So many reasons why the Red Sox rock, here's one more....

MANNY RAMIREZ HITS HIS 500TH HOME RUN!!! HOORAY MANNY!!

Hin und zurück

Yeesh. Now I really know how delinquent I've been with my blogging. My many apologies to the loyal readers in Deutschland who have given voice to their complaint. I'll try to suck less from now on ;)

It's been a busy month. I was back in Seattle for a few weeks doing this workshop thing for their new commission, a piece called Amelia (libretto by Gardner McFall, story by Stephen Wadsworth, music by Daron Hagen) scheduled for 2010 on the mainstage. It was a fruitful and relatively drama-free experience until the last 12 hours, the events of which I will not divulge publicly because my momma didn't raise no fool. Fortunately, the good people at Cupcake Royale and the makers of Pikolinos were able to rescue me from my funk, along with the company of some good friends. I returned to Boston, my fair city, just in time for the Sox to leave town *sad face* and to start rehearsing for my next gig, A Little Night Music with the Boston Pops. Tanglewood begins June 19, so I have approximately nineteen days to do as much packing as humanly possible because when I return to Boston in August, we will be in the new house, Lord willing and the creek don't rise.

On the house front - I nearly sent a nasty letter to the seller who had the audacity to attempt a little bit of rigmarole on the day of the purchase and sale agreement. He tried to say that he was not going to put in the appliances until our mortgage commitment came through because, in the event that we didn't take the house, the stainless steel appliances would ruin the 'country kitchen' that he had envisioned and, subsequently, the house would lose some of its selling power. Now let's review. It is NOT a great time to be selling a house. The sub-prime mortgage scandal has left a lot of people high and dry and so, to my mind, any seller should be thrilled to have a buyer come around who's putting down an extremely respectable down payment and wants to buy the house. So imagine my dismay when this guy tries to tell us, through his lawyer and ours, that our taste in appliances will ruin his country kitchen. I've got some very colorful words for his country kitchen, most of which my husband heard on the telephone when he told me about this ridiculousness, but this is the bottom line: yellow walls and white cabinets do NOT a country kitchen make. And we're painting over that stupid yellow anyway, so you and your country kitchen can stick it.

Aside from the aesthetic differences, the appraisal MUST include a stove, in accordance with the first-time buyers program from Massachusetts Housing. And for our mortgage to close up tight, the appraisal has to be complete. So if he wants to sell that house, he'd better put in the freakin appliances. End of story.

What else is there to say? I got my ENO contract in the mail, signed and sent it back, so I can officially tell anyone I please that I'm singing with ENO next season (anyone fancy making a trip to London in February?) , and my pianist Brett and I have been invited to perform the Harbison Milosz Songs at a very sweet little chamber music festival in Wisconsin, hosted by the composer and his wife. So if you're in Wisconsin at the end of August, come check us out at the Token Creek Chamber Festival!

I will apologize again if this reads like a calendar explication. There is more to say, and I'm still wrapping my brain around how to say it. But as a teaser, it involves the ashes of my grandmother, a Duck tour with my family, and why one should always be very explicit about their wishes. I'll say no more for now, but beg your indulgence - I recently updated my website and need some feedback about the formatting and user-friendliness. Feel free to leave comments here.

Shiksa is a weenie

It's the time of year when I pull out my running shoes and strap on the mp3 player, venturing out into the neighborhood to greet the blooming trees and reacquaint myself with the feel of the pavement under my feet. The weather has been especially beautiful so yesterday, when it was deliciously warm outside and the breeze was blowing, I couldn't help myself. I went for a run.

I have this ongoing romance with running. I like to read the magazines - Runner's World is my favorite - and I like the clothes and I love the shoes and I love the feel of the impact on my legs. Running is noble and individual. Running is something that great athletes do - marathon runners are like heroes in the city of Boston. But let me be clear - I am NOT one of those runners. I am the weenie who is so proud that she can scrape herself back up the hill and not expire on someone's driveway. I am the weenie who still measures her progress in minutes rather than miles. And I am the idiot who thought it was a good idea to go running at 1:30pm, when the sun was high and the air was muggy.

I went back to the gym today to redeem myself. Lifting weights is also something that great athletes do. And I don't suck at that so today I will content myself with my lifting and tomorrow, I will go running again. At a slightly earlier hour, before the sun has hit its peak. Yeesh.

New Balance has this new ad campaign about running: LOVE/hate. I think it's worth saying that this is an ongoing relationship. And yesterday, I got schooled by running, my on-again off-again fling, for being away so long. LOVE/hate. Grrrrr.

Shiksa buys a house

There's this great book called "Yiddish with Dick & Jane." It makes my heart glad on so many levels, especially in demonstrating the proper use of the word 'schlep.'

Jane works in real estate.
Today is Sunday.
Jane has an Open House.
She must schlep the Open House signs to the car.

See Jane schlep.
Schlep, Jane. Schlep.
Schlep, schlep, schlep.

Well Jane had nothing on us this last week. We began the house-hunting process exactly nine days ago when we went to see a private mortgage adviser. After three hours of all kinds of acronyms running through my head (PMI, DTI, ARM - don't all of these sound like sexually transmitted diseases?) and more numbers than ever crossed my path in my third semester of calculus, we began looking for a house.

The actual looking began a week ago, last Saturday, when we made the pilgrimage out to Dorchester. Now if you'll follow the link to that neighborhood, affectionately known as 'The Dot,' you'll probably find out that there are several beautiful parts of Dorchester filled with remodeled Victorians and Georgians and such. You'll also find out that it's more than a little scary to go there at any time of the day because of the incredible crime rate. Wonderful. I'd love to live here and go running and walk my dog in a neighborhood where you really shouldn't leave the block. Great. That was Saturday.

Sunday was church for both of us, and we decided to catch a few open houses before I had to go sing evensong. First house was beautiful, a newly converted classic 3-family near the Forest Hills T stop. This sounds like a good idea. The building is great, the structure is all revamped with new electrics and plumbing and such, off-street parking, bonus, no a/c. Hmm. Well, we live without a/c now, it couldn't be any worse, and there is central heat. Okay. House number two has now become known as the 'Fiesta House,' where every day is Cinco de Mayo. Oy. I would have needed a margarita every time I came home to deal with the terracotta colored walls. All of the walls, friends, all of them. Living room, dining room, kitchen, it was like there was a leftover paint sale for the Mexican restaurant scene. Remember the Crayola color 'thistle'? That was the color of the second bedroom. The bathroom? Aqua. NOT KIDDING. But it had central heat and a/c and yard space, etc. All good things. Big drawback - street parking. Hmm. Third house was a dive. It smelled funny and, despite the huge square footage, the bathroom was not only unusually small and had not been updated, but the single update in the bathroom was this weird vanity sink that looked like a mixing bowl with a spout hanging over it. Would it have killed them to redo the windows instead of putting in a chi-chi sink? Big fat NO on that one. That was Sunday.

On Monday our agent had some time and one of our appointments was canceled, so we took a leisurely drive through a few different neighborhoods. "You know those beautiful new condos you saw online? I'm going to show you why we're not going to look at them. Okay, see the building?" *nod* "Now look around the corner as we drive around. See that big brick complex that looks a little scary?" *nod nod* "That's the housing project that's being torn down in three years. That's why the condos are priced below their value. I just wanted you to know why we're not going to look at them." *nodnodnodnodnodnodnod* So we drove around for a while before our appointment at this house in Hyde Park.

Now let me preface this by saying that husband and I had several conversations about the house selection process. What's our first step - establish our price range. Second step - make a list of the 'must have' and the 'would like to have' aspects of the property, structure and neighborhood. Rank these in order of priority. Use this criteria and our agent's access to the MLS service in order to locate houses that are both affordable and desirable. Calculate commute time, research neighborhoods, rule out houses that don't take pets, rule out houses that don't have our top five, make appointments to see said houses. He asked me, "What about emotion?" My extremely naive response to this question was something like, "I don't really think emotion enters into this decision. We will only look at the houses that match our search criteria, so any of them should be in the running. It will just be a question of which one is the best deal for the best house."

I want to go on record for the benefit of my husband and anyone who came in contact with me over the last five days and say, "I WAS WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG." And I get that about myself. The wrongness.

So Monday, after our driving tour through Roslindale, Forest Hills and Hyde Park, we arrive at our appointment. I am immediately impressed by the off-street parking area that is not only paved but has lots of space, likely enough for six cars, but is only shared by the three units in the house. Perfect for turkey frying, note to self. I notice the three compressors outside as part of the a/c system. I notice that the yard is landscaped with terraced garden areas, one for each unit. We go in through the basement which is HUGE and has enclosed storage space for each unit, as well as the new hot water heaters and the incredible common storage space. Just right for refinishing a porch swing. Big enough for a worktable or three. Fine. We go up the stairs into the back hall and investigate the rest of the house. I'll spare you the details because it reads like a Harlequin romance novel with me falling in LOVE WITH THIS HOUSE. No bare-chested Fabio with his hair rippling in the wind, just me freezing my ass off on a cold day in my Red Sox hat, mouth agape in shock at the size of this place that's only supposed to be 910 square feet. But that's without the laundry room, the foyer, the enclosed and insulated sun porch. Did I mention the laundry room? Because that means we would never have to schlep our laundry to the basement again.

