Almost every exchange between an artist and someone who wishes to hire them can be boiled down to the first few lines of this Aretha Franklin song:
-----
What you want (someone to sing x piece)
Baby, I got it (I know x piece and am available on that date)
What you need (someone to sing x piece on very short notice)
You know I got it (I am amenable to your suggestion, and I appreciate that time is short)
All I'm asking is for a little respect (now let's talk turkey 'cause I paid good money for all those voice lessons)
Just a little bit
-----
Every time someone asks you to sing something, what's your first response? Yes yes yes! I would love to sing for you! I spent all those years singing absolutely jack shit for zero money (and scales and exercises for $$ per hour) and you want to pay me $50 to show up and get dressed up to sing something that's completely inappropriate for me? That would be AWESOME! And I have to pay for my own transportation? Sure, I don't mind coming in for a crazy number of rehearsals because this is about art, right? Wait, what am I singing? Isn't that written for a dramatic mezzo/baritone/tenor/rock musical?
Take a breath.
Are you selling art for a living? Are you selling YOUR art for a living? Is it art that comes from an instrument you play and/or the instrument you are? Did you spend a lot of time learning to do that thing? Do you take great care of that instrument by putting it in a special case, insuring it against any harm that might come from being thrown by an airport worker and/or have a first-name relationship with your ENT because every scratchy throat counts?
Take another breath.
Every time someone asks you to sing/play your instrument, you have to have a conversation with yourself. This conversation happens BEFORE the chorus of 'Respect,' but should follow the same formula.
What they want - is it something you can do? Is it something you should do? Is it something you can accomplish in a relatively short period of time and exhibit 90-95% of the skills you possess? Is it appropriate for where you are in your development and/or appropriate for the voice you have (NOT the voice you may develop in 10 years) or will it stretch your growth plates to an uncomfortable/unpleasant level?
What they need - do you already know this piece? Are you a quick learner? Are you a fast memorizer AND an accurate one? Are you the kind of person who can look at something once and have it, or does it take hours with a coach? Is this a language you're proficient in or do you need to get yourself to the library and meld your face to that Nico Castel guide?
All I'm asking is for a little respect - if you don't know your limits, how do you know when you're pushing them? If you don't know what your voice is capable of doing when it's in top condition, how do you know what you can get through with a head cold? You've got to respect the instrument. If you listen hard enough, it will tell you what it wants.
Why am I writing about this? Because I have an inner Labrador who loves to play fetch. The longer the throw, the harder I will run to catch it. The more ridiculous the ask, the more likely it is that I would say yes. Until very recently.
When people find out you're a good sight-reader, you get a lot of jump-in work at churches where someone has come down with the plague and they need someone to step into a section and hold it down with right notes and correct rhythms and a tone that won't break glass. When people find out you're also a pianist, they know they can ask you to sit down and play parts/accompaniment/read open score and, chances are, you can do it. And when people find out that you're a person who says YES YES YES to anything before you hear all the terms, then you start giving away the farm. Only in this case, "the farm" stands for "professional equity." About 21 months ago, I jumped into a production of Rake's Progress, an opera that had long been on my 'omigosh I would totally sing that piece for a slice of pizza' list. I had 3 weeks to learn it and no coach and I was in production for Magic Flute on another continent. When I got off the plane, jet-lagged as all hell, I dropped my suitcase at the hotel, went straight to music rehearsal, and sang through the role with the cast. All of them had done the show before, and it was my first time. I was terrified, but I was off-book and I sang well. I knew this role was right for me, I knew it suited my abilities really well, and I really really wanted to do it. (never underestimate the power of "I wannaaaaaaa!") This is the best possible situation for doing something at the last minute - the intersection of your desires and someone else's needs. Now let's talk about the other. When to say (politely, but firmly), "No."
If you don't have the time to do an excellent job. Really and truly.
If you don't have the appropriate skill set/voice type/language skills to be applied within the time constraints.
Notice I didn't say, "If you really hate the piece." There will be pieces you will hate. There will be pieces you will tolerate. There will be pieces that will grow on you like creeping roses and others that will grow like fungus and you can't wait to wipe them away from your hard-drive brain. Saying no is much harder than saying yes. But judging the consequences of both takes time and discernment. You have to know yourself and respect yourself. And that's, perhaps, the hardest work of all.
