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!
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Tuesday, May 08, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
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.
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.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, April 02, 2012
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?
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?
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, March 23, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
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 :)
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 :)
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
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!
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!
Friday, February 24, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
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 :)
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 :)
Thursday, February 16, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
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.
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.
Friday, January 20, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, January 16, 2012
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 :)
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 :)
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow
There's a rather good article written by "Dr. Opera" from the Virginia Opera blog, addressing the issue of wunderkind America's Got Talent belters under the age of 10. In short: let children sing like children, and leave opera to the big kids. It's irresponsible for a little league coach to get his young pitchers to throw a slider, just as it's irresponsible for voice teachers to allow their young students to holler their way through 'I dreamed a dream.' Most successful adult singers I know are the product of children's choir, high school choir, piano lessons, marching band, and a high school theatre program. Their voices were allowed to mature at a pace that matched their bodies. I should also qualify that statement and say that most of the successful adult singers I know grew up in an age without American Idol, X Factor, America's Got Talent, or any other such heinous crapola. This is me, stepping off my soapbox.
Today, I'm gonna talk about doing my job. Anyone who's watched a baseball game with me knows that I am the lunatic putting 3 fingers in the air and yelling, "Do your job!" I feel the same way about doing my own job, but without the yelling and the fingers. Most of the time.
One of the hardest lessons to learn as a young singer is identifying what your job IS and what your job IS NOT. It is NOT your job to ask the conductor leading questions about whether or not your colleague sang a wrong note. (Um, maestro, I was just wondering if the soprano is supposed to resolve to the octave, or to the 9th? Are we singing this as printed?) It is not your job to ask the director if he really wants you to sing upstage/into the curtain/from inside a crazy set piece.* (Um, excuse me, am I really supposed to be singing into the curtain for the last 5 bars of my aria?) It is your job to make it work. Tim Gunn was never more correct. It is your job to shut your mouth when your colleagues sing wrong notes/wrong rhythms/wrong words/wrong languages. You are not their teacher. It is your job to figure out how to sing over your shoulder, artfully, while executing what the director has told you to do, or to wait until the director has left town and then make for your exit just a little bit early so you can turn around and nail those last high notes to the wall. Exit right, chased by a bear.
*Unless you are in danger, and I mean serious bodily peril. Then, it is your job to speak up, respectfully, and work with the director to find a solution.*
More than these things, which are all about courtesy and respect, it's also important to get comfortable with that job on an emotional level. I'm covering a role I've sung since I was 23. I know this role like the back of my hand, eyes closed, hopping on one foot, in two different languages. Is my job to know the role? You betcha. Is my job to sing it well? Absolutely. Is my job to go to staging rehearsals and watch what's being staged? For sure. Is my job to show up to cover rehearsals and give everything I would give in a performance? ALL DAY LONG that's my job. But I'm the insurance policy. I'm the "if she gets sick/takes a blow to the head/falls off the rock/comes down with scurvy, then they call me" person. And I am okay with this. Because I get paid every two weeks to do what I'm trained to do: show up, know my stuff, and be a professional. That's the contract I signed. Do I have the occasional twinge of jealousy when I see that they're using a dazzling star drape for the first aria? Hello, I'm human. That said - this is part of that 'separating my singing from myself' exercise. If I get to go on, wonderful. I go through my same daily practice (warm up, double-check the triplets, remind myself how to sing in a lyrical but forward-moving 3, go through the long run in the 1st aria, sing through a few art songs, done!), whether I'm performing or not. I can't live in the world of 'what if.' I can't live in the world of 'if I get to go on, then that would be such a big break and then someone might hear me and hire me for blahblahblah noisenoisenoise.' I can't live in that world, because it takes me away from the world I'm living in right now. RIGHT NOW. Same for auditions. When I walk in, I have to be 120% present and ready to do what I'm trained to do. I can't think about what fantastic connections this could foster, or whether or not they like my dress, or whether or not the girl who just came out of the room seemed to know the general director on a first-name basis. I have to focus on doing my job, right then, in that moment. And when that moment is over, I go for a run, meet a friend for tea and scones, finish re-reading another chapter of Stieg Larsson, do my laundry, prepare my supper, knit another few inches of a sock, watch some BBC period dramas, snuggle with my dog, laugh with my hilarious husband, and count myself a pretty lucky girl.
