I've been in a holding pattern for the last seven months or so, waiting for a sign that moving to Boston and taking the leap to the big city was the right thing to do. In the realm of the career, I'm one who tends to play it safe. Go to the state school with the full academic scholarship, get the safe teaching job that pays well, move to the foreign country but only when fully funded by a benevolant organization so you won't have to worry about money, major in something practical (laugh if you will but in the realm of music degrees, majoring in something like church music seems very practical and applicable when you grow up in the deep South) so you can get the good job so you can own a safe car and life in a safe part of town. Safe safe safe.
While waiting for this sign, I have been rejected by numerous summer programs, reduced to tears in front of a room full of singers by the assistant French coach from the Metropolitan Opera, emotionally and academically abused by the head of the DMA program, and generally treated like poo. Nearly two weeks ago, I actually got told by a judge that languages were not my strong suit and that my voice was 'smallish, with an average sound.' By that point in time, I was so over it, I just shrugged and let my mother and friend Kristy offer to go slash the judge's tires. [and just so you know Mr. I'm from Texas and I direct operas and probably have never sung a note in my life, I kick your ass with my German and remind you that one can't even understand half of what Joan Sutherland says on her recordings. You can stick it in your hautbois and smoke it.]
Let me state for the record that this post is not about self-pity. I went through my pity party when I didn't get into Juilliard - it involved burning the condescending letter and then going to Copeland's for steak and two Crash 'n Burns. I went through my pity party when I didn't advance at the Met Competition - it involved sitting on the sofa and watching the West Wing with a very good beer in my hand. I went through it every time I got a POSTCARD saying that I didn't get in to "insert name of program here" but I still put my headshot in the mail with my CD, neatly labeled with the best excerpts of my singing, in hopes that something would turn up.
I went to Sephora, learned how to really put on some fabulous makeup, spent the bucks on a good haircut and a kick-ass dress and shoes, brought every ounce of whoop-ass possible and got NADA.
And then, I was in the computer lab between class and a choir practice when my friend Andrew taps me on the shoulder and says, "hey, what are you doing ?" and I say, "well we've got choir in 45 minutes, I'm going to get some supper and go to choir" and he says, "okay, I already called Tom (our boss) and told him you're going to be late because you're going to do this audition for a summer program in Italy. They're doing Rigoletto and Traviata." *blink blink* "Andrew, I'm in jeans and a sweater. I have zero makeup on, I don't have my resume with me or my headshot, I look like crap on a stick, I'm not doing a last-minute audition." "I already told them you're coming, close that window and go put some lipstick on."
This is not like me. I don't do the spontaneous audition. It requires a level of sheer gumption that I just don't think I have. But I figure I have nothing really to lose except fifteen minutes so I run my fingers through my hair, dig out my lipstick and borrow some powder and grab my soprano anthology book. I shake hands with the woman in charge, I sing my Handel and she says to me, "I really love your middle voice but I'd like to hear if there's real ease in the top."
I can still hear her saying these words and I'm laughing hysterically inside because honey, you want high notes, I've got high notes for days. So I offer to sing the cadenza from Lakme and then she says, "do you know Caro Nome?" And I've played it a jillion times but never sung it so I say, "I don't have the music with me but sure." The accompanist picks a spot and I sing my thing and she says, "wonderful, thank you." I think that I will never hear from this woman again, go to Wendy's and get a baked potato and go to choir. End of story.
Until last week. I had been offered this really wonderful job singing with a choir at the Carmel Bach Festival and was just about to accept. Nothing else had come down the line so I figured taking a choir gig was a good deal, I'd make a little money and spend some time in California getting away from the Yankees with whom I work on a daily basis. Last Thursday I drag my ass out of bed, I make myself some tea and I sit down to check my email. And there's an email from the director of the program asking if I would like to come to Italy and sing Gilda in Rigoletto.
*nerd moment - For those of you who are not familiar with this opera, Gilda is Rigoletto's daughter, she gets seduced and tossed away by the Duke of Mantua and ultimately, when her father tries to avenge her honor and have the Duke killed, Gilda ends up in the bag and dies tragically. This is a big deal in the world of opera - if you're a soprano and you die, chances are, you're the leading lady.*
So after I begin breathing again, I look into the specs of the program. Dates overlap with Carmel. Shit. So this means I can't do both. At this point in time, I am faced with the realization that this is a SIGN. Not the kind of sign I was looking for, but this is definitely a sign. This is a "Okay Emily, do you want to be an opera singer or do you want to be a chorus girl?" sign. The kind that comes at the worst possible time, and asks you to look carefully at both your long-term and short-term needs and goals. I talk this over with the husband, the voice teacher, anyone who will sit still, and after about six days of flim-flamming, I decide to take the leap.
I'm taking the leap, walking away from the safe job, and I'm going to Italy for four weeks to learn Italian, study my craft, and sing possibly one of the most amazing roles in the repertoire. I'm taking the leap and committing myself to being a singer and doing what it takes in order to achieve that goal. And if I can just stop second-guessing myself and enjoy the fun of saying, "I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda," I think it will eventually drown out the voice that says, "play it safe, play it safe, play it safe."
Incidentally, while this debate was still in progress, I got a callback for Boston Lyric Opera's 2006-07 season. It's a callback, it's not a job offer yet, but it's a callback with a professional house. And even if they want to hire me to be third fairy from the left, it's still work that pays at a professional house.
And with that said, I just want to say that I'm glad we moved to Boston. I'm glad that my husband is wonderfully supportive enough to say, "go to Italy, we'll make it happen." I'm glad that we decided to take this chance that is forcing me to choose my path, rather than waiting for whatever turns up. And by the way, if I haven't told you yet, I'm going to Italy this summer to sing Gilda.
Woohoo!