Thursday, September 05, 2013
Sunday, September 01, 2013
Reality bites
Or: what happens when you get what you wished for...
Twelve days ago, my husband and I loaded two suitcases, a trunk, two carry-ons, two backpacks, a dog crate, and a very confused chocolate labrador into two vehicles, bound for the airport. After we figured out how many humans (and how many of those silly airport carts) it takes to get all that crap to the ticket desk, got the crate and the dog inspected by the TSA, surrendered our luggage, and bid a tearful goodbye to the dog (who, for the record, was relatively unfazed by everything until we tried to get him into the crate), my darling voice teacher and her husband said, "C'mon. We'll feed ya dinner."
Only after I was clutching my scotch (Laphroig 10 - it'll do) and sucking down oysters did it begin to sink in.
Holy shit, y'all. We're moving to Germany. Like right freaking now.
Thankfully, princess Ambien was on our side and ensured at least 7 hours of sleep aboard our Lufthansa flight. Sammy was waiting for us on the other side of baggage claim, our luggage was unscathed and unopened, the rental station wagon was large enough to accommodate all of our stuff (though it was a bit like Tetris to get it all in), and the roommate of a friend was able to meet us at exactly the right time to pick up the two suitcases we had stored in Frankfurt back in July. What followed was a week that can best be described in the lingo of Jack Donaghy:
Reaganing.
We got ourselves registered at the Ausländerbehörde, put in the paperwork for our health insurance, got my tax ID number, turned in all my paperwork at the opera house, changed our address with the bank, hooked up the internet, ported my cell number into Google Voice, remembered our bags for the grocery store, even made time to practice and work. We were Reaganing like whoa. Which is why it's no surprise that the bottom totally fell out around day 7. Even with the delirium of jet lag, sustaining that kind of "Wow! We are crushing it in a foreign country!" enthusiasm is too much. Things back home required our attention, unexpected snags with foreign language instruction, everyone at the opera house is on vacation so NO, we can't fix your messed up summer paycheck. In short, life happened. Reality happened. And sometimes, reality bites you in the ass.
I don't say any of this as some kind of cautionary tale against optimism or perseverance. I say this because I'm not good at 'rolling with it.' It's not in my skill set. I'm a planner. I'm a do-er. I'm a do-er with at least four backup plans. But what I can't prepare for (and yet, I still try) is the incomprehensibility of the human animal. Crazy shit happens - someone drops a ball, doesn't cop to it, but ultimately it's on you. Worse, a ball gets dropped and no one knows who dropped it, so no one takes responsibility. Once again, that's right, it's on you. If you're one of those people who feels responsibility heavily, which I do. Must be the Protestant work ethic. Or latent Catholic guilt. Or some combination thereof. At any rate. That's not the end of the story. This is the end of the story.
The end of the story is how we deal when shit hits the fan. Or, as I heard the excellent Kurt Vonnegut once say, "when the excrement hits the air conditioner." If you're like me (read: a control freak) you start looking for ways to inject order into an otherwise disorderly world. You pull on your shoes and go for a brisk walk, which you measure on mapmyrun.com when you get back, and you log it into your log. Because logging things helps you feel like progress is being made. You log your expenses into your spreadsheet and write another email to the person in charge to harass them about your paycheck.
But I'm still not finished yet. Because this isn't coping well. This is coping typically.
Coping well is recognizing that you have done all you can do, all that's in your power on this day, and that it's time to take yourself off the hook. Pet the dog. Tack on a little more time to the brisk walk. Don't forget to stretch, even though you're chomping to see if your emails have yielded the result you wish for (they haven't - it's the weekend, you fool), and, as you ease yourself into pigeon position, try to exhale out some of the crazy you've been making. And inhale some of the incredible life you realize you've been freaking out about. Because holy shit, y'all - we live in Germany. All of us. Husband, wife, dog, clothes, toiletries, music, computers, kitchen stuff. We all made it in one piece. And for that major victory, we deserve to cut ourselves some freakin slack.
So my charge to myself today (and to every other overachiever out there) is to stay in my pyjamas. Drink another cup of tea. Read another chapter of whatever you're reading, then another. Enjoy the sunlight coming in through that open window and pet the dog as he pads by. Don't let fear take away the beauty of this moment. Because *poof* it's gone already.