Suffice it to say that I dragged husband back that night to see the house. After a few more visits on Tuesday and Wednesday, we put in an offer on Thursday afternoon. I went to church for evensong and choir practice, phone charged and on silent in my hand the entire evening. We went out with our friends to the bar and talked about the house and our plans and how this was all happening waaaaaaaaay fast for us. Friday was the counteroffer/counteroffer/counteroffer process, and finally our offer was accepted Friday afternoon around 4:30pm.

So if everything goes as planned, on June 30, 2008, we will be homeowners.











Welcome to our home.

Back by popular demand.....

My darling friend Nicole intimated that it's been a while since my last post and, in keeping with her track record, she is not wrong. I've been quite busy in the last few weeks, coming back to Boston, back to back concerts, and getting ready for the great house hunt that began on Saturday and is continuing even as I type. Cross your fingers that we don't end up in the ghetto.

Something that's been on my mind a lot lately - respect. How do we define the respect that we give others, our spouses, friends, family, colleagues, etc. Returning home to Boston, a lot of my conservatory friends asked me how the program in Seattle was. Anyone who has read my blog has a pretty fair idea of how I feel about my experience in Seattle, but a few weeks' distance affords me a little more perspective. What did I go there to accomplish? Husband and I said that the purpose of going to this program was to 1. get management 2. get work and 3. better my craft. Done, done and done. I know that I did a lot of bitching and whining and crying over how I didn't make the friends I wanted to or how I didn't get included in the cool kids' table, but safe in the warmth of my office with my dog asleep on the rug, I can say that it all comes down to respect. You either respect yourself or you don't. You either respect your art or you don't. And you either respect the work or you don't.

My mom is a superwoman. She went back to school when I was a senior in college to start her bachelor's degree and pushed, full steam ahead, through her undergrad and masters with a 4.0 at the end of everything and then went straight into her first accounting job, and started studying for the CPA exam. And even though Miss Jean gets on my nerves, as I know I get on hers, I have a tremendous amount of respect for my mom.

My piano teacher is also a superwoman. She suffered a huge blow about eight years ago with a nerve disorder that left two fingers on her right hand unusable as a pianist. Many people would have closed up shop and taken up scrapbooking. What did she do? After many rounds of physical and drug therapy, she re-learned how to play the piano with eight fingers and came back to play my masters' recital. And with eight fingers she wipes the floor with many pianists who still have all ten. The Divine Dr. L is an ass-kicker of phenomenal proportions.

My husband is also an ass-kicker of phenomenal proportions. He has supported this insane opera career of mine for the last four years, packing lunches and suitcases and driving me to and from the airport and coming to concerts and helping me not lose my mind when I want to kill the people I work with. And he's put together a career of working for non-profit music schools (is there such a thing as a for-profit music school?) who desperately need the kind of energetic organization and innovation that he provides, expanding and revamping the music program at his church (even if by force, says I), and organizing and rehearsing concerts of his own music in his 'spare' time. Show me a musician who has spare time and I'll give you a shiny new nickel.

*Shameless plug - go to his website and listen to the sound files from last week's concert. Go now. I will wait here for you.*

Back now? Good.

What do these people have in common, other than that they're on speed dial in my telephone? I have tremendous respect for these people and many others that I've talked about in the last few years on this blog. And it's not just that they respect themselves and their art (my mother will tell you accounting is an art and, since I don't have the experience in that field, I defer to her). Most of all, they respect the work. And because they respect the work, they are in turn respected by their colleagues. This is what I want from my career. I want to respect the art and the work enough to continue to fuel the drive that makes me practice and research and read and explore. I want my kids to tell their friends that their parents are ass-kickers and takers of names. I want to come home from work exhausted from working well and working hard. And I want to still love it as much as I do now.

Things work out, you know. The truth is always the easiest path. It's less complicated to be yourself. All those cliche nuggets of wisdom that your parents told you, they're true. And I know that I'll get upset again when I have to work with someone who doesn't respect the work. I just have to remind myself that I get to come home to the husband and the house and the dog. And so long as I'm faithful to the work, the work will be faithful to me. The rest is, in the words of Alex Ross, "just noise."

Go shorty, it's your birthday (Shorty?)

That's right, it's my birthday. For another hour and fourteen minutes. A lot of people do New Year's resolutions, well I'm going to do something similar. My beer/pizza/cupcake-induced glow has left me prosaic, so here we go.

28 things I want to accomplish in my 29th year on earth:

1. finish my doctorate
2. buy a house
3. paint a room in said house blue
4. learn to make a really good red sauce
5. get to the point with my knitting where I don't have to look at my hands
6. bump up my Italian reading proficiency
7. go to a foreign country - NOT for work - with my husband
8. train for and run a 10K
9. spend time with my relatives in NOLA
10. spend a full day at the beach, any beach that's warm will do
11. reread Pride & Prejudice
12. eat more veggies
13. do more yoga
14. go to a Red Sox game
15. go to a Southern Miss football game
16. eat crawfish - lots and lots of crawfish
17. pick a haircolor
18. sit on the porch with Dr. L and shoot the breeze
19. get Sammy to go running with me
20. go sailing on the Charles again
21. meet Garrison Keillor
22. get my piano north of the Mason-Dixon line
23. learn a new role, just to learn it
24. swim in the ocean
25. accompany a recital
26. go to church - not go to work at church

27. get hired to do an opera back home

28. be more thankful

The doctor (ABD) is in

It's that other time of year. The time of year when people make decisions about what to do in the fall. The scholarship letters are being sent and returned, hesitant phone calls and emails are exchanged between teachers and prospective students, and institutions try very hard to make sure that they get the best people at the lowest price. That's right, I said 'price.'

Because it's that time of year, I've been getting quite a few emails from fellow singers who want my opinion about one institution or another, one teacher or another (or however many I'm willing to talk about in detail) neighborhoods, apartments, young artist programs. I'm pretty free with my opinion, but every time I talk about the masters' degree, I find myself with a funny clenching in my jaw and a taste of bitterness in the back of my throat. Why is that, one might ask? I've got two masters' degrees, one in musicology from a relatively prestigious English university, and another in vocal performance from a not-so-prestigious university in the south (God's country) that prepared me to apply for the DMA that I started at yet another university in the Midwest and am finishing at a conservatory that fancies themself the flagship of music education in the northeast. Pleased as punch, am I. Well hindsight is 20/20 my friends, so make yourselves comfortable - I'm about to tell it like it is.

Why do people get degrees in music? Some would say that it's to pursue some life-long dream of being a great artist and performer. Some are fulfilling the dreams of their parents who are convinced that their child is an undiscovered star. And still others want to share the wonderful experience of music with children through music education. I think that the people who become music educators must drink a pretty serious cocktail of hope and illusion to put up with the public school system and what a bunch of so-called 'educators' think music in the schools should be, which is why I didn't last very long in public school music, but that's another story. The true music educators, like my junior high school choir teacher and my first piano teacher, are right up there for sainthood, in my opinion. They are generous, kind-hearted but firm, and try to instill a love and respect for the arts in the hearts and minds of their bratty pupils (of which I was one, so don't think I'm unaware of the platform from whence I speak).

There are also a group of people who get degrees in music in order to get another degree in music. For many, the undergraduate degree in music is a holding pattern where we hone our skills in theory, learn to write papers about music that don't make us sound like idiots, read about history and context, and prepare our performance skills for the next level - the masters' degree. And this is where I begin to take issue.

Since when did the masters' degree become the new bachelor's degree? It's practically a foregone conclusion that students will go on and get the masters', if not an expectation. I know many fine teachers who do not have a doctorate. I know many shitty teachers who do. And after spending as much time in higher education as I have, I can only conclude that it's about the masters' degree - the proving ground where we separate the wheat from the chaff and all that.
My first masters' degree was in musicology - this happened by accident. The adviser for the Tudor Church Music masters' degree and I did not share many viewpoints on the role of women in church music, especially English church music, so I switched degrees. I got a new adviser, a wonderful man who made me cups of tea while spilling red ink all over my essays on Samuel Barber, and took a real interest in my work both as a performer and an academic. He and I believed (and still believe) that academia and performance should be at the service of each other, not mutually exclusive in their ivory towers. Performance should inform and inspire intellectualism, and research and literature should inform and inspire performers to be more expressive, more sharing, and broaden their base of experience, the experiences that allow us to communicate effectively in performance. Circuitous enough? Good! My nine months in Exeter kept me in the library for some long hours, and in the practice room for even longer, trying to put together my first serious recital of serious music, practicing so I could perform, reading so I could practice, etc, etc.