For this reason, I have to tell myself (and many well-meaning friends and family) that we only allow good juju. No wishful thinking about anyone getting the plague, or falling down a flight of stairs (how very Showgirls), or catching the flu. On any given night, I'm the person in the role, with another person covering me. And I'd rather not get anthrax, so let's not wish it on anyone else. This job I'm doing right now is my job. Next month, I go to another city and sing the role. That is also my job.
Lesson for the day: live in the present, not the potential. You'll be an informed participant in your own life!
Today, I'm gonna talk about doing my job. Anyone who's watched a baseball game with me knows that I am the lunatic putting 3 fingers in the air and yelling, "Do your job!" I feel the same way about doing my own job, but without the yelling and the fingers. Most of the time.
One of the hardest lessons to learn as a young singer is identifying what your job IS and what your job IS NOT. It is NOT your job to ask the conductor leading questions about whether or not your colleague sang a wrong note. (Um, maestro, I was just wondering if the soprano is supposed to resolve to the octave, or to the 9th? Are we singing this as printed?) It is not your job to ask the director if he really wants you to sing upstage/into the curtain/from inside a crazy set piece.* (Um, excuse me, am I really supposed to be singing into the curtain for the last 5 bars of my aria?) It is your job to make it work. Tim Gunn was never more correct. It is your job to shut your mouth when your colleagues sing wrong notes/wrong rhythms/wrong words/wrong languages. You are not their teacher. It is your job to figure out how to sing over your shoulder, artfully, while executing what the director has told you to do, or to wait until the director has left town and then make for your exit just a little bit early so you can turn around and nail those last high notes to the wall. Exit right, chased by a bear.
*Unless you are in danger, and I mean serious bodily peril. Then, it is your job to speak up, respectfully, and work with the director to find a solution.*
More than these things, which are all about courtesy and respect, it's also important to get comfortable with that job on an emotional level. I'm covering a role I've sung since I was 23. I know this role like the back of my hand, eyes closed, hopping on one foot, in two different languages. Is my job to know the role? You betcha. Is my job to sing it well? Absolutely. Is my job to go to staging rehearsals and watch what's being staged? For sure. Is my job to show up to cover rehearsals and give everything I would give in a performance? ALL DAY LONG that's my job. But I'm the insurance policy. I'm the "if she gets sick/takes a blow to the head/falls off the rock/comes down with scurvy, then they call me" person. And I am okay with this. Because I get paid every two weeks to do what I'm trained to do: show up, know my stuff, and be a professional. That's the contract I signed. Do I have the occasional twinge of jealousy when I see that they're using a dazzling star drape for the first aria? Hello, I'm human. That said - this is part of that 'separating my singing from myself' exercise. If I get to go on, wonderful. I go through my same daily practice (warm up, double-check the triplets, remind myself how to sing in a lyrical but forward-moving 3, go through the long run in the 1st aria, sing through a few art songs, done!), whether I'm performing or not. I can't live in the world of 'what if.' I can't live in the world of 'if I get to go on, then that would be such a big break and then someone might hear me and hire me for blahblahblah noisenoisenoise.' I can't live in that world, because it takes me away from the world I'm living in right now. RIGHT NOW. Same for auditions. When I walk in, I have to be 120% present and ready to do what I'm trained to do. I can't think about what fantastic connections this could foster, or whether or not they like my dress, or whether or not the girl who just came out of the room seemed to know the general director on a first-name basis. I have to focus on doing my job, right then, in that moment. And when that moment is over, I go for a run, meet a friend for tea and scones, finish re-reading another chapter of Stieg Larsson, do my laundry, prepare my supper, knit another few inches of a sock, watch some BBC period dramas, snuggle with my dog, laugh with my hilarious husband, and count myself a pretty lucky girl.
For this reason, I have to tell myself (and many well-meaning friends and family) that we only allow good juju. No wishful thinking about anyone getting the plague, or falling down a flight of stairs (how very Showgirls), or catching the flu. On any given night, I'm the person in the role, with another person covering me. And I'd rather not get anthrax, so let's not wish it on anyone else. This job I'm doing right now is my job. Next month, I go to another city and sing the role. That is also my job.
Lesson for the day: live in the present, not the potential. You'll be an informed participant in your own life!
