Frailty, thy name is 'voce'

It's been a week since the show opened and we've got our third show tonight.  I've still got some lingering throat crud from the crazy weather changes, but I know it will be gone by 6:30pm when the curtain goes up tonight.  More reviews have come in, good and bad alike, and I've come to the conclusion that I will not wake up with another voice inside my throat simply because someone gave me a review.  If only it were so!  How many times have we wished for the ability to take that pesky little mechanism out of our throat, take it apart and clean every corner, tweak it until it runs like a NASCAR racer, and put it back in, better than it was before.  Well Virginia, there may indeed be a Santa Claus, but anatomy don't lie and you only get the one larynx so just deal with reality.  Some things, many things actually, are beyond our control.  Like illness.  

I'm not actually talking about my own illness, I'm talking about the illness of one of my colleagues that caused the artistic director to pull her from the show at intermission the other night.  Poor darling, she's got a nasty bug and even though she made it through the first act beautifully, her cover was put on notice and sent onstage to do the second act.  It's every young singer's secret and unspoken dream, and every other singer's secret and unspoken nightmare. What do you mean, she's sick?  Like really sick?  And I get to put on the costume and perform the role that I've been nurturing all this time?  I really get to do it?  

I'm sick.  Yes, I know.  But I can still get through this, I can I know I can.  But you're putting on the understudy.  Oh God, please don't let this be happening.  

This is my soapbox for the moment: supporting your colleagues.  Really supporting them, not this false show of kindness and collegiality that only lasts until the other person is out of the room.  We are all vulnerable to this kind of incident.  My husband and I recently signed up for life insurance, for both of us, and disability insurance, just for him.  Why just for him, you might ask.  Because the insurance company doesn't see not being able to sing as "disability."  

They can't qualify exactly what that means, so they won't insure it.  Have you ever met a singer who can't sing anymore?  I'm not talking about the ones who retire.  A singer who's on vocal rest because they've got health issues.  It's like a caged animal living behind those eyes, terrified that they will never be able to open their mouth and make that noise again, terrified that they will open their mouth and the noise that comes out will not even remotely resemble the sound that they spent years and years of lessons and coaching and education honing into a sound that would pay their rent.  Every time a singer cracks a note, or feels that tickle start to come in, the terror stirs and asks, "will this be the last?"  Dramatic, I know, but bear with me here - we live and work in wigs and dresses that require three people to get through the door.  The incredible frailty of those little muscles that live inside the throat of every singer should inspire the utmost compassion and sympathy, especially from their colleagues.  So I tell you this now: every time you think bad thoughts about that singer who's in your cast, the one who really wish would come down with a terminal case of bad hair and retire, every time you talk about another singer being a drama queen because they won't go out the night before a performance, or mock them for drinking water when everyone else has a cocktail, ask yourself this question:

Who will hold my hand when they tell me I'm not going on for act II?  

I'm really lucky right now.  I've got wonderful colleagues.  WONDERFUL.  And I'm relishing it because I know it will not always be this way.  So you double up on your vitamin C and say your prayers and give thanks for whatever gift the good Lord gave you.  Be kind to one another.

I'm off to the theatre.  

A blog in three parts

There's a lot to say, so we'll do this Lord of the Rings-style.