When I returned, I was hell-bent on sharing all of this with some impressionable young minds. So I taught school. This did NOT go well, and I ran screaming back to grad school and yet another masters' program. Opera history, 20th century music theory, voice lessons, intensive French, intensive German, French diction, German diction, choirchoirchoirchoirchoirchoir, opera theatre, musical theatre, coaching, playing, teaching, conducting, working, writing, 19th century music theory, voice lessons, competitions, recital. Basta cosi. Three semesters, poof! I have a masters in music. What does this qualify me to do? Teach school more? Perhaps. Teach college? Not for any kind of good salary, benefits, retirement, etc. So now what? I start on the doctorate. Now I've written plenty about my DMA so I don't think anyone will feel left out if I don't talk about my doctorate.

Let's back up to that masters. What if you don't want a doctorate? What if you're not ready to teach? What if you don't want to teach, you want to perform? Didn't you get a masters degree in performance? So then why are most of the people I know who hold masters degrees in performance NOT PERFORMING? Now I don't claim to know it all. I can only speak from what I've experienced, and this is it: Most masters degrees in music are the biggest farce ever put on by an institute of higher education. They claim that they are helping bridge the gap between undergrad and a performing career for young artists. Perhaps this is true for other areas of performance, but for singers it is a LIE. If the masters degree was all that was needed to bridge the gap between undergrad and a career, then the slew of young artist programs in operation would not be turning away people by the hundreds every year.

How old are most 'young artists' in 'young artist programs,' you might ask? In the Seattle program, currently made up of 12 singers, we have four (if I'm remembering correctly) singers at or under the age of 25. The other eight are between 26 and 33. Now how old are most singers finishing their masters' degree? Maybe 23. Maybe 24. How long are most young artist residencies? One to two years. And then what? Another young artist residency, and another, until someone decides you're old enough to sing mainstage rep and maybe experienced enough to get paid for it? What is this cycle of debt and bullshit that never seems to actually produce the promised result: the artist, ready to embrace their career??

It's not about the doctorate. I'm almost done with the damned doctorate and it's NOT about the doctorate. What do we need from a masters degree? More language, more diction, more coaching, more history and literature and poetry study, more stagecraft, combat and acting training, more workshops, more lessons, more masterclasses with people who are IN the business, not spectating from afar. Maybe a handful of people are offered these things in their masters' degree. And an even smaller handful of people are able to take advantage of all of them. But if I had a nickel for every singer I know who went house-deep into debt for a masters' degree, only to find that what they actually needed was another masters' degree, then I would be able to buy season tickets behind home plate for the Red Sox FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

So I leave you with this lengthy note of caution. Before you decide that your art is worth more than money or that you really need a conservatory education, think long and hard about what you want after that masters' degree is over. How will you get the performance experience you need to shape you as an artist? How will you afford coachings? Lessons? How will you continue to polish those language skills (yes, you really do need French, Italian and German, and a little bit of a Slavic language wouldn't hurt either) and pay rent and eat and see your family?

I admire Laura Claycomb a great deal, both as an artist and a person. She has a young artist corner on her website and, if she'll forgive me for borrowing and repasting some of her thoughts, I think this about crystallizes what I have to say:

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Expectations

What do you want to do with your life? Sing, you say? First, what do you envision as your "ideal" life? Picture it; what does it entail? Marriage? Children? The normalcy of a fixed daily life? Being with your family for every holiday? A close circle of friends? Having dinnerparties with your friends, holding opera/theatre subscriptions, teaching some, taking classes on the side, or doing charity work?
Really get a good idea of what is most important to you. Of these things, which is absolutely essential for you, and which is something that you'd like, but that you'd be able to feel fulfilled without? Be HONEST with yourself. There is nothing more tragic than someone who has talent, and feels that he/she wants to do this career, only to discover that he/she really doesn't like the lifestyle years down the road. Just because you CAN sing and have the talent does not mean you HAVE to sing. You do not "owe it to your gift" to have a crazy opera career. You owe it to yourself to be happy and fulfill yourself however you can.
I don't believe it's impossible to have a free-lance operatic career and have some of these things; but to expect to have all of them, and when you want them, is unrealistic and downright delusional. The reality of the lifestyle is much different than what you may expect, and it's better to be forwarned than spend all your schooling learning to do something that you'll either burn out on quickly, become disillusioned about, or both. There are compromises, and there are endless ways to deal with the difficulties. Or there are different ways to structure a career - you can concentrate on whatever period or style of music really lights your fire, and do concerts. Baroque music tends to provide more concerts than operas, for example. Or modern music!! There is a nice niche in singing contemporary music, also. Whatever your passion, study and do intensive research with experts in the field; really specialize - don't just say "that you like it." Remember that there ARE other things than singing the same old Puccini onstage!

Reality of Lifestyle for a Free-Lance Singer

The reality of life is that your operatic career is a business like any other, and some aspects of it must be treated as such. Work breeds work. If you're not in the "market," you will most likely not get many other offers. If you're working a lot, most likely, you will get more and more offers and even have to turn down things. In order to have a big career, you have to work! So forget the idea in the beginning of "I'll just do two gigs a year and teach and have babies on the side." It sounds like a perfect compromise, but A) performing usually takes you away from your great teaching job just when the students need you and B)if you're only doing two things a year, everyone's going to forget who you are, (unless you established a great name for yourself first) and the performing work will dry up. Let me be very simplistic and OVERLY pessimistic. Everyone thinks he/she is the exception to the rule. There are few exceptions to the rule, and one has to work really hard in order to earn the distinction of breaking the rule! Usually the exceptions busted their hineys for at least ten years, establishing themselves, and then decided to stay more in one place. More power to whomever is managing both careers, but I have yet to see someone who juggles both jobs of international performer and teacher perfectly.
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Be careful. Be thoughtful. But first and foremost, be HONEST with yourself.

You're so vain. You probably think this song is about you.

Vanity. It's an evil beast. While I will admit that going to the gym six days a week has significantly improved my mental and physical well-being, and how I fit into my favorite pair of jeans, there's always that little voice in the back of your head saying, "If only I didn't have that extra jiggle on the inside of my thighs. If only I were a little firmer, a little leaner." Health clubs are filled with mirrors to help you watch your form (and the forms of those around you, let's be real here) and to catch a glimpse of your yoga instructor when you're contorted into some crazy position where you're actually seeing her through the reflection of the mirror that you can sort-of glimpse between the bend in your knee and your elbow that's planted there.

I've been pretty good about going to the gym. I bought the right shoes and the right clothes and met with a trainer to set up a routine. I've cut down on processed foods and have been eating lots of greenery as of late. Very little alcohol (except for a very well-deserved visit to the Tap Room last night) in general and enough water to fill the Chestnut Hill reservoir. I aim for six days a week, most of the time I make it but some weeks I only make five. With the show running the way it is, I usually have my whole morning and early afternoon free. No excuse to stay home from the gym. Yesterday, I cut myself some serious slack and loafed around the house, munching on strawberries and peas and carrots and watching reruns of "Saved By The Bell." So today, when I was still in my jammies at 3pm, I decided to go to the gym and kick my own ass.

I walked in, checked the class schedule and, lo and behold, there was a cardio kickboxing class starting in ten minutes. I say to myself, "this could be fun, and a lot more interesting than your usual 45 minutes of interval hill-climbing torture on the elliptical machine, why not?" One hour later, fully nauseated and unable to breathe normally, having turned the color of a well-cooked tomato, lungs aching and pride smarting like hell, I limped up the stairs of the gym and out into the wonderfully cool evening air. I AM SUCH A SHITHEAD. I have no idea what possessed me to think that I could just walk into a cardio kickboxing class. I lift my weights, I push my reps and I sweat plenty. I up the resistance on the elliptical machine. I take the stairs, all four crazy flights, up to the opera office. I try to walk as much as possible and, generally speaking, I feel that I am more fit now than I ever have been. But I tell you this, dear friends - cardio kickboxing is for the criminally insane. And with that said, I'm going down the street to the Tex-Mex place to eat some pulled pork quesadillas and have a blood orange margarita. Because momma is hurting, and this might be one of those situations where tequila actually makes it better.

Excuse me, but can I be you for a while?

