings "Always look on the bright side of life." Sometimes it's really hard to gain perspective. I had to go to the gym for two hours yesterday and lift until my muscles were shaking to really get to my clear-headed place. What is this life that we choose as opera singers? We choose to be away from the ones we love, family friends and (in my case) dogs, so that we can chase this elusive art that embraces you while sticking its finger in your soft spot and sends you home every time, a little more humbled than you began. Humility is good - keeps us honest. Keeps the art form honest. But as we all know, art and mortals don't mix well together - we worship at the porcelain font and bring our humble offerings but then some suit with an MBA comes along and says, "okay, but do you think we can sell tickets? what will the t-shirts look like? and how the hell do you market a porcelain font?"
I try to forget about those people - or at the very least, push them out of my direct view. I try to keep my art right in front of me, where I can still feel the tears rolling down my face as Canio stabs Silvio and then comes back to weep over the body of Nedda. I try to hold that feeling as long as I can, to remind me that it's not about the business. It's not about the font on my resume and it's not even about whether or not I'm the princess in the fluffy dress (still holding out for that one). It's about the endeavor to touch something great and then turn to the audience and share it with them. And that's why I go to the opera and that's why tomorrow morning when my alarm goes off at 7:45am, I will drag my ass out of bed for another day of double duty staging and I will sit on the bus and review my lines and bring my Hoffmann score with me to my coaching and sit with my colleague and coach him through his German during lunch. And on those days when the clarity just won't come, I'll cheat and go listen to the end of Act I in Boheme and remember.
Sing in me, O muse.