Part I:  The Birds

I got to the theatre for opening night a bit early.  More than a bit early, really.  Early enough to get a sandwich from Pret, stand in line at Cafe Nero (yes, I am the girl who gets her sandwich from one place and her latte from another) and still get backstage 20 minutes before my makeup call.  Changed into dressing gown and stockings and character shoes, listened to silly music on iPod to keep spirits up and nerves down.  Eddie the makeup wizard was there to put on the most beautiful false eyelashes that look like exotic birds and make sure my wig didn't get inspired to go anywhere.  We were hearing the calls go out over the PA and the admins were dashing in and out, handing out cards and bringing flowers and well-wishing.  First night is always so much fun.  Everyone is hopeful and excited and just so thrilled to get things off the ground finally.  So my dresser shows up to lace me into my corset and we hear the audience start to titter.  And then laugh.  And laugh even louder, when Eddie turns to me and says, "Something's happened....it must be the birds."  Now some of you know this score already, but here's the catch-up:  George the birdman is in costume every night, just in case one of his trained beauties decides to go off-message.  He's been onstage maybe three times in 20 years, but those birds got a wild hair (or feather, if you will) and decided that nope nosiree were they going into the basket not having any of it.  George did go out and rescue our Papageno and the show did go on.  Despite last week's close encounter with illness, I got up on that stage and brought every inch of game I have.  I was fierce, I was manipulative, I played good mommy/ bad mommy and I didn't trip on my train.  And when the wall closed back, I was satisfied, happy even, with the way Act I had gone for me.  During intermission the admins came back to say how pleased they were and they hoped I was pleased too.  I was scarfing half of my Pret sandwich, trying to replace some of the calories I had just burned.  I'm always amazed by how much energy this role takes out of me.  Maybe it's the ramp-up, but I have to say I'm relieved every time the arias are over.  It's like the high jump - will I clear the bar?  Because there is no redemption if I don't clear the bar.  Act II is time for serious concentration.  Pace backstage to get the swish into my skirt, feel my foot roll into the floor, envision myself as the stalking panther, deep breath and into the scene.  Stalking panther, spitting cobra, Joan Crawford, throw the knife, grab the wrists and throw to the ground, boom let's sing about vengeance.  

Breath breath breath center the brain lower that larynx and don't forget to actually sing, not just hiss and spit.  Norma Desmond Bette Davis Kathy Bates Maria Callas Carrie Diana Damrau take a breath and pick up the knife, wail like a banshee, exit with thunder and lightning.

Score.  Eat a carmel egg.  Change for the finale.  Half a cup of coffee.  Stalk in an overcoat, go down the trap, begin to throw off clothes for quick change, someone takes off my wig wrap, pull up the corset, shove the skirt underneath, double check for earrings and necklace, straighten gloves, hightail it upstairs and don't get snagged on the doorframe.  Bows.  Lots of yelling, and the roar wells up and surprises me.  The balcony just goes up and up and up and up and the lights are so bright.  Tiptoeing forward and backward in the line so I don't get tripped up in my skirts and then the curtain comes down down and we're hugging and kissing and congratulating each other and it's beautiful.  I want to do this as long as I can, with these people.  Because I have the best colleagues ever.  Hugs hugs hugs find the dresser get unhooked start to take off the eyelashes and spirit gum and don't scrub too hard you'll take off a full layer of skin brush out the pincurls hoo boy that looks interesting throw on my nice shoes for the opening night party congrats congrats good show see you upstairs yes.  

Everyone should have the opportunity to feel like this, at least once in their lifetime.  To stand on an historic stage, whatever form that takes, and to know that you've showed out well.  

Here endeth part one.

Part II:  Opinions are like....well, you know.

I'm rubber, you're glue.  I know you are, but what am I.  As you get older, these kinds of insults transform into more acidic, pointed, personal barbs that are designed to make your point with maximum impact and minimum length, hopefully ending in someone walking away quickly.  Now I wouldn't be a good girl if I didn't know how to turn a phrase, so I know when someone is trying to put me down.  You don't have to sugar-coat it, but at least tell the truth.  That's all I ask of you, if you're going to talk smack.  Opening night was Saturday, so reviews usually come out Monday.  Just after midnight, on a serious dissertation tear that started as a two-hour stint in Pret and ended in butter chicken after 10pm, I decided to have a look-see.  Thanks to google, one can find almost any kind of information at the click of a mouse and, if you know what you're looking for, it makes the fishing part easier.  So I went fishing.  And boy did I get the business end of that hook.  Lacking authority.  Has technical facility.  Lacking technical facility.  Good acting.  Bad acting.  No acting.  Excellent character.  Not old enough to be believable (that's a new one - I'm sorry, aren't we here for the willful suspension of disbelief?).  And here's where I draw the line: sang wrong notes.  He didn't even come out and say it.  He just said I sang some impressive high notes, just not the ones Mozart asked for.  

Well I'm gonna call bullshit on that one mister.  You can say my intonation went awry if you think it did.  You can say my coloratura was filled with malice.  And you can say that I'm not old enough to be believed as the mother of an adult.  Well no shit.  But that's why we put on costumes.  Welcome to the theatre!  I'm putting you on notice.  Because I sang all the right notes, so don't go throwing that one at me.  