I woke up at a reasonable hour this morning, contemplating all the things I have to do (mental checklist of Easter brunch food supplies, daily trip to the gym, go to the bakery, feed the dog, kill the ants invading the kitchen) and after eating a yummy breakfast of toast and strawberries and a latte, care of the marvelous espresso machine that lives in my host family's kitchen, I trotted downstairs to get ready. I flipped on the radio in my room - I like to listen to NPR sometimes when I'm getting ready - and I guess the housekeepers must have dusted the radio because the dial was all askew. So I'm diddling and waiting for the radio to find a signal and it finds some amazing 80's music. I'm content, I begin to make the bed. And then, reaching out of my high school years of obscurity and confusion comes Tori Amos from the speakers, winding her tendrils around me with that song I listened to I can't even say how many times (probably had it on repeat for a couple of weekends in high school and college) and pulls me back in time. Now I'm a romantic, if you couldn't tell already, and I think my memory is heightened by my quirky knack for memorizing song lyrics, but I could describe to you that beautiful day in my junior year when gorgeous Kevin (my first gay boyfriend) wound his fingers into mine and started singing this song to me (we were walking from dinner back to the dorms, I was wearing a t-shirt with a dolphin on it and a broomstick skirt and my birkinstocks, huge silver hoop earrings and likely purple eyeliner) and I found it just as arresting then as this afternoon. Tori Amos always takes me back to that time in my life - those last two years of high school where everything was so uncertain that we clung to each other as if every day were our last. For some of us, it was - it seemed like my friends were getting expelled left right and ceter - and we cried and drank by the river and smoked behind the library and played truth or dare during the ice storm and made out on blankets behind the stadium (okay, sometimes there wasn't a blanket) and went to the Texaco station for push-button capuccino and pints of Ben & Jerry's and ate Jell-O and grilled cheese sandwiches made from a sandwich machine and tried to break as many rules as possible without getting caught. Glorious days they were, learning to read Shakespeare, really read it, cooking mac & cheese in the hotpot and having 'bring your own mug' night with little packets of hot cocoa, watching Dr. Aiken throw his little bag of colored chalk across the room and draw the vector off the chalkboard and over the door and into the hallway. The vector keeps going, yes, we get it Dr. Aiken.

My romance with this particular song hit me pretty hard today. I told my friend Alex on the phone the other night that his moving to a new city and taking a new job would be a great adventure and opportunity for him. Every time I moved, I said, I felt like I uncovered another piece of me that was hidden or repressed. Every time I moved, I felt like another piece of the bullshit facade was chipped away. Lately, I've felt it creeping back. The desire to please, to get along, to make nice - they get in the way of saying what I need to say as an individual and as an artist. "Don't comment on the action, just do the action," Peter's always saying. When we comment on our lives instead of living them, when we comment on the risk instead of taking it, are we lessening our potential for happiness? What amazing things could we share or experience, if we just took the risk of being honest? How long must we shortchange ourselves, just to be as inoffensive as possible?

What if I'm a mermaid with these jeans of his with her name still on it hey but I don't care cause sometimes I said sometimes I hear my voice and it's been here, silent all these years.

I think I do hear my voice in there, between the social graces and the insecurity. I just need to stop telling it to sit down and be polite, people are starting to point. Let them point. And, if you'll permit me to appropriate one other song that makes me smile from high school, this baby's got sauce. She ain't that sweet.

Time keeps on slippin slippin slippin

We're moving into the theatre tomorrow to begin the mad dash towards opening next. It will be a flurry of tulle skirts and a haze of gelled lights and people yelling in code and shoes that were never meant to be worn by actual humans and I absolutely can't wait. Why? Because I get to be a pretty pretty princess in a gorgeous dress. For about three minutes. But it makes up for the red mohawk and punk gear that I have to sport in my first appearance onstage. And the scooter (read: deathtrap) I have to ride while singing. For my next trick, I will juggle knives while singing 'Glitter and be gay.' Any takers?

There's a lot of stress coming my way over the next two weeks between rehearsals and production and auditions and flights to and fro, I'm trying very hard to stay focused on what I do. As I told a friend today, making a 'concerted effort' to stay positive is sometimes one part 'concerted effort,' and two parts 'pour me a cocktail' and 'kick my ass to the gym.' Whatever floats the orange in my Weizen. The music is great, the direction is great, and even though I'm not always ecstatic about their offstage behaviour, my colleagues are pretty darn good at what they do. I suppose you can't ask for much more than that.

This is also the first holy week that I've sat out in probably fifteen years. I almost forgot that last Sunday was Palm Sunday altogether, especially with all of the hubub leading up to St. Patrick's Day and the push toward tech week. At the lunch table someone made a reference to one of our admins talking about how he could only be at tech until a certain hour and then would have to go to church. I miss my church family. Even though the rehearsals for this week were always long and difficult, I've always found Easter to be a very rewarding experience, especially if you do the long push from Maundy Thursday through the Vigil and into the morning. Once I discovered allergy medicine (get behind me, Easter lilies!) it made the morning a snap. And down South, a girl is just dying to break out her white linen dress. I'll be the one humming 'Easter Parade' while setting the table.

The snow is still melting in Boston and I suspect that I'll be very shell-shocked by the time Sunday rolls around. But even if you're not a religious person, I invite you to spend a few days taking stock of your life. Let go of old grudges and tell your family you love them. Cut someone some slack, cut yourself some slack, and be supportive of a friend in need. And eat some chocolate bunnies. It's good for the soul, any time of the year.

I send my love to my friends and family back East, down South, and abroad. Even if I don't say it, I'm thinking of you.

If the shoe fits....

So I have this colleague. He's new to the group, has only been with us since mid-February, and for some reason, seems to ask the kind of 'getting to know you' questions that I really don't like answering. Questions like "so how do you like the program?" and "are you and your husband planning on having kids any time soon?" He's also the colleague who accidentally outed my professorial moniker, so I find that, while I'm trying very hard to be friendly with this guy, he frequently manages to step in it.

To keep myself from boiling over talking about my work (see my previous post if you don't know what I'm talking about) or using specific examples that would more than clearly outline my disdain for a particular individual, I find myself making use of some broad-brush cliches, namely "If the shoe fits..." For example:

"When is your birthday?"
"April 2 - Aries, but that's a surprise to no one."
"I don't really believe in that sort of astrological bunk."
"Well, if the shoe fits..."

or

"Why don't you share your excitement over these (previously unnamed) opportunities that have come your way?"
"Because as much as I know that some people would be genuinely happy for me, there are those who turn around and back-bite at me for having said opportunities. Singers are insecure, it's just the nature of the beast."
"Don't you think that's a little stereotypical?"
"If the shoe fits..."

Some might say that my generalization is a double-edged sword. Judge not, lest ye be judged. Am I only becoming more like the stereotypical insecure singer when I make these broad-brush statements? Or is it about survival of the fittest. Developing that thick skin that enables us to stand through the most skin-blistering criticism from our directors and coaches? I mentioned this situation to an old friend recently and he told me to feel free to harden my heart a little at any time. Is this the only path to take? Is there not some middle ground between ice princess and bleeding heart? Where does respect play into this? And why am I asking so many questions?

I'm a softie on the inside. I cry at movies, coo at babies, look at silly pictures on icanhascheezburger that make me laugh when I'm blue, and curl up on the sofa with the dogs when I need some unconditional affection. I'm not ashamed of the dog hair on my black coat or the musical theatre on my mp3 player. And I still get sentimental about things that happened more than ten years ago and I still keep old friends' phone numbers in my phone, even though they haven't returned my phone calls since I got married. So there, poopy poop insecure singers. I like dogs and nice people.

Don't fence me in

A prologue and cautionary note: This is not about singing. This is about singers, not for the faint of heart or stomach. It is, for the most part, unedited.

I've been thinking a lot about boundaries. We spend most of our young lives trying to break out of the boundaries that our mostly well-intentioned parents put up to protect us from the world, ourselves, those who might do us harm. We go through these sudden and disorienting periods of growth where our hormones and emotions tear us asunder and force us to redefine who we thought we were and who we're going to be, and then as soon as we think we've got it figured out, someone turns the egg timer over and it all starts again. Like sands through the hourglass and all that. So are the days of our bullshit.

It extends into our career. Pick a major, pick an instrument, hell pick two or three, pick a style of music you'd like to play and/or sing. Pick a genre. You think you can specialize? No, you can't sing this or that, it doesn't fit with your fach. And don't even think about belting honey, you'll ruin your top singing that poison, just put it down and step away slowly. Come towards me and my 24 Italian hit parade book. You're going to be an opera singer, a recitalist, an oratorio singer, a crossover avant garde chamber ensemble singer who can whistle and tap dance and play the crotales and float a pianissimo Bflat at the same time. You're going to sing what you're supposed to sing until you're not supposed to sing it anymore and then you'll sing some other stuff that you're not ready to sing yet. We have a five-year plan for you.

