Elitism, art, money, and Justin Timberlake

So if you're in circles with opera singers, coaches, conductors, or students of any of these, you're probably seen a recent interview with Thomas Hampson on BBC.  The host of the program, Sarah Montague, works her way through a litany of stereotypical judgments on opera: elitist, expensive, only supported by the aged or the coerced relatives of performers, hard to understand, etc.  Thomas Hampson replies to all of her barbs with grace (far more than I would have been able to exercise under such questioning) and makes the case that the arts' job is to reach people of (and at) all ages and share passion with all audiences.  I've been turning this over in my head for a little while, and I had a flash of understanding just last night.  I wasn't at the opera.  I wasn't at Tanglewood or the BSO.  

I was at Fenway Park, enjoying the Legends of the Summer concert tour, with Justin Timberlake and Jay Z.  

Let's do a little cross-comparison analysis here.  Point 1:  If the argument is made that opera is expensive and therefore exclusionist/elitist, then all 40,000 people at Fenway last night and the night before are part of a seriously elitist crowd.  My first-row roof deck ticket was between $100 and $150, and it afforded me a great view of the field seats and the megatron screens.  JT and JZ looked like teeny teeny dancing figurines.  I don't pretend to know how much the floor seats were, let alone the ones toward the front.  $250?  $350?  Would anyone say that Justin and Jay's music is elitist?  No?  How about Pink?  Or Beyonce?  Or Rihanna?  No.  So it's not the price tag of the experience that determines the music as elitist.  Next!

Point 2:  Opera only appeals to people of a certain demographic, namely people who are over 65, and the rest of its supporters are made up of performers' friends and family.  So does that mean that popular music appeals only to young people, or that older people can't enjoy popular music of the current generation?  The number of people my parents' age I saw at Fenway last night would indicate that they have the ability to enjoy Justin's dancing and singing, and the number of people my own age I see knocking back beers between acts 1 and 2 of whichever opera I'm seeing tells me that age has little to do with whether or not one can enjoy music.  I like the Bee Gees and the Beatles and Jimmy Durante and Earth, Wind, and Fire.  My mom watched a Robin Thicke video with me last week and loved it.  (Don't clutch your pearls, Gladys, it was the one with classroom instruments and Jimmy Fallon)  So it's not about the age of the viewer?  Nope.  Next!

Point 3:  Opera is hard to understand because it's in a foreign language, and understanding it might require a little homework on the front end.  And who wants to do homework to go be entertained?

--this is where it gets sticky--

So I'm at the show last night.  I know all the songs off JT's first two albums, and many of the ones off his new album.  I've heard the occasional Jay Z song on the radio, especially the collaborations with other artists (i.e. Alicia Keys), but I don't own a Jay Z album.  Not a single.  Nothing.  So I can't sing along or fill in the lyrics when he stops and holds out the mic for the crowd to shout in.  I didn't do any listening before I went to the concert, but I was still swept along by the songs I didn't know.  I bobbed my head when he said to bob my head, I waved my hands when he said wave, and generally had a fun time.  It was more enjoyable with JT (truthfully, he's the one I went to see) but even with the new songs that were less familiar, I relaxed and went with it.  I didn't feel left out because I didn't know every word, and I didn't feel alienated by not being able to understand everything Jay Z was rapping about.  And that was happening a lot more than I'd like to admit.  

So if the language barrier isn't necessarily the only hurdle to enjoyment (and let's remember that operas usually have supertitles in the native language of the country), the price tag is an inhibitor but not one that defines the genre, and you don't have be above or below a certain age to ride this ride, what is it?  

What offended me the most about the BBC interview with Thomas Hampson was the seemingly continuous harping on the 'otherness' of opera as a genre.  That being different made it weird.  That being in a foreign language made it strange or distant.  That taking plots from literature people wouldn't have read would make them think.  And who wants to be made to think?  (That last statement was mine, and rhetorical.)  Do I go to the opera to be entertained, enlightened, made to think, moved to tears, roll with laughter, recoil in terror, question the decency of humanity?  Yes, I do.  Do I expect this out of every piece of entertainment?  I do not.  Just this afternoon, I spent a little downtime (after a morning/afternoon of errands and before an evening of laundry and packing) watching a black comedy called Election, featuring a very young Reese Witherspoon and a slightly older Matthew Broderick.  I wasn't looking for it to change my life.  I went to see Das Leben der Anderen when I was at language school for German.  I understood maybe every 5th word, but that movie had a profound impact on me.  But why why WHY did it?  

Here's what I think.  If you're open to 'otherness' or curious about the world beyond your zip code, you might enjoy opera.  Or skydiving.  Or Nascar.  Or sushi.  Or competitive step dancing.  I don't particularly get Nascar, but I don't see people pointing fingers at how 'strange' Nascar is.  

I think there are whole swaths of people who fear change and difference.  They shun things different from their norm.  They fear being made to feel inferior or they fear that someone is taking advantage of their ignorance.  

Soapbox nearly done, I promise.  

The world is getting smaller, not larger.  Our neighbors are rarely the people 5 miles down the road.  They're probably the people on the other side of your living room wall.  And if you think their life is so much different than yours, will you make the effort to get to know them?  If you see them as strange or weird, will you see them as foreign or other or different or dangerous?  Doesn't it encourage xenophobia to draw big lines and say "you live in that box, and I live in this box?"  

In the immortal words of ABBA (another guilty pleasure of mine), "Take a chance, take a chance, take-a take-a chance chance."  Do something new.  Go to the opera.  Read a book that's not on Oprah's reading list.  Talk to your new neighbor.  Encourage yourself to think freely and openly and discuss your opinions with others.  I'm fixing to be a foreigner, and I really hope my neighbors won't ignore the Americans with the dog on the 3rd floor, just because we're foreign.  I hope they won't assume that, just because we're foreign, they have nothing in common with us.  And I hope you'll go listen to JT's new album, and maybe a little bit of Boheme (if you're an opera newbie) and maybe a little more of Katya Kabanova (if you're an opera intermediate) and maybe, just maybe, you'll hear something or see something that strikes you, and you'll roll with it.  

Incidentally, Justin brought SexyBack.  And it was waaaaaaaaaaay lotsa fun.  

Well, if you asked me....

In my humble opinion...
In my experience...
I think...
If you'd like to hear my point of view...

These phrases usually signify the start of someone trumpeting their worldview, whether anyone wishes to hear it or not.  And I'm about to do the same.

Miss Jean has always said, "If you don't have anything nice to say, keep it to yourself."  [not to be confused with Clairee's epic line from Steel Magnolias, "If you can't say anything nice about anybody, come sit by me!"]

This goes double for unsolicited performance criticism.  There are plenty of people who are paid to print their opinions of my singing, and I am well within my rights to read/not read and/or ignore what they have to say.  But when we're talking person-to-person, there is this gross misconception that anyone who heard or attended a performance has the right to tell that performer just how they did.
But what about the kind of criticism/feedback we seek?

My friend Jamie has a group of people whom she has deemed "the Jamie board of directors."  It includes her teacher, her agent, and a few coaches and conductors she trusts.  These are people who have her best interests at heart and will always give it to her straight.  If you don't have a list of people like this, you better start one.  Every time you go to a master class, someone will give you their opinion.  Every time you go to a lesson, someone will give you their opinion.  Every time you go to the grocery store, someone will give you their opinion.  Everyone's got one, all of them come from that person's worldview, some may be helpful to you, but some may not be.  I used to think it was necessary for me to take in everyone's criticism and try to assimilate what they had said.  As a newcomer to the singing world, I figured everyone had more experience than I did.  A stage director told me that I could add some more brightness around my face by getting highlights, I went to the salon the next day.  An important competition judge told me I needed to dress my curves with a long-sleeved wrap dress because my arms were SO LONG, I went in search of the elusive perfect dress.  My agent told me I needed to stop dressing like a Sunday-school teacher, I went to Lord & Taylor and found a purple halter top dress that showed off just about everything God gave me.  But after the umpteenth hair color and audition dress (and new aria, and different makeup), it started to sink in.

Everyone has an opinion.  But not everyone's opinion is worth considering.  I was in a coaching with my favorite coach (straight-talker, never sugar-coats her thoughts, always constructive) and we were working through this aria and I was really REALLY struggling.  And she says to me, "Emily, why are you singing this aria?  It doesn't really strike me as 'you.'"  And I said something about how the recital organizer had suggested it and she had said it seemed like something I should sing, and Lynn says to me, "yeah, okay.  But no one wants to see you stand up there and struggle."