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
woman on the run
The info bar tells me it's been nearly a year since I wrote a post. Since that post last February (the massive Germany/Switzerland audition ridiculousness wrap-up), I made my debut as a mainstage artist at my first A-level house in the USA, trained for and ran my 3rd half-marathon, went through ridiculous post-injury recovery for knees/hips/lower back that made me absolutely bonkers, and was commissioned to be the general editor on a new edition that grew out of my dissertation. I turned 31 with some dear friends, ate at some amazing restaurants with my husband, celebrated my 6th wedding anniversary, sang at the wedding of a dear friend, and came to some quickfastsudden realizations.
1. I've spent way too long trying to figure out what people don't like about me. Worse, I've burned valuable daylight trying to change those things to make people like me. This is folly, and it doesn't honor who I am as an individual. There are people who have known me since I was an unfiltered, brassy, cocky, 15 year-old disaster area, and they still love me today. People who can't be bothered aren't worth my time.
2. I get more singing gigs in a black dress and red murano beads than I ever did in the "right" audition dress with the "right" singer hair and makeup. This is also folly, and doesn't honor who I am as an individual. They may be listening to the voice, but they are hiring the person.
3. I used to think I could create families wherever I went, and that they would take the place of the family I couldn't get to visit. This is a falsehood. I can create families wherever I go, and I do, but they will never supplant my family, the aunts in whose pockets I puked as a baby, the uncles who strapped me into their monster trucks and took me to the movies, the cousins who wrap their arms around me and let me squish them as tight as I like.
4. I. Love. Football. I love watching college football - the invincible, headstrong, crazy-stupid-fast players who take serious chances. I love the crazy coaches who eat grass. But mostly, I love the heart-stopping drama. I love cheering for teams who come from where I'm from. I love posting about the games with my friends from all over, hearing about whether or not my friend Kristy has banished someone else to the kitchen/porch/carport/second floor. I love the strings of profanity that pepper our closed group so our bosses don't see that we're actually lunatics. I love that my husband actually suggested I get my Honey Badger shirt sent 2-day shipping so it would get here in time for the BCS game. I love this game.
5. My husband might turn out to be the person who knows me best. This doesn't come out the way I want it to. When I got married, I figured that I would have my husband, and that I would have my best girlfriends and my best gayfriends and my teachers and whatnot. All of these people would have their roles in my life, and that would just stay the same. WRONG. SO WRONG. I used to love packing the suitcase and going far, far away to see the friends I never got to see. I used to long to go places new and different. Now, I long for an evening on the sofa with him. (I am so boring now.) I long for seven solid nights in the same zip code as him. I long for a dinner that he cooked (let's be real here) on our dining room table, with both of us sitting at it. Mostly, I want to be near him. I feel like the best version of myself when we are together, with the dog. I'm dense - it took me six years of marriage to figure out that this was not only what I wanted, but what I needed as well. Oy.
6. When I don't exercise, I turn into the college me: overstressed, overeating, undersleeping, crazypants paranoid about everything. When I do exercise, I sleep regularly, I take things in stride, and I don't ratchet everything up to the 12th power of hysteria. Running = calm. And I need calm. Like whoa.
7. These little ones can all be grouped together:
7a - I can't shop for clothes at the mall anymore. Skinny jeans were never meant for this body, 'tissue tees' are just half a t-shirt for the same price, and I like fibers I can identify.
7b - I really do wear a size 11 shoe. 10 is a thing of the past.
7c - I am totally willing to pay for convenience - direct flights, more leg room, taxi cabs. Get me where I'm going and to the ones I love faster/warmer/more comfortably. I'll do it.
8. My natural hair color is the one I like the most.
9. I can separate my singing from my personal identity. And it may be the best thing I could ever do for myself. Someday, my high f's will stop showing up for work every day like clockwork. And on that day, I will have to say to myself, "Self - today is that day. No more Queens for you." That day does not have to be the end of life as I know it. And I'm taking steps to work on the rest of my life as much as I work on my coloratura, if not more.
10. I have nothing to hide, but I do like privacy. Just today, when that damned alumni operator got me on the horn about the directory, it occurred to me that I didn't want my classmates or professors being able to look up my address or my email or my phone number. If they need to find me, I have a website. I don't need everyone all up in my business.
So if I want privacy, why am I blogging? Because I like to say what's on my mind. Put it out in the abyss, see what bounces back. It feels good to write things down. Plus, I've had this idea that, in the grand tradition of La Stupenda (Sutherland) and La Divina (Callas), I could be La Cucina - the soprano who likes to eat. And I'm pretty sure only singers would get that joke.
