Saturday, October 12, 2013

Women in classical music

I'm a woman.  I work in classical music.  Most opera conductors who've stood in the darkened pit, flinging their arms in my general direction, have been men.  Most of the directors who've told me to enter from stage left (or to find my way to the trapdoor under the stage) have been men.  My first voice teachers were men.  My first piano teachers were women.  My first choral directors were women.  My musicology adviser at the masters' level is a man.  My doctoral dissertation adviser is a woman.  My longtime mentor voice teacher was a man.  My current voice teacher is a woman.  I've had women and men hold my ass to the fire and demand better of me, demand that I work harder, push my own boundaries, practice smarter, stand up for myself, teach myself, teach others to teach themselves.  My career is the sum of many parts and many people, to whom I am ever grateful.

Recently, the question of gender inequality in classical music has made it into the news.  NPR posted this article about women conductors and the men who were foolish enough to talk about their neanderthal views on female conductors to reporters.  That's not the focus of my writing today, as Alex Ross  more than sufficiently addresses the issue (and the incredible hubris and stupidity of the men - I won't call them 'gentlemen' - who removed all doubt of their lacking in sense by opening their mouths). The main area of these articles deals with the question (who knew it was a question?) of women conductors in the professional sphere.  I remember seeing JoAnn Falletta conduct the Louisiana Phil when I was a teenager - in hindsight, the inclusion of John Adams' "The Chairman Dances" from Nixon in China was pretty adventurous programming for south LA - and she was a fireball.  I even remember thinking, "Wow, this woman is a total badass."  Now I've snored through some conductors in my time (both on and off the stage) and I can tell you that it has nothing to do with their gender.  If you can stand in front of an orchestra and do the job with excellence and passion, you can do the job.  Period.  But gender bias isn't about whether or not you can do the job.  Gender bias is about someone else's ideas and someone else's agenda.  

In the NPR article, Anastasia Tsioulcas writes,
"But what I find perhaps most astonishing is the number of assumptions made about women's lives. What the feminist revolution was about, in many ways, was advocating self-agency for women....I would like to hear the women in our community speak up as well, without fear of embarrassment, contempt or retribution."
Well, Anastasia, this is me, speaking up.  First, I want to say that I don't speak for all women, I don't speak for all opera singers, I don't speak for all sopranos, and I don't even speak for all coloraturas between the ages of 30 and 40.  I only speak for myself and from my own experience as a female singer in the business of opera.

Anyone who's ever sung in choir knows that there are way more female singers than men.  This, in itself, is a dissertation waiting to be written.  So by the time you get to be a professional singer (for my purposes, I define this as making a living and paying your bills primarily from singing), you can do the math.  Sopranos come in econo-packs, so you'd better work your tuchus off to be the best at what you do, the fittest and the most flexible, with extra skills like roller-skating/gymnastics/ballet/tap-dancing/whistling/Irish step-dancing, and you'd better know that you're not an endangered species.  You've spent years of your life in a practice room, in rehearsals, in voice lessons, in coachings, you've finally gotten to the point where you get a paying gig, and at this point, you get the added bonus of a little gaslighting.  Don't expect humane treatment or respect - you're a soprano, you should feel lucky you have a job.  Don't ever say no when a director asks you to do something, even if it's slightly unsafe - you are so very replaceable.  Don't second-guess an offer to work on a role, even if it's incredibly wrong for you - there are way more fish in the sea and by the way you're replaceable.  You're replaceable.  You are not special.  You are just another soprano.  You are just another woman.  You are not a unique and special snowflake.  Quit asking for special treatment.  You're replaceable.

This doesn't happen everywhere and it doesn't happen to everyone.  But if you have even slightly pleaser-ish tendencies, you can and will be run over by your own good manners, with the help of anyone who doesn't see you as a person.  A few years ago, I even developed my own little theory to help me deal with this - rather, to help me take getting or not getting a gig in stride, based on the idea that if you're not what a company is shopping for, it's not a reflection on your worth as an artist.  And it't not.  But that's still not what I'm talking about.  There's this funny (not ha-ha) slightly abusive  quality to the kind of things you're told about your worth.  Some of it is definitely for your own good - expecting to get out of school and be picked up by a major house 15 minutes later is unrealistic, you will eventually have to teach yourself your music so pay attention in sight-singing class, your body is your instrument so treat it like a temple not a trash compactor, be on time because tardiness is a sign of disrespect, etc.  But the part where you get reminded how replaceable you are and how you'd better get along and not make any waves, the proportion of truth to bullshit on that one weighs a little heavy on the bullshit.

