Interview with a knife-wielding psychopath. Or someone who just plays one on stage.

Through a friend, I was introduced to a young soprano learning the Queen of the Night for the first time.  He asked if I would be interested in working with her, coaching her through the role.  We met for the first time a few days ago, just after the dress rehearsal for Aïda had ended.  I was glazed with Verdi and totally ready to work some Mozart.  It was a real thrill to walk someone through this role that I now know so well.  We talked about the subtleties of the language (why the 'Du' is different from the 'Sie,' how the subjunctive conveys possibility and what that means), the many tools a character uses to get what they want (playing verbs: to teach, to punish, to seduce, to coax, to convince), and how to let yourself off the hook of singing every single note like it's the last note you'll ever sing.  Singing coloratura with creativity and style.  When it's important to dig in, and when to let yourself off the hook.  After 90 minutes, when she was fully glazed with Mozart, we called it an evening.


During the course of our coaching, I realized that the Queen and I have been together for almost 9 years now.  I have -zero- memory of learning 'O zittre nicht,' even though it's by far my favorite aria.  I have very vivid recollections of showing up several hours early to put my fake claw-nails on and paint my skin pale blue, as well as finding out just how sticky spirit gum can be when applied to your face.  I don't remember the first performance.  I don't remember being nervous, because I don't think I was.  Please don't mistake this for arrogance - I'm quite sure I was unaware that this was a big deal, because I didn't know what was a big deal and what wasn't.  I thought getting my highlights done was a big deal, and writing an opera history paper was not.  Who has perspective at 23?  What I do remember was trying very hard not to drop my staff (weighted on top by a very large glass globe), trying not to fall down the stairs for our final exit (3-inch stiletto heels = death wish), and trying to figure out how to use the bathroom with dragon lady nail extensions glued to my fingers.  [final solution: makeup first, then costume, pee break, then nails.  No water until after first aria, pee break at intermission.  No water again until the show was over.]  Giving the appearance that I knew what I was doing seemed priority.  

So this young soprano is taking a class in music business, in which they learn about taxes, agents, negotiations, and have to interview people who are working professionals.  [Sidebar soapbox: why is this class not required at every music school in the country???]  She asked if we could meet this morning so I could be interviewed as a working professional.  I'm pretty much happy to share what little I know with whomever asks, so I said sure.  She asked me about my education - where did I start, what did I study.  She asked me about transitioning from a student to a young artist and a professional artist - how often do I have lessons, how often do I coach, how did I meet my agent, how are professional auditions different from young artist auditions.  What's the thing I like most about what I do - great colleagues doing great work together.  What's the thing I like least about what I do - shitty colleagues doing shitty work and feeling like my time is wasted.  And airports.  And then, at the end, she asked me about what I thought aspiring professionals really needed to know in order to make a successful go at this business.

The reader's digest version is this:  Know thyself.  If you don't know who you are as a person, it's a lot harder to play someone else.  And if you don't have a sense of yourself off-stage, it makes living a life off-stage a lot more difficult.  Between gigs, you have to have a life.  That life will not magically come to you.  You can fritter away days and months and years doing nothing of substance, learning nothing, sharing nothing, being nothing.  It takes real effort and commitment to sustain friendships, to invest in quality time with your family and loved ones, to carve out real leisure time, and to care for your body as well as your soul.

Here's the other great mystery: you have to be willing to sell your art to pay your mortgage, without trying to sell yourself at the same time.  You have to walk into a room of people who are shopping for something (and to the person who thinks they know what they're looking for, I have a nice piece of waterfront property to show you), and show them what you can do, without trying to give it away.  You have to prepare, daily, for the onslaught of pressure, rejection, ecstasy, disappointment, happiness, stress, joy, and disorder that plagues this business, and you have to be able to ride those waves without losing your mind entirely.  And as I said these things to her, I realized something else:  I might just know what I'm doing after all.

It's a good day when I get to talk about this business, see old friends, stand before the Chagall windows, watch the snow fall over Millennium Park, and know that I'm right where I should be.  In my body, living my life, loving my husband, my dog, my family, and my friends.  A good day, indeed. 

I like to eat

I was at brunch with a very very dear friend, who happens to be an amazing, badass, smack-your-momma-he's-that-good baritone. He's also incredibly multifaceted, loves baseball, food, and New Orleans almost as much as I do. One of the things I love about talking with him is his very realistic attitude toward what we do. I was telling him about covering in this production and how I get up every day, run out some of my crazy on the treadmill, warm up, go through the tricky bits of my arias, and then move on to other repertoire before I check in with my day job emails. And he said, "you'll do fine then." There is no live-or-die drama about whether or not I know how to do my job, because I've got this. There is no need for high hysteria about whether or not I'll get called in, because I've got this. And what's really strange - somewhere along the way, when the switch flipped from the "Vissi d'arte" way of life (as I like to call it) to the "I am who I am, but I am not my job" way of life, I became more secure in what I do, not less.
So we're yapping about what he's up to, how he's learning this new role and he's all fretsome because he says male menopause has hit and he just can't focus like he used to, but he's gonna finish learning Act 1 this week and start on Act 2 next week until he's got it all learned, with the hopes of having it memorized by the time he arrives in Berlin, and he knows that houses are cutting performances and fees aren't what they used to be, so he'll have to start looking for that job that takes him into retirement because opera does NOT treat singers past their prime with kindness. So I ask him the question - "Do you like to teach?" And he says, without missing a beat, "I like to eat."

This is it. I love my husband. I love my dog. I love my family. None of that will ever go away.
When you start to try to feed yourself by your art, it becomes a business deal. Keep your eye on your health, your sanity, and your appetite, and you'll do fine.

I also like to eat :)