I was a disaster for most of the day.  Google news is like my own personal hell.  So how did I channel my emotional turmoil?  I worked on my dissertation.  I worked and worked and worked to the point where I've only got one comment box left.  One little question that's unresolved.  I'm waiting on an answer from a librarian and when I hear back, that box will get closed and the dissertation will go back to the editors and hopefully stay there.  Some people channel their drama into their work, but that way usually leads to losing your voice in my profession.  Me, I get out the scissors and needle and thread and mend up all the little flaws in my dissertation - my magnum opus that will go before a committee who will decide whether or not I'm worthy to be called "Dr." by my students in the future.  So here I am again, up late, working through this series of emotions ranging from confusion to utter disbelief to outrageous elation to murderous rage to blase dismissal.  And that's where I'm at right now.  

Which brings us to part three.

Part III:  Like water off a duck's back, or "it's not business, it's personal."

When you carry your instrument and thereby your occupation around inside your body, it tends to foster a certain amount of paranoia.  Hence every singer stereotype about the tea and the water and the lozenges and the humidifiers and the nasal rinses.  It's all true.  It's all there and it's all true and we all do it in our own fashion.  I think the high frequencies inside the head lead to madness, so that means I've got a one-way ticket to Crazytown.  This means that a criticism of said instrument is directly related to a criticism of the body in which it lives.  This is inevitable and we all find ways to deal with it.  Detachment.  Information.  Science.  Therapy.  

For me, it's running.  Since I got sick last week, I haven't been running, which explains why it was harder than usual to find some clarity in this experience.  They hired me for a reason.  They hired ME.  And I did my job and will continue to do my job.  The opinions of the dilettantes should just roll off me.  Should.  But it hurts to see total strangers put down what you do in major news publications.  So I did what I always do.  I read and reread and reread until I found the angle.  And here it is: if you read six reviews of the same performance, you will find six different performances.  The soprano was flat, the soprano was sharp, the soprano was not mentioned.  The orchestra played well, the orchestra was not together, the orchestra was very stylish, the orchestra is stuck in a rut.  The production is beautiful and timeless, the production is musty and dated, the production is uninspired, and so on and so on.  

We cannot live and die at the hands of our critics.  We cannot allow ourselves to be so open to the opinions of others.  We cannot mold ourselves to be everything that they want and even if we could, we would lose that spark of individuality that puts our stamp on everything we do.  I can only sing like me.  And if a handful of people who have access to print media don't like that, then I can only shrug and say I'm sorry they don't like my singing.  So I've given myself my one day of sulking.  I watched The Holiday and a few silly episodes of Friends and worked on my knitting and tomorrow I'm going to get up and go running.  I'm going to the grocery store where I will pick up good food for the rest of the week.  I'm going to take off this ridiculous blue nail polish and cut my nails before I stab myself in the eyeball trying to put in or take out a contact lens.  And I'm going to allow for the possibility that the casting director and artistic director and conductor and director might know more than the critic who didn't like my singing.

Maybe not so efficient as the business with the duck's back.  Maybe it's more like my dog's fur when he goes out in the rain.  Being a Lab, he doesn't get soaked like other long-haired dogs do.  He gives a good shake before he comes in the house, starting at his head and down his back and all the way to the end of his tail, and then I just have to get the excess moisture off his coat before he rubs it into my jeans.  Maybe this is me, having shaken off most of it, waiting for the rest to be wiped away.  I am stronger for this.  But gosh, did I have to get so much stronger in such a short period of time?

I cannot grow; I have no shadow to run away from, I only play.

I cannot err; there is no creature whom I belong to, whom I could wrong.

I am defeat when it knows it can now do nothing by suffering.

All you lived through, dancing because you no longer need it for any deed.

I shall never be different.  Love me.

Blessed Cecilia, appear in visions to all musicians, appear and inspire.

Translated daughter, come down and startle composing mortals with immortal fire.

Auden put it on the line.  I shall never be different.  Love ME.  That's what we have to do, every hour of every day.  How is it that being ourselves is the hardest thing to do, yet who else would we be?

Gratitude, at this very late hour:

1.  sleeping in when I need it

2.  the kindness of friends who go to the library because you can't do it yourself

3.  simplicity of emotion

4.  the ability to get back up again

5.  seven more chances to stick it to the critics - "I know I am an artist, but what are you?"

Nothing but net.  Because it's always go time.