OMG.  I feel the earth move under my feet.  And not in a Carole King way.

You mean I don't have to get up and sing something that doesn't really feel right, just because someone else said I should?  You mean I can set my own boundaries about what I sing and when?  You mean my own opinion matters too?

Enter the board of directors.  These are people who will give it to you straight.  Your teacher, a good coach, a conductor or director you trust.  People whose personal agenda never enters into the mix when considering your situation.  You need these people in your life.  As a young singer (and even as a not-so-young singer) there will be opinions flying at you left and right, and you need people to help your feet firmly planted on the ground.  People who will say things like, "Okay, maybe in 5 years you can sing that role.  But for now, you should try xxx that shows the same thing."  People who will say to you, "I don't care if so-and-so is the head of such-and-such, you will clothesline yourself if you try to sing the rep they suggested.  Pleasing someone in a position of power is not worth wrecking your voice."  People who will stand up for you and help you stand up for yourself.

I haven't colored my hair for more than a few years now.  The maintenance was such a huge pain and cost a lot of money.  I stopped searching for the perfect audition dress.  Know what my perfect audition dress is?  A black long-sleeved faux-wrap matte jersey dress that hits just below my knees.  Guess where I got it.  From a lovely patron (my adopted Jewish grandmother on the upper east side) who said, "You wanna try this on?  It's too big on me," and it fit perfectly.  I put it with some sassy bronze shoes and my red glass beads my little sister brought me from Venice and I tell you what - I have gotten more work in my basic black never wrinkles no matter how much I shove it into a suitcase/backpack dress than in any of those other get-ups.  I wear less makeup (but better makeup), I don't spend an hour rolling my hair.  I don't spend nearly as much emotional capital on my appearance as I do on my musicianship.  And somehow I know that when they hire me, they're really hiring ME.  They're not hiring some tricked out kewpie doll version of me who only appears during audition season.  They're hiring the me that came through the door and will come through the door on the first day of rehearsal.
And that's a really good feeling.

As that crazy genius Oscar Wilde said, "Be yourself; everyone else is already taken."

Madness in the method

There's been a blog post from "The College Audition Blog" circulating among my singer friends/colleagues/teachers called "What does an opera career look like?"  (I'd tag back to the post, but it's giving me a 404 error.  Here's the link to the main blog page.)  The author, a professor of voice at Shenandoah, talks about the various steps in the process toward a career in opera - undergrad, grad school, young artist programs (YAPs), the DMA, comprimario roles, auditioning for agents, the whole 9 yards.  While I don't take issue with any specific item Mr. Edwards describes, I wanted to take a moment to respond with the benefit of personal experience and some hindsight.

If you don't know me, here's the short version:  I'm a professional singer about to move to Germany to start my first Fest contract.  I've been guesting in Europe for the last two years in opera, longer in concert repertoire, and singing opera professionally in the US since 2007.  I have an undergrad degree in church music from the University of Southern Mississippi (major instrument - piano, voice), a masters' in musicology from the University of Exeter (UK), a masters' in vocal performance (also from Southern Miss), and a DMA in vocal performance from the New England Conservatory of Music.  I attended two young artist programs (Seattle Opera and Tanglewood), one pay-to-sing program (La Musica Lirica) and did two summers of language and voice study at Middlebury College's German for Singers program.  I placed at a few competitions in the US, won a smaller competition in France, and was awarded a Sullivan Foundation grant in 2010.

I didn't win the Met, I didn't win the Richard Tucker, or the Giulio Gari, or the George London, or the Licia Albanese, or the Liederkranz, or the Young Concert Artist auditions.  By the time I was singing professionally, I was two years into my DMA at New England.  I took my doctoral qualifying exams during the first two weeks of my young artist apprenticeship at Seattle, and finished my dissertation during a run of Magic Flute at English National Opera.  I turned in my dissertation the day before I left England and had two days at home before I went back to Seattle to do Midsummer Night's Dream.  I came home, graduated with my doctorate, and started looking for a job.  But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I wasn't going to be a singer.  I was going to be a choir director, a voice teacher, a professor, but never a professional singer.  I coached singers, I music directed and played in the pit for musicals, I stage directed for undergraduate opera seminars, I taught secondary voice to non-majors, I taught piano to children, I taught elementary music in the Mississippi public schools, I taught show choir.  I had staff singing jobs.  I worked in the shop at my church.  I did data entry work in the summertime between other teaching jobs.  All of this is to say that singing was never my be-all-end-all desire.  I think I'm hella lucky to sing and get paid to do it for a living.  But I wanted a life in music, not necessarily a life in singing.  Get what I'm saying here?

First, I want to address the idea that there's a path from where you are to professional singer.  I thought there was a method to everything.  I get my degree, I get the next degree, I acquire skills, I get hired to do the thing I do.  This is not true.  No path is replicable.  Scan the names of the Met winners who won the same year as Renée Fleming.  Some heavy hitters (Ben Heppner, Susan Graham), some people who made great careers but aren't household names (Heidi Grant Murphy), and all those other great singers.  Winning the Met isn't an ace in the hole.

Likewise, getting into a young artist program isn't a guarantee of anything except an opportunity to spend that time working your ass off.  I did one year in the Seattle Young Artist Program.  Why did I go there?  Because they asked and no one else did.  I was rejected from every other year-long (read: non-summer) young artist program, and many didn't even grant me an audition.  Same with Tanglewood.  I went because they asked.

"Yeah, yeah, everyone's path is different, blah, blah, you're saying the same thing this guy said, why does it matter?"

Here's why it matters.  Mr. Edwards laid out a lot of solid information about how one may go about seeking a career in performance.  What he neglected to mention is how essential it is to be able to support yourself in the meantime.  There is no "once you make it."  Once you "make it," you still have to pay your student loans.  You still have to pay your phone bill.  And there will be good years and better years and bad years with no gigs or only crap gigs.  You may work professionally from January through December and still make barely enough to pay your tax accountant because you had jobs in 9 different states and you have to file in all 9.  You may have one really great gig that seems like it's going to lead to amazing things and then it doesn't do that.  Or you may have two really great gigs but they happen to be 10 months apart and the only thing between those two great gigs is a recital in the middle of nowhere that you're doing with a friend because if you don't do something musically fulfilling you'll go bonkers.

It's not about singing.  It's not about how hard you work.  It's not even about how badly you want it.  Read that again, and understand that I mean it.  It's about how long you can survive and thrive, despite the difficulty of the career.  It's about taking jobs to pay your bills that won't suck your soul away.  It's about being able to pay your bills AND take lessons AND having the time and energy to continue to hone your craft.  It's managing the risks of this career, knowing yourself and how much risk you can handle, and making an honest judgment about how long you can ride this ride because your big girl panties must be THIS big to ride this ride.  I had to leave my day job last April.  I was at that job for nearly two years.  I made it as portable as I could make it - everything electronic, everything I could do from my iPhone or my laptop.  My office went with me from place to place, country to country, time zone to time zone.  And finally, it wasn't a workable situation for me (or for my very generous boss) any longer.  But I haven't been flying without a net.  If I didn't have an amazing spouse who was totally behind this endeavor, I would have had to hang it up.  Not because I don't want it.  Not because I'm not good at it.  But because I wasn't willing to sacrifice everything - time with my family, time with my husband, my mental and physical well-being - just to be able to sing and be paid for it.  Notice I did not say "sing for a living."

I haven't had an address for about seven weeks now.  We moved out of our apartment in preparation for the move to Germany. I've been living out of my carry-on suitcase since then, and it'll be this way until we get to the place in Germany next month.  I like method.  I like order.  I get great personal gratification out of sitting down with a new score, using colored flags to indicate which bits are ensembles, which are arias, and binding up the parts I'm not singing with paper clips.  I have a pencil case with all of these office supplies, plus my favorite mechanical pencils, and it lives in my bag.  I say this to illustrate how little I enjoy the Steve Winwood "Roll with it, baby" attitude that is material to making this career work.  I suck at rolling with it.  I am good at making plans, backup plans, and backup plans for the backup plans.  I have had a five-year plan since I knew what that was, and none of those five-year plans included rolling with anything.  But here I am, rolling with it.