Which brings me full circle to where I began. Running again. Every year brings a new set of ouches and reminders of old injuries. I can't burn miles and just hope everything knits back together the way it should. So instead of following the long-form marathon plan, I'm going to do my own spring training on the dreadmill (ugh) in the basement, slow and steady, until it gets warm enough to run outside again. And I'm gonna cross-train for real, and lift for real, and stretch for real. I'm not sure which marathon I'm running this year, but I think I'm ready to get back on that horse. Make way for La Cucina!
1. I've spent way too long trying to figure out what people don't like about me. Worse, I've burned valuable daylight trying to change those things to make people like me. This is folly, and it doesn't honor who I am as an individual. There are people who have known me since I was an unfiltered, brassy, cocky, 15 year-old disaster area, and they still love me today. People who can't be bothered aren't worth my time.
2. I get more singing gigs in a black dress and red murano beads than I ever did in the "right" audition dress with the "right" singer hair and makeup. This is also folly, and doesn't honor who I am as an individual. They may be listening to the voice, but they are hiring the person.
3. I used to think I could create families wherever I went, and that they would take the place of the family I couldn't get to visit. This is a falsehood. I can create families wherever I go, and I do, but they will never supplant my family, the aunts in whose pockets I puked as a baby, the uncles who strapped me into their monster trucks and took me to the movies, the cousins who wrap their arms around me and let me squish them as tight as I like.
4. I. Love. Football. I love watching college football - the invincible, headstrong, crazy-stupid-fast players who take serious chances. I love the crazy coaches who eat grass. But mostly, I love the heart-stopping drama. I love cheering for teams who come from where I'm from. I love posting about the games with my friends from all over, hearing about whether or not my friend Kristy has banished someone else to the kitchen/porch/carport/second floor. I love the strings of profanity that pepper our closed group so our bosses don't see that we're actually lunatics. I love that my husband actually suggested I get my Honey Badger shirt sent 2-day shipping so it would get here in time for the BCS game. I love this game.
5. My husband might turn out to be the person who knows me best. This doesn't come out the way I want it to. When I got married, I figured that I would have my husband, and that I would have my best girlfriends and my best gayfriends and my teachers and whatnot. All of these people would have their roles in my life, and that would just stay the same. WRONG. SO WRONG. I used to love packing the suitcase and going far, far away to see the friends I never got to see. I used to long to go places new and different. Now, I long for an evening on the sofa with him. (I am so boring now.) I long for seven solid nights in the same zip code as him. I long for a dinner that he cooked (let's be real here) on our dining room table, with both of us sitting at it. Mostly, I want to be near him. I feel like the best version of myself when we are together, with the dog. I'm dense - it took me six years of marriage to figure out that this was not only what I wanted, but what I needed as well. Oy.
6. When I don't exercise, I turn into the college me: overstressed, overeating, undersleeping, crazypants paranoid about everything. When I do exercise, I sleep regularly, I take things in stride, and I don't ratchet everything up to the 12th power of hysteria. Running = calm. And I need calm. Like whoa.
7. These little ones can all be grouped together:
7a - I can't shop for clothes at the mall anymore. Skinny jeans were never meant for this body, 'tissue tees' are just half a t-shirt for the same price, and I like fibers I can identify.
7b - I really do wear a size 11 shoe. 10 is a thing of the past.
7c - I am totally willing to pay for convenience - direct flights, more leg room, taxi cabs. Get me where I'm going and to the ones I love faster/warmer/more comfortably. I'll do it.
8. My natural hair color is the one I like the most.
9. I can separate my singing from my personal identity. And it may be the best thing I could ever do for myself. Someday, my high f's will stop showing up for work every day like clockwork. And on that day, I will have to say to myself, "Self - today is that day. No more Queens for you." That day does not have to be the end of life as I know it. And I'm taking steps to work on the rest of my life as much as I work on my coloratura, if not more.
10. I have nothing to hide, but I do like privacy. Just today, when that damned alumni operator got me on the horn about the directory, it occurred to me that I didn't want my classmates or professors being able to look up my address or my email or my phone number. If they need to find me, I have a website. I don't need everyone all up in my business.