I'm a type-A person. This surprises no one. I like to label my file folders, my emails, my boxes and my schedule. I enjoy order and will only be parted from my planner by means of physical force. I put little sticky notes in my aria books with the titles of the arias I'm doing and colored tabs in my scores that indicate which character I'm singing. But I've been trying to repress that J part of my Myers-Briggs personality profile that stands for Judging. Keep an open mind, don't move too fast, shut your mouth before you say something stupid or even worse, truthful. No one likes a know-it-all. This lesson I learned early in life - don't raise your hand too often. Even if no one else knows the answer - especially if no one else knows the answer, or wants to hear the answer. No one wants to know that you've written papers on this subject or are doing a critical study on this piece or that you've worked on that piece with the composer and this is what he said. Don't let on that you might be too intelligent - it scares people off, makes them feel weird.

What does this have to do with a Cole Porter song, you might ask?

Recently, the young artists had a meeting with the PR department. We were asked to put together a bio and update our headshot, if it was necessary, and also to consider the ramifications of certain photos and information that are readily available on the internet. (Read: if you have photos of yourself doing kegstands up on Facebook, now might be an opportune time to remove them) I have resigned myself to the idea that my image, public and private, will be under scrutiny should this elusive beast called a career actually come to fruition. I will have to shake hands and smile and do exactly as I'm told by scores of people who are both more and less qualified to stand at the foot of the stage and move us around in trajectories that they deem artistic. I have no problem with this. I've experimented with stage direction but will happily defer to those who have more experience and know-how than I. I used to coach people but don't do that so much anymore, same with accompanying. I am a singer. Singing is my business, my occupation, my job.

So I found myself slightly nonplussed when one of my colleagues let it slip that, in my absence, I am referred to by said colleagues as "The Professor." I acknowledge that this particular moniker, likely appropriate given my current student status in the notorious doctoral program about which I have written so much, is relatively benign. But my question, dear readers, is this:
While the words are benign, is the sentiment?

I have long maintained that the nation in which I live will not have an academic as a president for one simple reason: people fear the educated. They fear the big words and the complex sentence structure and the literary references. Instead, they elevate the mediocre with descriptors such as "down to earth" and "plain-spoken." My description of our exceptionally mediocre national leader would require more patience than I possess at this very moment, so we'll return to the point. After this little slip of the tongue, I confirmed my suspicions by casually mentioning my nickname to another colleague who seemed to think it was marvelous and appropriate. "Librarian Spice," a nickname that I found rather endearing and humorous, was discarded owing to the fact that I am (as this colleague pointed out) neither a librarian nor a spice.

I live with lovely people in a neighborhood with their three dogs. It is what could easily be considered a 'trendy' neighborhood in which boutique clothing shops spring up like crocuses and unique restaurants are to be found on every block. I work out at a small, locally-owned gym that offers a few different kinds of pilates as well as belly dancing, around the corner from the local cupcake bakery that calls to me with the promise of red velvet cupcakes. I wake up around the same time every morning, eat my breakfast of Cheerios and milk, listen to NPR as I'm getting ready, catch the bus down to work in enough time to arrive at least 20 minutes early even if the bus is running late, and work on a blanket I'm knitting. On the way home, I get off the bus in front of the gym. I do my routine, and then I walk home. I am a creature of structure and habit. I don't go to the bar and get loaded on work nights - not because I don't need a drink after six hours of staging rehearsal, believe me when I say I do. I don't go because I get dehydrated easily and I need to sing most every day of the week. So cocktail hour is usually out. I don't party much because I'm married and my husband is across the continent. I don't experiment with recreational or prescription drugs because my cardiologist told me not to at a very early age and I listened. I am, in short, a very boring singer whose fun factor is even more diminished because I refuse to endanger my marriage or my health simply to socialize.

I am a very determined, very focused, and ferociously lonely boring singer. Which is why I am at home on Saturday night writing on my blog about how I am still angry. I am still angry that there are people with whom I share my days - people for whom I have cooked and with whom I have worked and traveled - who know me so little that they can put me in this box, this claustrophobic box in which I now know my place. I am the person to whom you turn when you need something translated. I am the person you call when trying to find that obscure French aria that exists in nineteen different editions. I am the person you ask for extra copies of said weird aria because you know I have them. I am the designated driver. I am the designated academic. Which has nothing to do with my artistry or my work ethic or that I derive enormous pleasure from costume fittings because for the first time in my life I get to be a pretty pretty princess.

But it has EVERYTHING to do with Judging.

My stomach is turning, even now as I write this, and I can feel my eyes prickling with the tears of rage that make me want to sit down and put my Type-A, J for Judging personality to use and construct a matrix of inadequacies that give voice to everything I'm thinking. I am furious and tremendously sad at the same time. I am in eighth grade all over again, left out because I'm too smart to be cool and too square to be fun. I feel you judging me, even from across the lake.
And worse, I feel my inner eighth-grader asking, "Couldn't you do this to make yourself easier to be around? Couldn't you just shut your mouth and not let them know you're a doctoral student? Couldn't you please oh please just go to their party and get drunk so they will like us?"

But worst of all, thousands of miles away from the ones I love, when I'm low and tired and bordering on ill, I feel my character starting to budge. Maybe just a few drinks. Maybe if I make nice or ask them if they want to come over. I'll buy groceries and I'll cook, just please come and be nice to me. Just for a little while. And that's when the big J in my personality hits me the hardest. How dare you cave to this frivolity? When we've worked so long and hard on becoming Someone, a real Someone, and you would sell that so cheaply? Not a chance, sister.
Not on this big J for Judgment's watch. Tonight you go to sleep alone, sober and pumped full of medicine and vitamins and you will sleep well and late and tomorrow you will eat healthy and practice and go to the gym and make progress on that blanket because babies are getting born left and right. And when it's all said and done, you will still be lonely. But at least you'll still be you.

So to those who would happily put me in the box and label me, I tell them to back the fuck off because I'm not done growing yet. Like the song says:

"Send me off forever but I ask you please, don't fence me in."

EDIT: I was a big chicken and didn't publish this right away, but that pesky RSS feed outed me anyway. Go with the gut, says the old man, go with the gut. So I'm a-goin. But I leave you with this quote that founds its way to me (via Christine Ebersole's blog).

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.” --Marianne Williamson--

Germany, Seattle, and now Colorado?

Now before you go getting ideas, I'm not moving to Colorado. About a week ago, I got an email from a singer at NEC who studies with my teacher. She was emailing me to ask about teachers at IU because Dr. J is leaving NEC. First of all, I was still battling jet lag from crossing nine time zones back from Germany and waking up at 5 and 6am so I read this email at some obscenely early hour and wasn't really able to process what I had read until about 9am after two cups of tea and at least three episodes of Saved by the Bell. Second, I had no idea that Dr. J was leaving, so it came as a complete shock and I found myself in a strange state of deja-vu. I wrote her back and spoke plainly about some teachers at IU - if she chooses to take my advice then fine but if not then it's her choice. No one can really tell anyone else what a voice teacher is like - for me it's like asking someone else to try on shoes for you. Only you really know if they fit AND if they suit your taste. And then I took a few minutes to sip my tea and let it sink in.

We've been in Boston for three years now, a move that was precipitated by a phone call in late April of 2005. Husband and I had been engaged for all of three weeks and I had just returned from a choir concert in Indy, singing amazing music with some of my favorite people in the music world. I had some crazy voicemails that all kept saying, "You have to call Dr. J. You have to call him NOW." I missed the group discussion/announcement at the studio party, not even contemplating that missing the studio party would mean anything more than missing Ruth Ann's hilarious jokes after she's had a glass of wine. One very emotional phone call later, I started writing frantic emails to teachers at IU, seeing who might take on a now-studioless DMA student. DMA students are high-maintenance (don't tell me anything I don't know, right?) and a long-term commitment. We need advisement on research topics. We need protection from other faculty members who think that singers are dumb or that 75 pages isn't nearly enough for a topic proposal. We need people to show up and listen to us talk about subjects that would put most academics into a catatonic state, and we need them to do it for a few years until we're finished jumping through those flaming hoops. Needless to say, no one bit and I ended up doing what I wanted to do all along - move to Boston to stay with the old man (that's Dr. J, not my husband, in case you're wondering). So that's what we did. Hubby (then fiancee) and I packed the U-Haul with a colleague and his fiancee and threw the dog in the car and drove to Boston.

The rest, as they say, is history. We got married in Boston, bought a car in Boston, joined churches and got jobs and auditioned and drank beer and rooted for the Red Sox (only a few days until baseball season starts again!) and formed a life. Somewhere in that life, I feel that I really learned how to sing and started to shed my old skin of being an academic, bound up in my own preconceptions about being a singer. For the last three years, my surrogate parents have been Dr. J and Annie. They watched me lose my shit and sob my eyes out and fight with my husband and worry about my dog and worry about my career and get auditions and rejection letters and multiple recitals and concerts and operas and church services and birthdays and anniversaries later, they're like family. And while it hurts that they're leaving Boston, I know it's time for them. I'm trying really hard to wish them well even though I know it means that I'll have to fly to Colorado to get the set of ears that knows my voice best to listen to me ("are you sure it doesn't sound like crap? because it sounds like crap to me." "well emily, I'm older than you so my vote counts more. it doesn't sound like crap.") and also that, when I'm having a hard day and I need some no-bullshit advice, Annie won't be just down in Brookline Village.