I have had wonderful people along the way who told me to stick up for myself.  With my agent, who once yelled at me and reminded me that I'm not the ONLY Queen on their roster.  With conductors, who say, "but it's mic'd and we're going to take this to a bigger venue - are you sure you won't sing Turandot?"  With directors who, had I not called stop and insisted it was dangerous, would have let me hobble down a perilously steep set of stairs in a 4-inch pencil stiletto.  I had good parents who loved me and told me I was valuable.  I had good teachers who took me to task when I was an ass.  But somewhere in the middle, I was also told that sopranos were worth less than other singers.  That female singers were worth less than male singers.  That I should lie about my age and flirt back when flirted with and never speak about my husband and always show cleavage and never EVER talk about having children and be smart but not too smart and always be 150% better than any of my colleagues, just to be taken remotely seriously.  And I say now, in possession of all of my faculties and a doctorate in music and all of 33 years on this earth that this MUST STOP.  NOW.

Being a musician is hard work and it demands commitment and sacrifice.  But self-worth should NOT stand on the list of things one must sacrifice.  Missy Mazzoli, kicking ass and taking names over on the composition side of the music business, had this to say on the NPR article:
"Any women who makes it through grad school with a degree in music is tough enough to see through blatant sexism pretty quickly. But conducting careers don't start in your 30s; a career in music usually begins in your early teens at the latest. We need to look at our daughters and pinpoint when they stopped raising their hands in class. And we need to look at these man-child thirty-something conductors and figure out when these sexist attitudes took root. Probably around the same age. If we want to solve the "female problem" in classical music, let's start a summer program for female composers and conductors in their early teens. Let's give them confidence and support and while we're at it, some amazing recordings and video of their work so they can get into the best schools, rise to positions of power and eventually fire all these misogynist douchebags."
To all of the wonderful people with whom and for whom I've worked, I am so grateful to you for your presence in my career and in my life.  I am a better musician and a better person because of you.  But to anyone, male or female, who wishes to advance their career on bias that diminishes the innate value of another, my future students are coming for you.  My future children are coming for you.  My friends are coming for you.  And we can smell the stink off of your cowardice from two time zones away.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Fear itself

FDR was a badass.  He coined one of the most iconic turns of rhetoric ever to be spoken aloud:

"...let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself - nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror, which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance."

Now FDR was not talking about singing or pursuing a career, but it's his description of fear that's tickling my brain today.  Nameless, unreasoning, unjustified.  Paralyzing needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.  Let's talk about retreat.

I'm a few weeks into my new job.  October 15th is the deadline by which the theatre must tell employees if their contract will be extended another year.  Now that doesn't mean that October 15th comes and the people who aren't extended are fired.  It means their contract expires at the end of the season, around September of next year.  This system is still pretty new to me, but I think that kind of notification is pretty standard.  If you're extended, then you get another year.  This time next year, October 2014, I'll be notified if I'm extended through September 2015, or not.  Having a long notification is probably a good thing.  It allows people time to audition or apply for other jobs, make travel or moving plans, weigh their options, and make a choice that's the most right for them, rather than one made out of haste.  At least, this is the hope.  However, if you're a fretter (and I am a fretter) then you look at that deadline - although it is a WHOLE YEAR away - and you think, "Oh shit.  So I have to prove my worth and right quick because otherwise I won't be extended.  I have to kick ass in every performance.  I have to be polite and nice to everybody and work on my German to show that I want to assimilate into their culture.  I must be good at all of the things and it has to happen RIGHT FREAKING NOW!!!

Doesn't this sound like a wonderful way to spend your day?

Sidebar.  I had this wonderful student named Helen.  Helen is not pursuing a career in singing.  Helen is not auditioning to get into shows.  Helen wanted nothing more than to be able to sing in the church choir and feel like she was making a contribution.  A wonderful 60+ year-old lady who was terrifically smart, a former US foreign service world traveler who'd lived in many countries and spoke several languages, but when it came to singing in front of people, she'd practically run and hide.  We ended up together because she bid on a package of voice lessons I put in the church silent auction, and won.