It's easy to romanticize.  I get to dress up in fantastic costumes and sing amazing music and, after the government and my agent take their bites, try to pay my bills with what's left of my paycheck.  But I'm not that kind of romantic.  I'm a professional musician, and making that work occupies the greater part of my brainpower.  So here's what I have to say to you:

1.  If you think you want to be a professional singer, take as many language classes as you can.  You can never have enough.  Ever.  Buy books in foreign languages and force yourself to read them.  Underline the words you don't know and look them up later.  You never know when you'll be on a job in a place where no one speaks more than a few sentences in English.

2.  Be as creative as you can with your side jobs.  Create your own opportunities to teach and perform.  Don't take side jobs that suck at your soul or your physical and mental health.  

3.  Be frugal.  Consult with a financial adviser.  Save save save save.  Don't build up lots of credit card debt - there WILL come a last-minute-do-or-die audition that you need to take, and you will have to put it on that card.  Sephora and Banana Republic are not good enough reasons to eat into that emergency reserve.

4.  Maintain your friendships and professional relationships.  You will sleep on more couches and futons than you ever wish to, and you will do this well after you're 22 and backpacking with a Eurail pass.  Your classmates may become your colleagues, and they will remember if you were a self-centered pain in the ass.  If they couldn't stand you in grad school, chances are they won't invite you to stay on their sofa at the apartment that just happens to be two blocks from the opera house where you're auditioning.

5.  Be professional.  Be polite.  And if you can't be either of those things, then keep your mouth shut.  Period.  At the same time, be tenacious.  Take nothing for granted.  Do not assume that other people have your best interests at heart.  Read the fine print, or ask someone you trust to read it with you.  This goes double for contracts.  Ignorance is never an acceptable defense.

6.  Never leave your house without thank-you notes in your bag.  This career is brought to you by the letter P (for 'please') the letter T (for 'thank you') and the number 2 (for the average number of nights you will sleep on someone's couch during an audition trip).  Gratitude is a never-ending cycle - sometimes you're the benefactor, sometimes you're the beneficiary.

You can do all of these at the same time, I promise.  And if you choose not to pursue a career in singing, I hope you'll choose to pursue something else that makes you happy and apply all of these tenets to that career.  This isn't just about singing.  This is about grabbing the rest of your life by the horns and wrestling with it every single day.  So get going.

Travel blog

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

The frankfurt airport is an interesting place to be at 6am.  Even the Germans with all their formality can only barely manage to be polite.  This isn't my first rodeo on the overnight flight, but I think I might make a different choice next time - a later departure from Boston, a layover in London, and an arrival at a civilized hour in Germany might make up for the non-nonstop flight.  As it is, I'm going to have to throw myself on the mercy of the hotel and see if they will be amenable to my checking in, oh, say, five hours early.  Hope springs eternal, but no one is counting on it.  Oy.  

This was a rough week.  I was on a gig in New York, auditioning for the Big House, and coaching up the Messiah I was about to sing.  New York is a city that gives me hives every time I go, simply because there are so many people in close proximity and even though the subway trains are three times as long as the ones in Boston, there are still too many people for each train car.  The tracks squeal and shriek each time the train approaches, and the smell of body odor and old urine makes walking through the tunnels with all that body heat distinctly unpleasant.  Not a city where I see myself living.  Ever.  

But I'm killing time here at the Frankfurt airport before I head off to another city (on the train).  A city that, if all goes well, could end up being my home for a little while.  Our home.  

I don't know when it first entered my head, but the idea that an opera singer could make a life at an opera house started to take root a few years back.  When I was at Middlebury for German, getting in touch with all of my German-ness, becoming more comfortable with those awkward parts of me that were distinctly German and distinctly NOT American, learning how to express myself in this other language, it started to grow from just the germ of an idea into a full-blown notion.  I could have a life in a foreign country.  I could have a career in a country that appreciated the brainiac in me.  I could get a job and be valued for my musicianship, not just whether or not I fit the height and weight requirement for the costume/machine/flying trapeze.  I put this idea aside for a while - it seemed ridiculous to uproot my new marriage to a country that was foreign to my spouse.  I got some good work in the UK and the States, all places where it would be perfectly fine to speak English.  And then there was the big hope - Deutsche Oper.  I flew to Berlin and camped out in a hotel with one of my German school roommates - the best houseguest and roommate a girl could ask for, truly - and wound myself up into a tizzy.  The audition was NOT my best, and nothing came of it.  The end.  Sort of.  

Sidebar - I do this thing where I build up an idea in my head.  The idea of being a singer.  Not just a singer.  A successful, well-paid and respected singer.  Not just respected, but also admired.  Not just admired, but so admired that my loved ones would finally see that being an opera singer was more noble than being on American Idol.  Whoops.  I was just gonna be a singer, and then it made a hard left.  Same thing with Deutsche.  I wasn't just going to audition.  I was going to nail the audition and move to Berlin and have bilingual kids and my German relatives would rally around me and the rest of my American relatives would come visit - ignoring the part where they don't visit me in the US, really - and it would be so amazing, I'd then get hired by prominent companies in the US and be so successful, we could live in a beautiful house in New Orleans.  Oy.  Just detailing the buildup and the letdown gives me whiplash.  

So that was Berlin.  I got 2 migraines in 4 days, one actually DURING an audition.  Who overstresses, me?  Please.  

And then, slowly, I got a little work in Europe.  First at a really good house in Frankfurt.  Then an offer in Cologne.  Then a jump-in at a house in France.  Then another flute in Karlsruhe.  And a jump-in in Saarbrücken.  And suddenly, we're there again.  Talking about a Fest and repertoire and commitment.  And I so don't want to do that thing I do, where I over-invest in the outcome and completely blow the process.  The optimist in me, who really and truly believes in luck and fate and destiny, really does a bang-up job of SCREWING up auditions.  She's so busy looking forward, she trips over her own feet.  And that is not allowed.  Not now, not this time, not ever.  

How do you maintain perspective and keep yourself grounded, while staying positive in a career that makes a regular practice of beating the crap out of your ego?  

Case-in-point:  a really dear friend was, for all intents and purposes, on the fast-track to super-stardom.  Big houses.  Big roles.  Big notice.  And then, poof, the rug got pulled out from under her just the other day.  And she's still strong, she's still a great singer, but it's a body blow to have a huge gig yanked out of your life, at the whim of someone else and their personal agenda.  And that's what this job is - someone's whim, made manifest.  Someone takes a liking to you, there's an opportunity.  They don't, the door shuts.  I got feedback from a gig I did almost four years ago.  My agent inquired as to why I wasn't under consideration to return for the same role.  FOUR YEARS AGO.  And the feedback was that I wasn't prepared, musically.  Now anyone who's ever met me - you may not like my voice, you might hate my acting, you might just loathe the color of my eyes or the shape of my nose or whatever - anyone who's known me for ten seconds would know that I do not show up unprepared.  But someone made a call.  They didn't like my art.  And they really don't have to justify past that.  The end.  

I want to be an optimist and tell myself that everything will work out how it's meant to.  But the labrador inside of me also says that 'how it's meant to' really means 'how I want it to oh please please please.'  Later today, when I'm in the middle of my P90X yoga, I'm going to remind myself to do what Tony Horton asks.  I'm going to remind myself to be present.  Right now.  Because right now is where life is happening.  Right now, I'm eating the foods that shape my body and my health.  Right now, I'm thinking the thoughts that shape my day, my hour, my life.  And right now, I can only be thankful for where I am, what I'm about to do, and the opportunity to do it to the best of my ability.  

With that, I'm going to schlep my crap down to the train level, print out my train tickets, and prepare.  Today is just the beginning.  I have a lot of hard work, a lot of hard travel, and what I'm sure will end up being a lot of life to live between now and the next time I get home for more than 10 days.  In April.  

Today's photos:  Snuggling with Sam-dog, just before leaving for the airport

The cafe in the Frankfurt airport, where I ate some extremely mediocre scrambled eggs.  

Time: 7:25am.  Let's get this party started.  

Update: saying please and thank you in a foreign language, or,

I've always relied upon the kindness of strangers.