But if there's one thing that these people have fostered in me, it's the ability to step away from a teacher and still have the tools to troubleshoot your own technique. I'm not saying I have all the answers, I'm not even saying that I'm always qualified to listen to myself. But I am saying that I have a place to start. Which leads me to the first part of this title post - Germany.

I was in Stuttgart for a week singing a Handel oratorio - his last one, in fact - Jephtha. You know, fun subject matter about someone who makes a really silly promise to sacrifice something and that something turns out to be WHOOPS his daughter. But then, an Angel descends from on high (that would be me) and no one dies but someone has to get themselves to a convent. Or something like that. Anyway, I flew over nine times zones in the longest, most terrible trans-Atlantic journey I have ever made and suffered the worst case of jet-lag. It's certainly not my first time flying to Germany, but I'd never had this much trouble adjusting before. I went to my first rehearsal on four hours of fitful sleep, eternally thankful that Helmuth Rilling is so nice for not remarking on how incredibly tired I looked and sounded, and also for the fact that Klaus is a kickass continuo player. A few days of rest and some serious Hefeweizen later, I managed to fall asleep and sleep a full night. Weizen does wonders. The next morning, the day of the dress rehearsal, I get up and eat breakfast. I warm up steadily throughout the day, practicing in my room and then wandering over to the Bachakademie and I'm feeling pretty good. And then my worst nightmare comes true. I get up to sing my aria (which comes at the VERY END of this VERY LONG oratorio and it's only about six minutes of singing altogether so it had better be good) and the runs aren't working. I'm calm, I tell myself that my breath is probably all hopped up, which it is, and that I just need to remember that nice high place from whence it all descends. Like a slinky, I tell myself. And I try it again. No dice. And this isn't just the normal kind of self-deprecating-oh-shit-I'm-singing-for-Helmuth-Rilling no dice. This is the I-recorded-the-rehearsal-and-listened-to-it-later kind of no dice. I'm truly beginning to panic because this is Friday and the performances are Saturday and Sunday and I have really got to get on the ball here. So I lock myself in the practice room with my bag of tricks. First I try the "think the notes clearly, you know where they are, now just trust as you descend." That doesn't work. Then I try the "be sure you're singing through the run, not allowing it to come off the breath" and then the "okay, maybe you just need to be a little more aggressive" and the "oh fuck this, just shove it all into place and see what happens."

Nothing. Nada. NICHTS.

And all I can think of it "I'm going to suck. I'm going to suck in front of Helmuth and in front of my friends in the Gaechinger and my new cousins who've only known me for about six hours but they're going to hear me suck. suck suck suck sucks suck suck suck suck suck suck sucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksuck

It's not pretty when I get good and worked up.

So it's Saturday night now and Hollie has given his pre-concert lecture, complete with cardboard cutouts and disembodied heads and wings (oh yes, there are photos, don't you worry) and Nicole has come and put my hair into this very elegant coif on top of my head and my eyeliner is just great if only the ground would open up and swallow me because this is going to be awful. I eat a piece of marzipan and read some Harry Potter and try to relax. Before I know it, I realize that I've fallen asleep in the dressing room and that horrible gonging sounds says that it's intermission and I only have an hour left before the guillotine, I mean aria.

I try, just one more time, to figure out what is running amok with these two stupid bars and then, out of nowhere, this little voice in my head says "emily, you just have to think the vowel clearly on every pitch. the color will match and the voice will adjust itself for placement. you know how to do this, you just have to trust." So I take off my pointy shoes and plunk out the A on the piano and see if this little experiment works. And it does. About four tries later, all successful, I determine that this is not just a fluke and that I am not going to suck. This works out well, because then Mattias comes to my door and tells me it's time to go up to the Chorbuehne. So there I am, up waaaaaaay up at the top of the Liederhalle with my sparkly earrings, semi-lit with my music and the string quartet and Klaus, gingerly making his way to the harpsichord because the floors are sooooooo slick. And then the lights shift and the whole room goes dark and the lights come up on me and I'm really worried that I'm about to pass out or something but then I realize this is some theatre effect that no one told me about and, oh yeah, you're supposed to sing now. And then I blink and it's over. And it was fun, and let's review - I didn't suck!

Hours later, after celebrating and washing off the eyeliner and what seemed like a zillion curtain calls, it occurs to me that this little voice in my head had a personality. And don't go getting all philosophical on me, it wasn't the voice of God in my head telling me how to sing correctly.
It was the voice of the old man. And even in that moment, I could hear him chuckling at me and shaking his head because after three and a half years, I still freak myself out for no good reason.

What will I do without him and his socks and sandals? His patterned sport shirts buttoned all the way to the top? And Annie, putting pepper flakes on her pizza and telling him to fuck off for laughing at her when she's trying to say something damn it Jim don't you dare laugh at me she says, shaking the salad tongs at him. Him, forwarding dirty email jokes to my husband because he knows that I just roll my eyes and so many hours during the first of two very hot summers in Vermont, desperately trying to string together phrases in German to describe how much I couldn't stand that stupid snooty pianist who wouldn't slow down long enough for me to put together six words about Amor and then in the second summer, giggling my way through Zerbinetta and actually having in-depth conversations with Annie about marriage and careers and children and making a life, wondering if there's anyone I've ever met who is as honest as she is.

I shouldn't be so dramatic about it, I'm sure. They're not dying, they're just moving to Colorado. And, as he told me on the telephone when I talked to him last week, I'm doing just fine in this career track and they're always just a phone call away. I've been so lucky in my academic career to have found really good mentors. People like the Divine Dr. L, for whom this blog was named, and the former Dean Maureen, the biggest badass in the Honors College back at Southern Miss, and Dana Rags who got tipsy with me at the Hog and told stories about telling her professors to shove it because they were just wrong. People who really shaped who I am not only as a musician but as an individual, people who encouraged me to speak up for myself and try to make a difference in the way academia is run, people who taught me how to pick my battles, when to do it myself and when to ask for help, when to stay and fight and when to let it go. I haven't lived at home in years. I can't even remember what it was like to see my parents every day, let alone every week. We talk pretty frequently now, see each other maybe once a year. I'm trying to talk them into coming to Tanglewood for the summer, we'll see. It's like I'm leaving home all over again. That safety net is moving and I didn't even know how much I relied on them until they tell me they're picking up and going to Colorado.

Dr. J doesn't care much for pop music and probably even less for folk, but this is one of my favorite songs. Now that we've made a home in Boston, it makes me cheerful to think that I'll be sitting at Tanglewood this summer, listening to James Taylor sing this song about a place that I've really come to love. But I can't help thinking - I'm almost 28 and I feel that the distance between 23 and 28 seems just as long as the distance between 1 and 23, if not longer.
And even though I'm almost positive the old man doesn't like James Taylor, I think he would appreciate the sentiment.

Now the First of December was covered with snow
And so was the Turnpike from Stockbridge to Boston
Lord, the Berkshires seemed dream-like on account of that frosting
With ten miles behind me and ten thousand more to go

Theres a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
A song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singing works just fine for me

Ridi, Pagliaccio!

I just got home from Pagliacci. It's dress rehearsal night number two, and then everyone gets a day and night to rest before opening night on Saturday. I've never seen Pagliacci before, which elicits incredulous gasps from my colleagues, but in the interest of productivity, I tend to listen to operas that I'm learning and/or operas that I could someday perform. I still have my Maria Callas collection, so don't go thinking that I only listen to Natalie Dessay and the other twitterbirds of my type. I don't shun the big rep, but let's be real for a moment - it's not like I'm going to be eligible for Isolde.

Weeks like this, it's important for me to go to the opera house and see what we do. I took my host mom with me - she'd never seen Pagliacci either so it was a new experience for both of us. As young artists we get free tickets and are allowed to sit down front in the super expensive seats during dress rehearsals (the ones that probably cost half a month's rent) so that's what we did. Sashaying past the ushers and the staff, pretending that we're really big shot donors who can afford the seats close enough to see the part in the conductor's hair. I usually sit up in the balcony or, the two times I've been to the Met, I stand in the back and squint. I acknowledge that it's a visual art form, but if my ears are pleased my eyes don't mind so much. But this was a strange treat for me, to sit down front and really look up close. I have to confess, the singing was not amazing. I wasn't blown away by the lush color or the incredible high notes that left me wanting more. I was really most moved by the acting between Nedda, Canio and Silvio. I've seen the Nedda/Silvio duet before so I was looking forward to it, but it was really beautiful tonight and I found myself back in that always unexpected but happy to be there place - the place where I'm really happy to be an opera singer because something magical is happening on stage.