Whenever I start with a new student, I like to sit and talk to them for a while about why they want to study singing and if they have specific goals.  Improving their sight-reading.  Confidence.  Being able to sing a little solo, or not to freak out if they're called upon to do so.  Body coordination so they can walk and sing at the same time.  Releasing high notes.  Whatever.  For Helen, it was the whole package.  [I should say I'm not telling any secrets by disclosing these things - she'd happily tell you about it herself.]  After many years of being told she sang too loud or unpleasantly, Helen had taken the bit between her teeth, and by golly she was gonna conquer this singing thing.  Now I knew that Helen was a pistol in life, so I pulled no punches.  She'd mealy mouth through a phrase and I'd yell at her to do it again.  I'd see her eyes drifting off into self-criticism and I'd clap my hands and tell her to come back to me because our lesson time is happening right NOW and the voices in her head will have to wait.  And after a while, Helen was breathing freely, matching pitch, and reading better than she had, but she still couldn't admit that she'd made progress.  And I had had it with that.  It was time for her to recognize the steps she'd taken and shake off the old self-doubt.  She needed to be able to say that she was kicking ass when she was kicking ass.  But Helen is a well-mannered woman who probably doesn't curse like a sailor, even when no one's around, so I told her that she should figure out how to say, "I kick ass" in some foreign language.

The picture of diligence herself, Helen did just that.  She called up a Swedish friend who said that the rough equivalent was "Jåg ger järnet."  And then, she did an hilarious and wonderful thing.  She had it printed on a t-shirt in those beautiful blue and yellow swedish colors, and gave me one.  Helen wore them to her lessons, and it always gave us a really good laugh.  Talk about converting retreat into advance.

Even after she was no longer my student, Helen continued to be a terrific friend and helper on this crazy journey of ours.  She sat and read the English libretto of Mamelles to me so I could type it into the score.  She drove all the way from Jamaica Plan up to Andover and sat in a coffee shop with me for hours, talking and listening and telling me her tales about international travel.  When I went off for a gig, if she had a friend in the area (even in the tiniest corner of France) she'd send them my way so I'd have someone to meet for coffee.  And now, recognizing that she should perhaps not live on her own in the future (rather cleverly and well in advance, that's our Helen) she's moving.  Our realtor and friend is a neighbor and friend of Helen's, so he took this fantastic picture of her on moving day:


There's my friend, Helen - wearing her "I kick ass" t-shirt, as she embarks on the next phase of this adventure.  She's long since joined the church choir, by the way.  Even went on choir tour with them to England earlier this summer.  She practices like a fiend, helps out at all the choir functions.  I'm so very proud of her, overcoming those old fears and charging forward.  Forward!

Which brings me back to where we started.  Fear.

Last night, after chatting with my bestie about her work and my work and whatnot, my husband stuck his head around the door and said, "I just want you to be aware of the difference between real stress and perceived stress."  And after that sat in the room for a while, I said, "Are you accusing me of fearmongering?"  He, without hesitation, said yes.

Well shit.

So even as I sit here, acknowledging that it's possible to work oneself into a torpor and succumb to the vortex of one's own agitation, I have, indeed, succumbed to it myself.  I let myself slip into the overblown land of 'what if?' and everything that I rail against: trying to read the minds of others in order to please them, trying to mold myself into the artist I think someone else wants (rather than that artist that I want to be) and appropriating the fears of other people to wrap into my own.  Because fears need company and darkness in order to survive.

I don't know what's going to come next October.  I don't know if I'll be given a third year on my contract or not.  Or if I'll even want it.  But I do know that if I spend the next 12 months looking over my shoulder, I will be miserable and not 1/100th of the artist that I can be.  Because how am I supposed to draw strength from the fear demon eating its own tail?  How am I supposed to let go and explore my creative possibilities if I can't get out of my own way?  Rhetorical line of questioning ended.
I can't.  So we gotta do something different.

I'm wearing my Honey Badger t-shirt today.  And Honey Badger, as we all know, takes what he wants.  So I'm gonna channel my brave friend Helen and the Honey Badger, and charge forward, convert retreat into advance.  Because I kick ass, and it's time to start acting like it.  Booya.  Game on.