Twelve hours later, I'm awake and sitting in the theatre.  The Fernbahnhof at the Frankfurt Airport is farther away than I anticipated - note to self, do not leave it to the last minute to get tickets printed out - and the train to Karlsruhe was slammed with people and their suitcases.  I grabbed from the train station, easy peasy, and was greeted by the friendliest gentleman at the front desk of the hotel.  He was super apologetic that my room wasn't yet ready - keeping in mind, it was just after 9am.  He offered me coffee, tea, and so very many compliments on my German, especially my pronunciation.  Realizing that I really was hungry - and I mean seriously hungry - I helped myself to the best breakfast in the universe, the traditional German breakfast.  Smoked salmon, boiled eggs, many different kinds of bread and jams (revelation: plum jam with Lebkuchen root.  No clue what that root is, but it was delicious), at least twelve kinds of tea, coffee of all varieties.  When I'd finished reading German Cosmo and my many cups of tea, I schlepped my suitcases up to the top floor....where I found....the most wonderful hotel apartment I have ever in my life laid eyes upon.  Two full bedrooms.  Huge televisions.  A little kitchen with a stove and fridge and microwave and all kinds of cooking things.  A big beautiful bathroom.  And plenty of space for me to get my sweat on.  So I unpacked, got all my cases put away, and laid myself down for a luxurious nap.  Two and a half hours is not enough to make up for an overnight flight, but it will do in a pinch.  Then 90 minutes of yoga with Tony Horton.  

Interjection - my husband convinced me that doing P90X was a good idea.  I was terrified that it would be so hard, I'd puke my guts up.  I was self-conscious about my upper-body strength, or lack thereof.  I couldn't do a single chataranga (sp?) nor a pull-up.  And now, in the fourth week of this program, I feel good.  Strong.  And hopeful.  And even though I still curse at him from time to time, I really appreciate everything Tony Horton has to say - especially when he tells me to think about being in this moment and nothing else, and then, even better and harder, to stop thinking altogether.  So with all the jetlag and exhaustion and strange hunger pangs, I felt really refreshed after 90 minutes of yoga with his crazy ass.  I took a quick shower, and nipped over to the opera house to meet my friend Steve.  He was in the makeup chair for the Hauptprobe - he's singing the lead tenor in an operetta I've never heard of, but I'm at intermission, so I assume the second half will become clear shortly - so I went down to the Kantine to get some dinner.  This is the beauty of the German theatre system.  They serve hot food at incredibly low prices so you can eat a hot, home-cooked meal, and then hop up to rehearsal.  They have snacks and bottled water and tea and coffee and it's not starbucks prices, it's the prices you would want to pay as a working artist.  The Germans seem to have a handle on this part where artists actually work better when they're NOT starving.  

So here I sit, at the end of intermission.  I've met some colleagues, chatted with the operndirektor, politely told him I would NOT be up to auditioning tomorrow - as I'm certain my voice is still in EST, and made a practice time.  All around, a productive evening.  Now if I can stay awake through the rest of this operetta, that will be a minor miracle, and I can go to sleep at a reasonable hour.  Curtain going up....

It's about 8:40pm, and I'm still conscious.  Part of me just wants to go back to the hotel and zonk, but the part of me that needs to get on my feet knows I must stay awake till at least 10, maybe even 11pm.  Otherwise, I haven't the faintest hope of doing any normal eating or sleeping, let alone singing, tomorrow.  The nice woman in the KBB told me where the grocery stores are, including the Alnatura (natural foods store), so I can start getting my own food tomorrow.  Tonight's wurst and rotkohl dinner in the Kantine was delicious, but it shouldn't become the regular :)

What would it be like to work for a house more than once, twice?  What would it be like to come to the opera house every day, work with the same colleagues, get to know my dressers and makeup artists?  To know an administration and, if they liked me, get to do repertoire that was suited to my strengths?  

More than that - what would it be like to spend birthdays and holidays with my husband, regardless of what show was playing?  When visiting with my goddaughter's father last week in NYC, he was waxing lyrical/hopeful about apprenticeship programs - hopeful he'll get a few bites, but also hoping he'll get bites from shorter programs so he doesn't have to be away from his wife and girls for too long.  I told him it's not about how good the program is, or even how good the money is.  It's what you're willing to give up to do that gig, that program, that role.  It's giving up Christmas Eve at my grandmother's home for the last seven years.  It's never spending birthdays with your spouse.  It's maintaining friendships all over the world, because the people you used to be friends with where you call your 'permanent address' stop returning calls, don't ever know when you're home, and unless they're really strong, just drift away.  It's no one's fault, but there it is.  It's hard to be friends with a moving target, unless that friendship was long established.  

Which brings me back to the end of this evening.  They're practicing the bows.  My tenor friend, whom I met back in Tanglewood in 2008, is totally wiped, but he still might have to get up early to sing a Generalprobe for a sick colleague.  Because this is a job.  However, the person whom he's replacing is sick, and that person isn't coming into the theatre and showering his colleagues with germs.  I have to learn more about this system, before I make any further commitments to it....

Crabby/grateful

My former boss, Richard, loves to quote his grandma - "It's hard to be crabby and grateful at the same time."  And they are so so right.  So instead of crabby, I'll choose grateful.  I'm a working singer with gigs ahead of me, I have a lovely and wonderful husband coming to visit me this weekend, and I have a belly full of delicious food.  Everything is temporary, especially in this profession.

I think it's time for another 30 days of gratitude.

1.  Karl, my icebat uglydoll.  He was a birthday present from my hunny.  Because of his beautifully engineered flatness, he fits into any suitcase or backpack with ease.  He's a great travel companion.

2.  Refillable travel sizes with my stuff from home.  If I smell like home, I feel less homesick.

3.  Gorgeous green raincoats on sale on a rainy day.  It was true adult love from a block and a half away.

4.  Skype.  For working on the edition with my copyist (read: husband) and getting to look at his sweet face every day.  Also for seeing Sammy's ears perk up when he hears my voice.

5.  For the first two outdoor runs of this season.  I have shoes that don't hurt my feet or shins, and I have time in the mornings to go out and get my groove back.  Every footfall is a step toward better fitness, happiness, and sanity.

That said, Karl and I are going to curl up and work on the edition.  Because scene VII isn't going to format itself!

Time is love

In yet another wonderful example of generosity (pay it forward, y'all - it's for real), my voice teacher has lent me a car for this week, so I can run errands, get groceries, and haul bags of crap from the house in preparation for the move.  Since I would never presume to change someone else's radio presets, I've been listening to the country music station.  In my seven years in Boston, I don't think I even knew we had one, but there it is.  As with any popular music station, there are a few songs that turn up on repeat - this week's tune is "Time Is Love," which google tells me is by a guy named Josh Turner.  While having lunch with my pal Jack (he's 82, and every few months, we have a barn-burning lunch that usually involves him strategizing on how we can take over the world), I confessed to him that I felt a certain sense of defeat when I agreed to have packers pack our house for the move.  I don't know what that thing is inside me that says, "You must pack your own house!  You must do it all yourself!  Anything less is a sign of weakness!" but I told Jack I'm trying to get a handle on it.  How many times did I sacrifice time or convenience, just to save a few bucks?  Ten years ago, taking flights at crazy times, cutting into visits with family or friends, simply because it was cheaper.  And not a lot cheaper, not hundreds of dollars cheaper, just a little. 

No more.  Other people are packing this house, because I have a limited amount of time at home, and I want to spend it with my husband and my dog.  I'm taking the train back to Boston for one night between gigs next month, and the company I'm going to on the next day will have to expect that I'm arriving a little later, because I want to sleep in my own bed, pet my dog, and eat breakfast with my husband, before I go away for another few weeks of work.  Now, more than ever, it's going to be tremendously important to prioritize people over savings, quality time over someone else's time.  My career is doing everything I hoped it would, all at once, and that means time far, far away.  So between gigs, I'm going to guard and protect that quality time.  I'm going to get the nonstop flight that gets me home fastest.  I'm going to turn off my phone when we sit down to dinner.  It's rare that I can say country music brought enlightenment to my life, but this week I learned that time is love.  And I need more love in my life, and more opportunity to share it with the ones I care about. 

What are you doing, sitting here, reading my blog?  Go call someone you love and tell them so. 

Too much win

I've been in NYC since Sunday evening, chilling at the home of a dear friend of mine - singer turned pastry chef - and her sweet little Dachsie, Stella.  Stella is, at present, sprawled next to me on the sofa, upside-down and belly-up, ready to be petted at any moment.  If only being a functional adult were that simple.  I'm ready to receive love from whoever happens to be near and willing to rub my belly.