It hasn't been a great week. I had to leave my husband and come back to Seattle, launch right into rehearsals for an outreach show and as of today, do double duty in rehearsals because my casting double is out of town for the next week. Today that meant running around in figure eights ten times instead of five, practicing the lifts six times instead of three, practicing the tug of war pull turn dip lift your foot in the air and hold move more times than I can remember (though my quads have not stopped reminding me) and trying very VERY hard to keep a pleasant expression on my face when the director, attempting to demonstrate how she thought my feet should get lifted off the ground, said, "WOW this really is hard - I didn't realize how heavy she is." Great. Why don't you get me a nice paper cut and pour some lemon juice on it? (movie reference, anyone?) Then, I had to have an excruciating phone conversation with a young artist administrator about why the invitation to join the program at %% Opera, made by ******, is essentially null and void because WHOOPS, ***** didn't talk to ^^^^^ and the roles that we thought we had for you are cast and contracted. But thanks for flying out to sing for us between two snow storms, we still think you're great. Keep us posted. And other niceties that we say when trying to end an awkward phone conversation.

I'm thinking of my little sister Marge and her cell phone that rings "Always look on the bright side of life." Sometimes it's really hard to gain perspective. I had to go to the gym for two hours yesterday and lift until my muscles were shaking to really get to my clear-headed place. What is this life that we choose as opera singers? We choose to be away from the ones we love, family friends and (in my case) dogs, so that we can chase this elusive art that embraces you while sticking its finger in your soft spot and sends you home every time, a little more humbled than you began. Humility is good - keeps us honest. Keeps the art form honest. But as we all know, art and mortals don't mix well together - we worship at the porcelain font and bring our humble offerings but then some suit with an MBA comes along and says, "okay, but do you think we can sell tickets? what will the t-shirts look like? and how the hell do you market a porcelain font?"

I try to forget about those people - or at the very least, push them out of my direct view. I try to keep my art right in front of me, where I can still feel the tears rolling down my face as Canio stabs Silvio and then comes back to weep over the body of Nedda. I try to hold that feeling as long as I can, to remind me that it's not about the business. It's not about the font on my resume and it's not even about whether or not I'm the princess in the fluffy dress (still holding out for that one). It's about the endeavor to touch something great and then turn to the audience and share it with them. And that's why I go to the opera and that's why tomorrow morning when my alarm goes off at 7:45am, I will drag my ass out of bed for another day of double duty staging and I will sit on the bus and review my lines and bring my Hoffmann score with me to my coaching and sit with my colleague and coach him through his German during lunch. And on those days when the clarity just won't come, I'll cheat and go listen to the end of Act I in Boheme and remember.

Sing in me, O muse.

All I want for Christmas is my PFO

It's that time of year. The time of year when we all start to check our mailboxes with trepidation. Yesterday, between batches of pralines (which turned out MARVELOUSLY, I might add), I received the first of my PFO letters. And not just the first: I received the first, second, third and fourth, all in one batch, and on Christmas Eve.

Opera company philosophy: Let's get all of our work done quickly. Send out those rejection letters before the holidays so our desks will be clean when we get back. I'm sure that all those singers won't mind getting their rejection letters the day before Christmas. They're already in huge slumps of holiday depression and self-loathing, not to mention pondering how they're going to afford going home after they've spent money on audition fees and travel and hotels during audition season, one more letter won't matter.

To all of the opera companies for whom I have auditioned:

If you're not looking for my voice type, then say so up front. Don't take my money and make me come to your audition and pay for a train ticket and get stuck in a snow storm on the way back from New York for you to tell me that I'm great but you're just not looking for my type.

If you have time to send me a letter of rejection, then you have time to give me feedback. Don't send me a letter of rejection and then tell me not to ask for feedback because you don't have time to give me feedback. That's just crap, and it insults my intelligence. I made time to sing for you, and I paid you money to listen. Don't be rude. It's like dumping someone the day before prom.

And do NOT send out letters three days before Christmas. It's just bad form and shows a lack of forethought and consideration not becoming of an arts administration.

I have nothing to complain about this season. I have options and offers. But I remember those last two years, trying to better my audition technique, asking for feedback and hoping that I would get some really constructive advice. But the biggest piece of advice I've ever heard is "Be professional." And that translates into a number of little catch-all phrases that your momma told you: Be polite. Be on time. Be respectful. Be gracious. Don't brag. Don't write checks with your mouth that your ass can't cash. (Okay, my momma never said that last one, but I know a lot of mommas who have, and they know what they're talking about.)

There are a few companies who give instant feedback, or offer to give feedback after the first of the year. There are a few companies who tell you that if you don't receive a callback to assume you're not in the running. I'm of the opinion that it's always better to know where you stand, but I'm just like that. Some people prefer to live in the land of "hope springs eternal until the letter comes to my house," but I'm just not that optimistic. I want to know where I stand, good bad or indifferent. This is how we get better at our craft.

Something else my momma told me - don't kick people when they're down.

I'm not down right now. I had an amazing Christmas, spent lots of quality time with my husband, sang some really good music with people I love, made two really great batches of pralines, spent time with good friends and ate some amazing food. I had a really good audition season, and I'm looking forward to going back to work in a few weeks. But for every singer I know who's got an offer, there are fifteen who don't and are still trying to put together rent for January because they spent it on plane/train/bus tickets to New York for auditions.

Be kind and courteous to this gentleman. Because if you hopped in his walks and gamboled in his eyes, you wouldn't be so keen to throw snert in them the day before Christmas. Bad form.
Personal foul. Fifteen yards. First down.

I like big butts and I cannot lie

This summer, a crazy girl I met in Stuttgart started teaching her German roommate words and phrases that were 'uniquely American.' Among them were the words to that timeless classic, "Baby got back," the song that gave all of the women in the western world the freedom to have that extra pint of Ben & Jerry's because we knew it was going to go straight to the booty and who doesn't like more of that? Sir Mix-a-Lot does, that's for sure.

Well this morning, feeling a little blue and tired after spending the week working on a paper on Apollinaire and Poulenc, eyes slightly crossed from staring at microfilm and computer screens and reading small print in French, my husband introduced me to this crazy online musician guy named Jonathan Coulton. And Jonathan Coulton, obviously sensing my need, did a remake of "Baby got back," in what I can only describe as a mix of John Mayer, Toad the Wet Sprocket, and They Might be Giants.

Dear friends, PLEASE go to this website and listen to 'Baby got back,' under the album heading of "Thing a week one."

It will make your day, just as it made mine. And with that said, I now have the strength to go back to my paper on Apollinaire.

A delayed post, from December 11

This was a post I intended to write, having scribbled it down in haste, so pardon the time-delay.

Dec 11, 2007
Today my career took a leap. I'm in the Starbucks on W54th and Broadway, with James Taylor singing 'Something in the way she moves' and my heart is so full I can feel my waterproof eyeliner getting nervous. This was a really good audition season for me. For the first time ever, I was not denied a single audition. I tried to keep perspective and focus on the business of doing my job. And somehow, it happened. People on the other side of the table began to look up. And ask questions. And talk to me. And it seemed that they also began to really listen. Because this was the year that I really started to sing. Not to play at singing or err on the side of caution or hope that my coloratura was clean. I put it out there - I put me out there. Turns out, that's where I needed to be all along.

I'm still scared of failure. My almost-sort-of-maybe-agent-guy says that I give off the 'good little WASP from Boston' vibe, to which my pianist says, 'okay, so you have to slut it up.' But I don't even think that's what it's about. It's not about whether or not my hair is red or blonde or brown, or if I'm wearing pointy shoes (incidentally I'm getting rid of them - my toes pinch). It's about being there in the moment and really engaging. That's what scares us the most - the rejection stings twice as bad when it's really you out there. But at this moment, warm in Starbucks with a double soy latte (the barista's suggestion) I'm all teary because Peter just texted me and it says "Honey, it didn't have to be me at all. It had to be you and it had to be the right time."

Know what? I think I'm going to be an opera singer. Who knew?

I sit corrected, from my sofa

As one of my readers pointed out, Tosca does not hurl herself into the Arno. I think I was mixing my operas in my heightened state. But from where I'm sitting at this moment, happy to be home on a brief respite from audition season, I feel good enough to say thank you to this person. Tosca hurls herself into the Tiber, Lauretta only threatens to throw herself into the Arno. Thanks for fixing my Italian geography!

