Comparison

A few days ago, I had my first performance as an Ensemblemitglied (translation: a full-time employed opera singer who works primarily at one opera house) in Verdi's Un Ballo in Maschera.  Now, momma don't usually sing Verdi, but Oscar fits like a snazzy pair of running shoes.  He/she is a know-it-all trouble-making sass-giving back-talking busybody who sings zippy things and provides some levity in the midst of some serious bizarre love triangle omigosh this opera is about killing a king drama.  I had a great time, I got to wear some awesome outfits, and I can't wait to do it again.

Challenges singing Verdi presents: you have to be able to pop around like a coloratura, but then you have to hitch up those big girl britches and sing you some legato.  You have to be able to sing over the top of two male choruses and tenor soloists and make it sound beautiful and easy.  And you have to do it with your boobs flattened down against your chest by what can only be described as a smasher-downer (German vocabulary of the week: "Brustquetscher" - "Breast-squeezer") and acting like a young-ish boy, which can sometimes translate to lots of running and jumping and such.

Luckily, there's a six-week rehearsal period for new productions, so you have a good amount of time to develop your character's physicality, personality, learn the staging, experiment with new ways to deliver lines, integrate input from the director/music director, all that good stuff.  For someone who likes to overprepare and overthink things, this method is kind of great.  It gives me enough time to get in my own way and then get out of my own way.  I was also splitting rehearsal time with one of my colleagues, as we were double cast.  She's been at the house a lot longer than I have (12 years, to be precise) and she knows her way around the house, so it was really a gift to have her sharing the benefits of her insight with me - everything from how to fill out forms to which person to go to when you need shit to get done and how to find out the things you need to find out.  Good colleagues are always a valuable commodity.

The director was very clear from the beginning that he saw us as two distinct artists.  We aren't shaped the same, we don't move the same, and our instincts aren't the same, so he didn't expect us to be the same.  This made me ecstatic, because it meant he didn't expect me to mimic her or her to mimic me.  Some things, basic traffic patterns, sure, those were essentially the same.  But when it comes to how we do what we do, he gave us liberty to be ourselves.  (For the record, it isn't always like this.)  And when my premiere was over and done, he gave me a big hug and told me he was really pleased with how much I'd made the movements, the expressions, and the whole character my own.  He said he could see that it was really motivated, from start to finish, and that he was very pleased.  I was so tickled, I could have pinched myself.

Opening nights are full of hugs and smooches and occasional head-desk moments where you do something you weren't supposed to do (like leave the row of the bow to go get the director who's.....NOT standing at stage right like you practiced) and opening night gifts (I made skull-and-crossbones cookies for my castmates) for your colleagues and your dresser and makeup person and all the people who make the night go from start to finish.  And if all goes well (or at least according to plan) everyone goes home with a rose and a smile on their face.  And I did.  And I was grateful and happy.

But then I made a classic mistake.  I looked for the reviews.

head-desk head-desk head-desk head-desk head-desk head-desk head-desk

Why oh why oh WHY did I do this?  Because my stupid vanity wanted to see if someone else liked my performance.  Stupid stupid stupid stupid.

And this brings me to today's quote.  "Comparison is the thief of joy." (Theodore Roosevelt)

There was one review of my performance on an arts blog.  Someone who writes about the shows at my opera house.  I hesitate to call it a review because he really didn't talk about my singing.  He talked about how my singing was not like my colleague's singing, which he enjoyed very much.  He made a comparison.  See the quote of the day.  There goes the joy, straight out the window.  I am an idiot.  And instead of thinking about how much fun it was to be onstage with my wonderful colleagues, I found myself in that shame spiral of comparison, following the treacherous trail of bread crumbs right down the open sucking drain of awfulness.

I'm going to a party this evening.  It's a housewarming for one of my colleagues who's in a new apartment.  My hunny has made banana nut muffins that will blow your mind.  And I am going to put this ridiculousness out of my mind and out of my heart and banish my unnecessarily hurt feelings because everyone is entitled to give their opinion.  They are allowed to give it, but I am the only one who can take it.

And while it's not Teddy Roosevelt, I'm going to borrow some wisdom from some colorful stage creatures and not take it anymore.