Two rehearsals, one major case of Gas Station Manager Syndrome (for more info, see my friend Kristy's writings in Red Schtick Magazine), a visit to Alice's Tea Cup, hot chocolate from La Maison du Chocolat that just might change your life, and the biggest shopping win at Lord & Taylor, I'm pretty much full up on win.  My dress rehearsal is in two and a half hours, and I have every intent of continuing on this path of awesome.  Yesterday, when I was out on yet another shopping safari (for the perfect drag heels - not for me, and not for Lincoln Center, I promise), my friend Jamie and I encountered the display window at Swarovski in the lower level of Rockefeller Center.  I'd never been down there, and my association with Swarovski usually involves cringing at things so sparkly, they make me see floaters, but this window was truly fabulous.  And the shoes on the mannequins almost made us commit robbery, they were so fabulous.  So we're talking to the district manager about who dresses the windows, where did the shoes come from, and how as singers, we'd really like it if we got to the point where someone said, "I want you to wear this fabulous piece of jewelry/dress/pair of shoes when you go on stage."  The district manager replied, "well, you'll get there - you're just putting it out there in the universe."

Things are moving so quickly.  We have the renters on our place.  We have the new place.  Husband has the job.  There are gigs coming at me left and right, and when I'm shocked at how fast things are moving, I have to stop and remind myself, I put all of this out there in the universe.  I went out and tried to find those pieces of life to make them come to me.  I continued to seek gigs, build relationships, practice speaking politely in foreign languages (even Italian, which makes my head hurt), go to the gym so I can fit in the fabulous gowns that are on sale at L&T (sidebar: They really are fabulous.  I wasn't ready), and generally display the huge sign over my head that says, "come at me - I'm getting ready."  I guess I was just shocked when the universe came at me like a spider monkey and kicked my ass into my future.

But now my dress rehearsal is in two hours and 20 minutes, which means I have one hour and 20 minutes to get ready for the parade of awesome to continue.  I love my husband.  I love my dog.  I love my family.  I love my friends, far and near, who make me smile so much my face hurts, and say shit that makes me laugh so loud, people turn around and stare.  I am so freakin lucky, I can't even deal.
Did I mention we found the drag shoes?  In her size?  And they were on SALE??

Too much win.  Put your helmet on, because the universe is coming at you TODAY.

Carole King

Carole King felt the earth move under her feet (with significant pauses).  I, like her, am feeling that.  I chatted with this kooky and lovely Polish lady (in German) on the train yesterday.  She says she talks to the angels and that they listen to her, and that when she goes home and prays for me, I shouldn't be surprised when things start to move very fast. 

Boy howdy.  I've got whiplash. 

There's much to tell, but since none of it is in black and white signed and double-signed yet, I'll just say what I said to my husband at dinner.  When someone looks at a new piece of music that's really hard and their eyes get really big and they look at me like, "are we really doing THIS piece that looks like someone tripped with a bottle of ink in their hand?" and I have to tell them, "yes, this shit is for real," I'm actually thinking about Andy Samberg singing "I'm on a boat" and some jackass in the background yelling, "THIS BOAT IS FOR REAL!"

Friends, this boat is for real.  You best get ready. 

birthday girl

Today is my birthday.  I am 32 years old.  

The farther away from my 20s I get, the more I start to consider what it means to invest in my own happiness.  I was talking with my friend Nadine just last night - she's on this fabulous whirlwind trip NYC - Bloomington - Florida - and she was saying that the happiness generated from seeing old friends and familiar and dear places really puts into perspective the insignificance of whether or not a house wants to hire us, or whether or not an opera director likes us enough to front a plane ticket.  It seems very small, when compared with the joy of real life. 

I have a great husband, an amazing dog, our car is paid for, we own a home, I have gigs, we have good health insurance, my husband has a wonderful job, and we are about to embark upon the adventure of moving to a new place.  Anyone who knows me knows I hate change, but really, change is the only thing that's constant in life.  I'm not going to be one of those women who says, "Oh, it's my 29th birthday, for the 3rd time *wink wink*" because I'm happier at 32 than I was at 29.  I'm not going to keep looking back over my shoulder and saying, "why aren't things the way they were?" because they never will be again.  And that's really okay.  What's in front of me is still infinitely possible, infinitely promising.  Every day is an opportunity to invest in my own happiness.  So instead of making the list of things I want to accomplish (which seems to have been a theme in my type-A style of birthday commemoration), I'm going to make a list of ways I wish to invest in my own happiness.

1.  choose to celebrate where I am, instead of where I'm not
2.  rejoice in my innumerable quirks, and the people who love them
3.  spend no sunny days indoors
4.  continue to run, just because it makes me happy
5.  appreciate my family for who they are, instead of being agitated by who they are not
6.  find beauty in the skin I'm living in
7.  love my friends and family half as much as they love me
8.  recognize when down time is needed, and take it without regret
9.  jump at the opportunity to see the ones I love
10.  invest in the work I love, and try to let the rest go

And with that, I'm going out into this day, the first day of my 33rd year on this earth.  I'm going to the gym and in search of cupcakes.  Germans make cupcakes, don't they?

500 miles with Mary Travers

Two of my favorite songs are called '500 miles.'  One, very fun and upbeat, by the Proclaimers, absolutely excellent for school dances, road trips, and pub sing-alongs.  The other, gorgeous and wistful, sung by Peter, Paul and Mary, is what's playing right now. 

We've been slogging through a lot of change in the last 6 months.  Shoot, in the last 6 days.  My husband signed the contract to accept the executive directorship of a festival.  I was given my 2-weeks notice on my day job (long-discussed and agreed upon, NOT a surprise).  Our application for an apartment north of town was accepted.  An application to lease our condo is pending.  Most of this happened on Saturday, while my parents were sitting in the living room of the apartment, and I was breaking the news to them about my job, husband's job, and our move.  Are you ready for change?  No?  ok123GO. 

When I meet people on the road, they ask me where I'm from.  It's easy enough to say I was born in New Orleans, because a big part of me identifies that as Home.  It's where I feel the most true to myself, it's where my extended family gathers at holidays, it's where many of my childhood friends live.  But it's more difficult to discern the other piece of 'where are you from?'  Google maps says Boston is 1518 miles from New Orleans, so that's more than three times farther than Mary Travers was from wherever she called home.  Lord, she couldn't go home this a-way, and neither can I.  The more my heart pulls me toward Home, the harder my career, my husband's career, and our life together pull us away.  Is it some strange twist of fate that our jobs don't really exist full-time in the place we love the most?  Is it a special kind of torture that I meet lovely people along the way, who in turn go back to the place where they're from, only to be seen again when we're both far from home again?  One of the hardest parts about going back to Boston after a gig is the other kind of loneliness that creeps up on me.  How do you nurture new or young friendships from across three times zones, or an ocean?  How do you meet and make new friends, if you're never there?  Unless you happen to meet people of incredible patience, or with whom you have some deep and abiding connection - I will say, I'm lucky to have a few of them back in Boston - it slips away, or withers, until you don't even bother calling anymore, because the awkwardness is too much to cope with.  This is part of the reason we're moving closer to the husband's job.  If I have to go away for work, and he has to commute to work, the least we can do is come back to the same address, the same roof over our heads, the same view from the window.  It's a lovely little town we're moving to, with good green space for Sammy to play, and (I hope) bicycle paths for me to explore, on my way to the Whole Foods and the commuter rail station.  And we will be together.  I hope it will grow into a home for us, even if it's only for a little while.  I used to think 'a little while' was six months, or even a year.  Now, 'a little while' feels more like four years, or five.  Just long enough to get a little comfortable, but not so much that I feel like I come from that place.  (Red Sox Nation, but Geaux Saints)

My birthday is next week.  My parents are visiting this weekend to see the show, and they're flying back to the States on my birthday.  In the last 16 years, I've spent more birthdays away from my family than not, and I've always managed to find people to celebrate with.  I am determined that this year will be no different, even if I have to bake the damned cupcakes myself.  This life isn't something everyone understands, shit, this life isn't always something I understand myself, but it's the one I'm living right now, and if I don't make merry, ain't nobody gonna do it for me.

Enough Mary Travers and Joni Mitchell.  Back to the Proclaimers.  Forza.  

the times they are a-changin'

I've never been much of a Bob Dylan fan.  I know, go ahead and de-friend me now.  I was re-reading The Help for the umpteenth time, and Skeeter talks about hearing 'The times they are a-changin' on the radio.  Since I'd never taken the time to listen to this song, I dialed up our friend youtube. 
Now I won't say that I'm a convert to the cult of Bob Dylan.  I'll still take James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, Simon & Garfunkel, and even Neil Young (although Jimmy Fallon doing his Neil Young impersonation is almost as good as the real thing) from time to time, over the raspy songster.  But ole Bob was on to something.  I keep re-reading the first verse.  