It's a funny time of year to travel. When you're sitting on the train from Baltimore to New York, knitting in the cafe car because the entire train is sold out and you need a place to watch your huge suitcase and the person next to you asks the standard travel questions (Where are you going? What for? Oh, you're an opera singer?) you have a brief and shining moment where, to a total stranger, you seem very glamorous and foreign. An opera singer. Not a pharmacist or lawyer or investment banker. And while they think it's very cool that you've only spent 22 hours in DC and will only spend 24 in New York before you get on yet another train to go home, you know that you've been schlepping your suitcase between every airport and train station since last Friday and you're just so grateful to sit down with your cup of coffee and your knitting. When I call my friends from airports (this seems to be the only time I get to call my friends) they make jokes about me being the 'jet-setter.' But do you know what was so beautiful about this Thanksgiving holiday weekend? It was not the fact that my husband deep-fried a turkey to perfection, it was not the fact that my pecan and pumpkin pies turned out stunningly, and it was not even the fact that the house was filled with people I love.

It was the fact that I didn't go ANYWHERE for Thanksgiving. Nowhere. I stayed put, chopped veggies in my pyjamas, didn't even bother to change out of my robe until the side dishes were in the oven. And even though I would love to have gone to NYC to see Diana Damrau do her last Queen of the Night, a performance that I have dreamed about since I saw the DVD of the Covent Garden production, I am staying home and away from NYC until at least next Tuesday. Next Tuesday, I will get back on the train with my carry-on suitcase packed with my music and headshots and resumes and fabulous dress and bottles of water and vitamins and hopefully a few more balls of yarn to keep me busy on the ride and I will boldly go back into the fray.

And I must confess, as I stood in the hallway at City Opera last week, waiting to do my Florida Grand audition (the third one of the morning, after my HGO audition was suddenly bumped up half an hour due to cancellations "Um, miss, would you mind going right now? Four people ahead of you canceled." "Now? Right now? Give me two minutes and I'll be right there." I went into the elevator, rode it down and then up again with a group of school children who were taking a tour of the Juilliard building, with me yodeling all the way. Weird looks all around, but one of them told me that my dress was pretty.) and having been told that I might be able to switch to an earlier time so I could make the early train out of NYC, I was thinking to myself, "All I can do is my job. I know how to do my job. I kick ass at my job." I waited for nearly two hours, with occasional humming and buzzing and listening to everyone go in and out of the room, watching them fret and I just kept telling myself, "All I can do is my job." And when I walked into the room, I was filled with tremendous calm for the third time that morning. Because I know how to do my job. I kill at my job. You want high and fast? I majored in high and fast. I invented high and fast. It gives me great joy to do high and fast.

So that's what I'm going to do. And when the right job reveals itself to me, it will not be because I wore the pink dress or because someone thought I belonged in my hair color, it will be because I did my job and did it well and someone said, "I want her on my stage." Game on.

T minus two days and counting

I'm leaving Seattle on Friday to embark upon the audition season. It's like hunting season, really. You fill out all of these forms and someone gives you a little piece of paper that entitles you to stand with other people in the wilderness and hunt. For a job, that is. Armed with conjugated verbs in many languages, dresses of many colors, and sundry paper products that hopefully represent the favorable side of oneself, we go into the fray. I haven't had much time for personal reading lately, but I was reading the Wolf Trap Opera Blog yesterday and something really spoke to me - a guest posting from Joshua Winograde, singer & administrator. As singers we are all prone to horrible kinds of head games, some of which Kim Witman addressed in her posting today (same blog). Do they hate me? Did they hate my shoes? I hate myself in these shoes, they probably knew that. I wonder if this dress makes me look fat. Holy shit, she's wearing the same dress I wore last year, but in green instead of pink, are they comparing me to her? Did she just start with my aria? But that's MY starting aria, now I have to go after her and I can't deal with this fucking shit, where the hell is my parapet, I'm going to pull a Tosca and throw myself into the fucking Arno.
Kim and Joshua both talk about the importance of NOT playing these head games with yourself, but more to the point, Joshua addresses what we should be doing with our time and effort: focusing on the things that we can do something about. Diction, real interpretation based on character study and commitment to an emotion, singing freely and healthily, but most of all doing things to build up your physical and emotional immune system. Not waiting until you get sick to fight the cold, but instead sleeping and eating healthily, exercising instead of crash-dieting just before audition season, and (I'm extrapolating a little now) being good to yourself on a personal and spiritual level that enables you to ride the waves of this tumultuous career.

My husband is a smart person. He knows when I'm low. It usually has a few big flags that amount to one or more of the following statements:
1. I wonder if I can get in to the salon today, I think I'd like to color/cut my hair.
2. I feel like shit and I want to eat everything in sight. (His question: Have you gone to the gym yet today?)
3. I didn't go to bed till late. (What were you doing?) Nothing. (Were you up on that stupid classical singer navel-gazing forum lamenting about the jobs you don't have but really don't want anyway?) Yes.

But every now and then, he really puts his finger on me. I was walking home from the gym the other night, talking about how I wanted to color my hair (are you sure I wouldn't look better as a brunette? Maybe people would take me more seriously....) and he once again pointed out that I was in one of those little lows in the mood swing. And he told me that ultimately I do know the right answer to all of these little quandaries. When I'm feeling like myself, and not questioning my career choices and really trusting in my intelligence/talent/work ethic/acting abilities I'm in the 'fuck you' state of mind that says "Fuck you if you don't think that I'm the most amazing thing that's ever walked through this door because I love what I do and I'm a badass at what I do. Because I'm about to flex my guns as I exit, just in case you haven't figured out that I would be an asset to your company." This may seem a little harsh and confrontational so please relax and be assured that I don't actually SAY this to anyone in an audition, but it's my little pep talk that puts me in game mode. But when I'm feeling unsure, that's when I start trying to fit myself into a different box. Maybe if I were shorter/taller/thinner/had smaller feet/higher or lower voice/blonder/browner I would feel better and not question what I do.

I'm in a subjective profession. People get paid to come watch what I do and pick it apart and then publish what they think. And more people read the picking-apart than actually came to see what I did. But ultimately, when I'm on stage it's just me and the audience and the musicians around me, doing our jobs and trying to keep it real. But I have to keep reminding myself that the singer I am does not define the PERSON I am. I used to think that it did, or that it had to. So even on a day like today, when my hormones are absolutely out of control and I probably have no business even writing a blog about it, I'm going to make today a 'fuck you' day and put on my makeup and my amazing Steve Maddens and go out tonight with my friend Marianna and when she introduces me as her fabulous opera singer friend, I'll just say 'thanks' instead of all the self-deprecating bullshit that comes to mind. Fuck you head games, my hair looks amazing and thanks to all those evil machines in the gym, my ass does too. So there.

Opera in the time of plague

Now if I didn't know better, I'd think that someone had brought their pet Outbreak Monkey to the Metropolitan the other night. Somehow, in the middle of Diana Damrau's absolutely gorgeous "Ach, ich fuehl's" about nineteen people needed to cough. At Carnegie Hall, the ushers are armed with Ricola cough drops for just such occasions. It reminded me of one of my undergrad recitals, at which someone dared to bring a SLURPEE and drink it right in the middle of my Poulenc set. I'm trying to emote here! Cut me some slack!

A lot has happened in the last two months. I passed my qualifying exams and am officially ABD (all but dissertation), started my apprenticeship with Seattle Opera, did a concert at the Kennedy Center, and made the 5K mark on my running progress. It's audition season now, which means that every singer in the continental US is printing out headshots and resumes, ironing their shirts and drycleaning their dresses, saying their chants and praying for good juju and carrying water bottles filled with vitamin-infused beverages, warding off illness and using hand sanitizer like there's no tomorrow. I love New York in the fall. It makes me want to buy school supplies. (name that movie!) But what I don't love is the audition process. Arrive 45 minutes early. Warm up in the elevator or the bathroom while applying makeup and putting on stockings and reviewing translations, wash hands for the 85th time and reapply hand cream - don't want to shake hands with the adjudicators and have dishpan hands - do the last spot check on the dress, coax the hair into place and ask yourself for the fourteenth time if you remembered to bring the right jewelry and are wearing the right color underwear. After all, you did wake up in another state this morning. Check in the with the monitor, yes they're running a few minutes ahead and you will be next, did you bring your headshot and resume and copies of your music for the pianist? Did I bring copies of the music for the pianist? I barely remember my name anymore, but yes I do have my binder. Good afternoon/morning/evening, I'd like to start with the Fire Aria, please just don't slow down in this part I beg of you, thanks very much, we'd like to hear the Handel. Six minutes and who knows how many high and fast notes later, remove the singer dress and the stockings and the earrings and transform self back into Emily the person. I wish I had brought my running shoes. I wonder where the nearest Starbucks is.

I love my job, I do. I love the music I get to sing and for the most part, the people with whom I get to perform. But I miss my husband and our house and our dog. I want to go walk the pup in the park and wash the dog slobber off my hands from playing fetch. I miss our friends and going out with them on Thursdays and having pizza parties and going to the Cape. I miss Boston.
And I know that Boston misses me.