Twelve days ago, my husband and I loaded two suitcases, a trunk, two carry-ons, two backpacks, a dog crate, and a very confused chocolate labrador into two vehicles, bound for the airport. After we figured out how many humans (and how many of those silly airport carts) it takes to get all that crap to the ticket desk, got the crate and the dog inspected by the TSA, surrendered our luggage, and bid a tearful goodbye to the dog (who, for the record, was relatively unfazed by everything until we tried to get him into the crate), my darling voice teacher and her husband said, "C'mon. We'll feed ya dinner."
Only after I was clutching my scotch (Laphroig 10 - it'll do) and sucking down oysters did it begin to sink in.
Holy shit, y'all. We're moving to Germany. Like right freaking now.
Thankfully, princess Ambien was on our side and ensured at least 7 hours of sleep aboard our Lufthansa flight. Sammy was waiting for us on the other side of baggage claim, our luggage was unscathed and unopened, the rental station wagon was large enough to accommodate all of our stuff (though it was a bit like Tetris to get it all in), and the roommate of a friend was able to meet us at exactly the right time to pick up the two suitcases we had stored in Frankfurt back in July. What followed was a week that can best be described in the lingo of Jack Donaghy:
Reaganing.
We got ourselves registered at the Ausländerbehörde, put in the paperwork for our health insurance, got my tax ID number, turned in all my paperwork at the opera house, changed our address with the bank, hooked up the internet, ported my cell number into Google Voice, remembered our bags for the grocery store, even made time to practice and work. We were Reaganing like whoa. Which is why it's no surprise that the bottom totally fell out around day 7. Even with the delirium of jet lag, sustaining that kind of "Wow! We are crushing it in a foreign country!" enthusiasm is too much. Things back home required our attention, unexpected snags with foreign language instruction, everyone at the opera house is on vacation so NO, we can't fix your messed up summer paycheck. In short, life happened. Reality happened. And sometimes, reality bites you in the ass.
I don't say any of this as some kind of cautionary tale against optimism or perseverance. I say this because I'm not good at 'rolling with it.' It's not in my skill set. I'm a planner. I'm a do-er. I'm a do-er with at least four backup plans. But what I can't prepare for (and yet, I still try) is the incomprehensibility of the human animal. Crazy shit happens - someone drops a ball, doesn't cop to it, but ultimately it's on you. Worse, a ball gets dropped and no one knows who dropped it, so no one takes responsibility. Once again, that's right, it's on you. If you're one of those people who feels responsibility heavily, which I do. Must be the Protestant work ethic. Or latent Catholic guilt. Or some combination thereof. At any rate. That's not the end of the story. This is the end of the story.
The end of the story is how we deal when shit hits the fan. Or, as I heard the excellent Kurt Vonnegut once say, "when the excrement hits the air conditioner." If you're like me (read: a control freak) you start looking for ways to inject order into an otherwise disorderly world. You pull on your shoes and go for a brisk walk, which you measure on mapmyrun.com when you get back, and you log it into your log. Because logging things helps you feel like progress is being made. You log your expenses into your spreadsheet and write another email to the person in charge to harass them about your paycheck.
But I'm still not finished yet. Because this isn't coping well. This is coping typically.
Coping well is recognizing that you have done all you can do, all that's in your power on this day, and that it's time to take yourself off the hook. Pet the dog. Tack on a little more time to the brisk walk. Don't forget to stretch, even though you're chomping to see if your emails have yielded the result you wish for (they haven't - it's the weekend, you fool), and, as you ease yourself into pigeon position, try to exhale out some of the crazy you've been making. And inhale some of the incredible life you realize you've been freaking out about. Because holy shit, y'all - we live in Germany. All of us. Husband, wife, dog, clothes, toiletries, music, computers, kitchen stuff. We all made it in one piece. And for that major victory, we deserve to cut ourselves some freakin slack.
So my charge to myself today (and to every other overachiever out there) is to stay in my pyjamas. Drink another cup of tea. Read another chapter of whatever you're reading, then another. Enjoy the sunlight coming in through that open window and pet the dog as he pads by. Don't let fear take away the beauty of this moment. Because *poof* it's gone already.
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