Come gather 'round people
Wherever you roam
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You'll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you
Is worth savin'
Then you better start swimmin'
Or you'll sink like a stone
For the times they are a-changin'.

Part of keeping sane in this bonkers career involves accepting that you will miss certain holidays with the ones you love, you might not be at home for your anniversary/birthday, you will not always sleep in your own bed, and you may have to cope with illness (yours or someone else's) in a foreign language.  You have to readjust your expectations so you're not surprised or disappointed beyond coping at every turn.  I don't know if this is also what it means to be an adult, but it feels like I'm going through a growth spurt.  In the last six months, my husband lost his job, was hired at one that wasn't supposed to be permanent, and now it's becoming permanent.  We're moving to be closer to said job.  I was supposed to spend the winter at home, puttering away at my part-time day job, learning one new role in plenty of time, and sleeping in my bed in my house.  None of that happened.  Instead, I jumped into two productions - one at a pretty major house in the States, another in France, both on short notice.  I'm leaving my tidy part-time job, leaving behind the few students I had left, which means, as of some time next month, singing is the only thing I do for a living.  I have to go breathe into a paper bag now.  

I don't do short notice.  I don't really do surprises.  I really don't do change.  And more than that, I don't do short notice, surprises, and change, all at once, in the span of 6 months, but here we are.
How do we learn to trust that this wave isn't going to take us under?  How do we muster enough courage to soldier forward on this unknown path?  This is where Bob and the smart comes in.
Those two major a-words (no, not THOSE a-words): "admit" and "accept."  You have to admit that change is coming, it's coming at you, and if you try to turn your back or bury your head in the sand you will be SO screwed.   You have to accept that life is not going to go back to the way it was, no matter how much you squeeze your eyes shut and wish for it to be so.  But that new life, the one that's waiting for you just beyond all of the insanity, it might just be the next stage of something wonderful.  At least, that's what I'm hoping. 

And in more familiar territory.  "Honey, time marches on and eventually you realize it is marchin' across your face."

I'm gonna apply a second coat of night cream and pull the shades over my eyes.  The times are changing, with or without my consent.  I may as well rest up.  

Be a New Orleanian, wherever you are

If you're not familiar with Dirty Coast, do yourself a favor and google it.  I have a long wishlist on that website, from the 504ever t-shirt to the Believe in the Trinity poster that will hang in my kitchen as soon as I get back.  Little pieces of home that allow me to feel not quite so lonely when I'm far away. 

Which brings me to Germany.  In the first week of rehearsal, I was taken in by a lovely American who brought me to her friends' home for dinner with their kids.  It was so delightfully refreshing to sit at a big table with a 5 year-old clamoring for my attention (because he had serious business with dinosaurs) while his lovely singer parents were trying to persuade him to eat the rest of his green beans.  This is something that's usually conspicuously absent from the singer life - normal dinners with kids.  I will say, that appears to be a big advantage to the Fest system.  It seems that most singers on Fest are able to have a quasi-normal life, bringing their kids to kindergarten, calling in sick when someone has the flu, and no one really bats an eyelash.  Second lady is out today- why? - her kid has an ear infection.  Oh, poor thing.  We'll catch her up tomorrow.  And we go on with rehearsal.  Basta cosi.  There seems to be a very low-drama approach, because it's a job.  These lovely people come to work, and they do their job.  It's not without faults (cuckoo directors who double-book singers to be in two rehearsals at once), as I'm sure they'd tell me, but everyone seems alarmingly normal. 

And then I met a woman from the homeland. 

This fierce dramatic soprano is singing in another production that's going on at the opera house right now.  I saw the show last weekend and was completely blown away (King Lear + german opera = whoa).  She was chilling backstage during our dress rehearsal, introduced herself to me, only to find out we're both from New Orleans.  [I want to take this moment to give a shoutout to the Baby Jesus, for knowing that I really needed to talk to someone from home.  Thanks, Baby Jesus.]  She's about 17 years older than I, but we know all the same haunts - Liuzza's, R&O's by the lake, Sal's snowballs - although I concede that most of my haunts are technically Metairie.  She's super nice, sassy, and within about 15 minutes of meeting, we've got a dinner date.  We go in search of good food, because it's always about the food, and have a generally fantastic time.  We talk about work, her family, my family, our parents, loving and leaving NOLA, and the never-ceasing gravitational pull that tugs at us to come home.  She comes to opening night and tells me she'll come back at intermission, just to give me the check-in on how I'm doing, which she does, and she brings me a copy of the New Yorker, which I didn't realize how much I'd missed.  [sidebar: having my New Yorker subscription with me on the road might be reason enough to get an iPad....] She tells me I'm kicking ass, and that my costume makes me look smokin hot (both of which were true), and we go out for a beer after.

It's not that this behaviour is unique to someone from New Orleans.  I've experienced plenty of kindness and compassion with people from all over.  But when you meet someone from your own corner of your home country, it's really special.  It's that beautiful moment where you recognize yourself in someone else and you get to touch back and say, "oh right, this is that part of me that's always there," but you probably don't get to express it when you're going through your daily life in German.  I'm so very grateful for this, and I only hope that I can do the same for someone else on the road.  Life's too short, and this career path is too complicated to travel it alone.

That said, I'm going to put on the Meters and make myself breakfast.  It won't be grits (I don't know that the Germans even know what grits are), it won't be a pecan waffle from the Camellia Grill, but at least I can sing along with those voices that call me home.  They all ask'd for you, I hear  :)

Leap!

Seth Godin always writes a fantastic blog - look him up, if you don't already know who he is.  This was his amazing contribution for today:

Leap year meditation

Once in four years, just once, perhaps we could:
Forgive, forget, relax, care, stand out, speak up, contribute, embrace, create, make a ruckus, give credit, skip, smile, speak truth and refuse to compromise--more than we usually do. Pick just one or two and start there.
Hey, it's just one day.
Careful, though, it might become a habit.

I spend a lot of my days and nights in the theatre.  Sometimes I'm with friends, sometimes I'm with total strangers, and sometimes we don't even speak the same language.  Yesterday, one of the women from the chorus came to my dressing room to tell me (through the stage manager, who translated) that she'd been singing here for 20 years and had never heard singing as beautiful as mine, and that it was such a great pleasure for her to stand onstage and listen to me sing.  Today, I saw her in the street with her little boy and she called out to me - I was on my way to the gym, virtually unrecognizable in my glasses, workout gear, hair in ponytail, zero makeup - and we had a lovely exchange in broken French and English about how beautiful the weather was today (it is, truly - the kind of spring day where you want to switch to a lighter coat and walk outside for hours) and where I live in the States.  She introduced me to her little boy, who was very shy about the Américaine speaking to his maman in English.  

Kindness takes only seconds - a smile, a word.  It makes the rest of the daily grind bearable.  Despite the crushing loneliness of being away from home for so long, the lovely colleagues who take a moment to say hello and ask how I'm doing, even if I can only answer, "Bien, merci, et vous?" lend so much warmth to the experience.  To them, I am so very very grateful. 

And to the end of taking advantage of this gorgeous leap day, I'm going to take a shower, get dressed, and go out into the sunshine.  I hope you'll do the same. 

Happy leaping!

Tom Petty

My dad had this doctor friend.  He and his wife had a zillion kids, a huge backyard, and was the first person I ever saw cook salmon in a basket on the grill.  Omigosh, it was SO good.  He also let my dad's teenybopper daughter rummage through his CD collection (which was both a novelty and a luxury at the time), and offered to make me a tape of whatever I wanted.  So, of course, I chose the B52s Cosmic Thing and Tom Petty's Full Moon Fever.  I played that tape until it was warped and weird, and loved it.  I can't listen to Tom Petty without breathing a sigh of relief.  Anyone who doesn't sing along to Free Fallin in the car needs to have their head examined.

So I'm listening to Alright For Now, and trying to channel that kind of peace.  It's a hard time right now.  I'm opening a show in a week, opening another show less than two weeks after that, and trying to fortify myself against fatigue, illness, and the general wear and tear of doing this.  My back and neck are angry at me for working on a crazy raked stage, my stomach hates the fact that we're in the land of beautiful cheese and I keep denying I'm lactose intolerant (okay, that's totally my fault), and my body clock hates that rehearsal ends at 8pm, I don't eat dinner until 9pm, and I'm not sleepy until 1am.

At this juncture, anyone who would like to tell me how I've chosen this path and I need to live with the consequences of choosing this career can kindly exit to the left, through the garbage chute.  Haters gonna hate, but singers gotta sing.

Back to Tom Petty.  In college, it was his Wildflowers album.  "You belong among the wildflowers.  You belong somewhere close to me.  Far away from your trouble and worry.  You belong somewhere you feel free."  Now I don't need to be far away from trouble and worry, but I do need to be close to the one I love, and I do need to be somewhere I feel free.  So why is it that the place I feel free (on the stage) must take me so far away from the one I love?

Whining over.  Going to the gym to run out some of the crazy.

**edited to indicate diminished crazy**

This is why I run.  After a few miles, some stretching, and a walk up and down the hill, I feel like a human again.  I can do this.  We can do this.  Except for the dairy part - I really really can't do that :(

We're alright for now.  Really.  

What's next

There's an optimist inside of me.  She believes that I'm meant to be wherever I'm at, and that I'm going to stay on the right path, so long as I listen to what rings true for me.  She's able to make decisions, because she believes that said right path will be revealed to her. 

And she has absolutely no fucking clue what is coming next. 

We've been in limbo since October, maybe before.  What's happening with my career, what's happening with my husband's job, what's happening with our parents, our loved ones, our house, even our dog.  Every time the dust looks like it might settle, someone picks up the cosmic snowglobe and gives it another good shake.  Cosmic jackass.  

For someone who likes security, I sure picked the wrong career.  I don't remember which one of my insightful friends told me this, but they were right.  I suck at change, and yet it keeps coming.  I've tried digging my heels in against the wave before, but it just makes it worse when it breaks over my head.

One of my high school classmates is an assistant food editor for a newspaper back home.  Every time I see a new recipe she's posted, I want to go into the kitchen and cook it.  Except that I'm cooking on two burners in a studio efficiency in France, and with the bare minimum of basics: olive oil, salt, and Herbes de Provence.  I have no freezer, and no storage space.  Mardi Gras season is coming to a close, and I haven't been home to see it in almost ten years.  And though my friend Paul says he has no sympathy for me because, after all, I'm in France, I'm having a harder time than usual enjoying being abroad.  I don't mind being surrounded by a foreign language, learning to read cooking directions in French (what the hell is a bain Marie and what does she have to do with boiling?), picking up new words, going to see movies with surtitles.  But I'm not 22, and I have more than a backpack on my back.  

I'm ready for home now.  My inner optimist is exhausted from tap dancing herself forward, and if one of those questions marks would please just turn over to a yes or a no, either way, just one, then maybe I could stop listening to Dave Matthews and pining for Louisiana. 

Say anything

My love for John Cusack did not start with Say Anything, as it did for so many people.  My best friend and I watched Sixteen Candles almost every Saturday night for the first two years of high school, and my love and appreciation for JC grew from his role as Farmer Ted's sidekick, video equipment strapped to his head, Members' Only jacket with the popped collar.  In college, I must have watched Grosse Point Blank forty times, wishing that I were Minnie Driver (that tall, gorgeous tramp smooching on my man), laughing at his wonderful deadpan exchanges with his wacky sister, Joan (also in Sixteen Candles, if you were paying attention), who somehow manages one toe this side of total psychosis.  I'd be friends with her, but might also fear her.  A good basis for friendship.  

There are songs that take me back to places and people in time.  I can't hear 'Jungle Boogie' without thinking of my darling friend Ayla (it's her birthday today - happy birthday, A!) and the year we met and became friends, more than twelve years ago, in faraway British Columbia, bonding over our mutual love of high church and Kool and the Gang.  Alanis Morissette (no, not THAT song) singing 'Unsent,' swirls me back to my sophomore year in college, listening to this song in the car with my friend Matthew, who loved to point to himself when she sang the first line, "Dear Matthew..." and all the ups and downs of that year.  The recent and tragic death of Whitney Houston also brings me back to that year - the year I had the best college roommate EVER, Selena.  She was wicked smart, sassy, wore my clothes without asking, left her things everywhere, and it didn't matter, because we lived so very well together.  This circumstance was never to be duplicated, ever.  We even joked about the monster living under her bed, beneath the mountain of crap.  His name was Herbert, or was it Harold... She drove a car she referred to as "the flaming Honda," and could look at me at any time and say, "Chinese food?"  She was the best.  "I love Paris" always turns into "I hate Paris," Meg Ryan's interpolation in the movie French Kiss, and my friend Casey.  We watched this movie in her apartment outside the gates of LSU, a wonderful 2nd floor of a house, crowded with books and movies and things that smelled good.  We've been friends for something like 16 years, and I can always count on her to be reading something interesting and, like me, in search of the best lip balm ever.  It's a lifelong quest.  "Jimi thing" heralds the summer of 99, Woodstock on the radio in the car of my friend Kristy.  I can't remember where we were going, but we had to change clothes in her car.  God it was hot that day.  And the list goes on.  

It's sunny today, here in St. É.  I have rehearsal in a little more than an hour, and while I'm seriously inclined to sit here and youtube Peter Gabriel for the next 45 minutes, I should probably detach myself from the nostalgia train.  To all the ones I love - I miss you.  But not necessarily in the Lisa Loeb kind of way :)

Hold me closer, tiny dancer

I'm on this Elton John kick.  I can't stop listening to 'Tiny Dancer,' and I can't even tell you why.  I think it has something to do with comfort.  When I'm on the road, I seek out things that make me feel a little less foreign, a little more at home, whether it's my regimen of soft-boiled eggs and lavender earl grey tea for breakfast, or my arsenal of hand cream and shampoo/conditioner, wrapped and plastic-bagged for the trans-Atlantic flight.  I tend to sleep a lot, read a lot, and build myself into this little cocoon of normalcy that serves as a buffer between me and everything outside my studio apartment.  In this case, that would be the hostile weather, the French grocery store and its siren song of a cheese section, and French television.

Can we take a minute to talk about the cheese section?  As a latecomer to the non-dairy scene, I spent a lot of my childhood and young adulthood eating cheese.  Not any of that kraft singles bullshit, we're talking real cheese.  Edam.  Gouda.  Brie.  Stilton.  Gorgonzola.  Manchego.  Drunken goat.  Any kind of goat, really.  My mom makes eyes at the cheese man at Whole Foods.  I keep telling her, she just has to ask for a sample and they will give it to her, flirting or not.  All of this is to say it's really REALLY difficult to avoid dairy in France.  Just like it's really difficult to avoid baguettes.  I'm walking down the street, there are at least 15 people in every block holding a steaming hot baguette, and they have already ripped a piece off the end and are munching on it while walking.  Bread and cheese.  I could survive on bread and cheese, if my digestion would let me.

Which brings me back to comfort.  In the place of the goat cheese I wish to spread on anything and everything, I turn to things like Nutella.  Or, here in France, crunchy Nutella.  Yes, friends, such a thing exists.  It's so beautiful.  It's like that Ferrero Rocher chocolate thingie in a jar.  Nutella, bananas, lentil soup, baguettes, soft-boiled eggs, pasta and pesto.  Elton John.

Elton is a new development.  I had a brief but intense experience with the Elton John greatest hits box set when my friend Emily's car (oh Owen, how we miss you) broke down and I drove her to and from school for a week.  She had just purchased said box set and when it showed up in the mail (that's right, this was BEFORE iTunes and downloads), we loaded that puppy into my 6-CD changer and there it stayed for the whole week.  I had always enjoyed Elton from afar, but there he was, in my car and in my ears, just as she was in my car.  I want to say that was almost ten years ago.

So.  Before I get too comfortable, I'm gonna put on my running shoes and head to the gym.  As a person who almost never does things by halves, sloth is only one step past comfort.

Happy sloth day to you all.  Hold me closer, tiny dancer.

What's missing

I'll tell you what's missing: the 2nd movement of the Ravel Gmajor piano concerto.  It's the most sublime 9 minutes of music you've probably never heard.  Go on - youtube it.  I'll wait here for you.

I've been in France for a week, and my jet lag is getting better.  This doesn't seem obvious, as I'm writing this blog post at nearly 1am, but it's better than it was.  At least I'm considering going to bed in the next 20 minutes.  But with Ravel playing, the world seems brighter, more optimistic.  I can almost pretend that it's not sub-freezing outside, and that the layer of ice covering the sidewalks I must walk to the opera house might consider melting.

It's rare I'm truly moved by music anymore.  That's an awful thing to say, given that I've chosen to spend my life in this art.  But it's worse than snobbery.  I've become numb to most theatrical 'wow' tricks.  I've listened to so many recordings, been to so many recitals, it really takes a serious shock to make me catch my breath.  I can think of a few standouts offhand:

1.  Ariadne auf Naxos at Lyric Opera Chicago this past winter.  The final scene had me gasping for breath, tears rolling down my face, it was so moving.  

2.  Der Rosenkavalier at Semperoper Dresden last winter - presentation of the rose scene.  I've heard it so many times, but experiencing it in the context of the opera was completely different for me.  Maybe it was hearing it in Strauss' opera house, with an orchestra that has been heeled and raised on Strauss, in a building that breathes and lives Strauss, but it was a big bang wow for me.

3.  Poulenc flute sonata - 2nd movement - played by Jean-Pierre Rampal and Francis Poulenc himself, available on DVD (or on youtube, if you like).  Exquisite, truly.  And Poulenc's playing isn't perfect, it's real, true.  

Ravel is my old friend.  I was 16 when I went to audition at LSU (post-audition celebratory cheetos care of my good friend and audition chauffeur, Kristy) for their piano performance degree.  I don't recall how it came about, maybe I was waiting around for my other audition, but I ended up in their recital hall and someone was playing Une barque sur l'ocean, from Miroirs.  I was truly transported.  Same when my piano teacher in college sent me to the library to listen to the Gmajor piano concerto, 2nd movement.  Something about crazy old Maurice just gets to me.  No - gets me.  As crazy as it sounds, Ravel gets me.  And I'm so very grateful for him on these cold nights, when I'm far from home and the ones I love.  Because he comes to me, wherever I am, and reminds me of why I do this crazy business of being a musician.  It's not for the costumes (let's not revisit the lamémumu),  it's not for the travel (no, mom, they don't fly opera singers first class), it's never for the money (oy, tax season), but every now and then, when you're really lucky and things are very special, you get to make art and share it with an audience.

In the minutes it's taken you to read this post, I hope you were listening to the piano concerto.  My friend Jennifer is listening to it right now, while studying for her history exams, in a library in south Mississippi, and it makes me so happy to know we're there together.  Seven times zones are easily bridged, when Ravel is there.  That said, I'm going to tuck myself into bed with these happy strains in my ears.

Good night, sweet Maurice.  You always know what I need.  

Interview with a knife-wielding psychopath. Or someone who just plays one on stage.

Through a friend, I was introduced to a young soprano learning the Queen of the Night for the first time.  He asked if I would be interested in working with her, coaching her through the role.  We met for the first time a few days ago, just after the dress rehearsal for Aïda had ended.  I was glazed with Verdi and totally ready to work some Mozart.  It was a real thrill to walk someone through this role that I now know so well.  We talked about the subtleties of the language (why the 'Du' is different from the 'Sie,' how the subjunctive conveys possibility and what that means), the many tools a character uses to get what they want (playing verbs: to teach, to punish, to seduce, to coax, to convince), and how to let yourself off the hook of singing every single note like it's the last note you'll ever sing.  Singing coloratura with creativity and style.  When it's important to dig in, and when to let yourself off the hook.  After 90 minutes, when she was fully glazed with Mozart, we called it an evening.


During the course of our coaching, I realized that the Queen and I have been together for almost 9 years now.  I have -zero- memory of learning 'O zittre nicht,' even though it's by far my favorite aria.  I have very vivid recollections of showing up several hours early to put my fake claw-nails on and paint my skin pale blue, as well as finding out just how sticky spirit gum can be when applied to your face.  I don't remember the first performance.  I don't remember being nervous, because I don't think I was.  Please don't mistake this for arrogance - I'm quite sure I was unaware that this was a big deal, because I didn't know what was a big deal and what wasn't.  I thought getting my highlights done was a big deal, and writing an opera history paper was not.  Who has perspective at 23?  What I do remember was trying very hard not to drop my staff (weighted on top by a very large glass globe), trying not to fall down the stairs for our final exit (3-inch stiletto heels = death wish), and trying to figure out how to use the bathroom with dragon lady nail extensions glued to my fingers.  [final solution: makeup first, then costume, pee break, then nails.  No water until after first aria, pee break at intermission.  No water again until the show was over.]  Giving the appearance that I knew what I was doing seemed priority.  

So this young soprano is taking a class in music business, in which they learn about taxes, agents, negotiations, and have to interview people who are working professionals.  [Sidebar soapbox: why is this class not required at every music school in the country???]  She asked if we could meet this morning so I could be interviewed as a working professional.  I'm pretty much happy to share what little I know with whomever asks, so I said sure.  She asked me about my education - where did I start, what did I study.  She asked me about transitioning from a student to a young artist and a professional artist - how often do I have lessons, how often do I coach, how did I meet my agent, how are professional auditions different from young artist auditions.  What's the thing I like most about what I do - great colleagues doing great work together.  What's the thing I like least about what I do - shitty colleagues doing shitty work and feeling like my time is wasted.  And airports.  And then, at the end, she asked me about what I thought aspiring professionals really needed to know in order to make a successful go at this business.

The reader's digest version is this:  Know thyself.  If you don't know who you are as a person, it's a lot harder to play someone else.  And if you don't have a sense of yourself off-stage, it makes living a life off-stage a lot more difficult.  Between gigs, you have to have a life.  That life will not magically come to you.  You can fritter away days and months and years doing nothing of substance, learning nothing, sharing nothing, being nothing.  It takes real effort and commitment to sustain friendships, to invest in quality time with your family and loved ones, to carve out real leisure time, and to care for your body as well as your soul.

Here's the other great mystery: you have to be willing to sell your art to pay your mortgage, without trying to sell yourself at the same time.  You have to walk into a room of people who are shopping for something (and to the person who thinks they know what they're looking for, I have a nice piece of waterfront property to show you), and show them what you can do, without trying to give it away.  You have to prepare, daily, for the onslaught of pressure, rejection, ecstasy, disappointment, happiness, stress, joy, and disorder that plagues this business, and you have to be able to ride those waves without losing your mind entirely.  And as I said these things to her, I realized something else:  I might just know what I'm doing after all.

It's a good day when I get to talk about this business, see old friends, stand before the Chagall windows, watch the snow fall over Millennium Park, and know that I'm right where I should be.  In my body, living my life, loving my husband, my dog, my family, and my friends.  A good day, indeed. 

I like to eat

I was at brunch with a very very dear friend, who happens to be an amazing, badass, smack-your-momma-he's-that-good baritone. He's also incredibly multifaceted, loves baseball, food, and New Orleans almost as much as I do. One of the things I love about talking with him is his very realistic attitude toward what we do. I was telling him about covering in this production and how I get up every day, run out some of my crazy on the treadmill, warm up, go through the tricky bits of my arias, and then move on to other repertoire before I check in with my day job emails. And he said, "you'll do fine then." There is no live-or-die drama about whether or not I know how to do my job, because I've got this. There is no need for high hysteria about whether or not I'll get called in, because I've got this. And what's really strange - somewhere along the way, when the switch flipped from the "Vissi d'arte" way of life (as I like to call it) to the "I am who I am, but I am not my job" way of life, I became more secure in what I do, not less.
So we're yapping about what he's up to, how he's learning this new role and he's all fretsome because he says male menopause has hit and he just can't focus like he used to, but he's gonna finish learning Act 1 this week and start on Act 2 next week until he's got it all learned, with the hopes of having it memorized by the time he arrives in Berlin, and he knows that houses are cutting performances and fees aren't what they used to be, so he'll have to start looking for that job that takes him into retirement because opera does NOT treat singers past their prime with kindness. So I ask him the question - "Do you like to teach?" And he says, without missing a beat, "I like to eat."

This is it. I love my husband. I love my dog. I love my family. None of that will ever go away.
When you start to try to feed yourself by your art, it becomes a business deal. Keep your eye on your health, your sanity, and your appetite, and you'll do fine.

I also like to eat :)