So if I want privacy, why am I blogging? Because I like to say what's on my mind. Put it out in the abyss, see what bounces back. It feels good to write things down. Plus, I've had this idea that, in the grand tradition of La Stupenda (Sutherland) and La Divina (Callas), I could be La Cucina - the soprano who likes to eat. And I'm pretty sure only singers would get that joke.
Which brings me full circle to where I began. Running again. Every year brings a new set of ouches and reminders of old injuries. I can't burn miles and just hope everything knits back together the way it should. So instead of following the long-form marathon plan, I'm going to do my own spring training on the dreadmill (ugh) in the basement, slow and steady, until it gets warm enough to run outside again. And I'm gonna cross-train for real, and lift for real, and stretch for real. I'm not sure which marathon I'm running this year, but I think I'm ready to get back on that horse. Make way for La Cucina!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Part 8: Basel - Karlsruhe - München, the wrap-up
I woke up this morning before my alarm. Paranoia about being late does that. I cranked open the window shades (sidebar: don’t you love those window shades you see on the windows in Germany and Italy and Switzerland? They shut out ALL of the light. It’s so rad.) to see a lot of cloudy and grey, and sighed. I made myself an egg, ate a yogurt, and sighed. I packed. I sighed. Eugene walked me to the train, there were people smoking on the platform, I sighed.
Somewhere between Basel and Karlsruhe, Grey’s Anatomy rescued me from my funk. I got off the train in Karlsruhe and was greeted by my dear friend Tobi, whom I had not seen since he and his girlfriend Babsi came to London to see my ENO Queen in 2009. Far far too long. We visited in a lovely little café in the Hauptbahnhof, playing catch-up on everything in our lives, talking about the future and our careers and our work and our play. It was absolutely delightful and totally what I needed. I got back on the train an hour later, refreshed (and caffeinated) and ready to get to Munich.
Ganking wireless abroad
Starbucks now has free wifi, internationally. That means for the price of a latte (which really could be anywhere from reasonable to rent) you can sit in a warm, dry place and check your email, do some work, watch trashy television, whatever. So when my friend Corey told me he was going to be late picking me up, I got a latte and some shortbread cookies and hunkered down in the Munich Hauptbahnhof Starbucks. And somewhere between an episode of the Vampire Diaries and a whole lot of work emails, the unthinkable happened. Again. A German opera house made an offer within 48 hours of having heard me. And somehow, that made all of the previous funk seem less important.
I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. Auditioning is like dating. You either have an interest or you don’t. You either have chemistry or you don’t. And it’s no one’s fault if you don’t, but you can’t beat yourself up or try to remake yourself in the image of someone else’s expectations because that destroys the possibility of a real connection with the right person, or in this case, the right opera house.
I’m singing a fantastic leading lady in a few years and it delights me to no end. Which is what I told Corey when he picked me up a few hours later. I got settled at his apartment, went to have supper, had a small nip of very yummy scotch (Glenmorangie Port Wood is a revelation!) and went to bed.
I woke up feeling less than enthusiastic. Singing for the Staatsoper is a huge deal. HUGE. And I didn’t want to screw anything up, so I warmed up carefully, did my hair and makeup, packed my suitcase, and left with plenty of time to spare. I schlepped from Marienplatz to the Starbucks for a quick little breakfast – note, sometimes people get surly when you ask questions before they’ve had their coffee – and found my way to the KBB at the Staatsoper. Warmed up, met with the pianist. Who had never played L’Enfant et les Sortilèges. Or Rake’s Progress. This could be very bad.
An afterword....
It’s been two weeks since the audition for Munich now, and I can look back and say it was exactly what I thought it was. The pianist blew on L’Enfant, I nailed my Queen, and they were nonplussed. I was too. But then I got on a plane and came back to the States. Many movies and airplane meals later, I was sipping a beer at our favorite restaurant, and I was so very very glad to be home. After two weeks of German background noise, it is funny to realize you’re hearing English spoken in a restaurant for the first time in what seems like ages.
There’s still more to tell, but this is my final word on audition feedback:
It’s like receiving a re-gift from someone you may not know very well. It could be something really special and speak to a need you didn’t know you had. Or it could be Star Trek steak knives. Either way, it's not up to you.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
Part 7: Basel
In Basel
When I finally got to Basel, Eugene and I had just enough time to put down my things in his apartment before Cristi arrived on the train for supper. We wound our way through the city until we found the appropriate mix of carbs and wine (read: Italian food) that would satisfy our needs. One very large piece of lasagna and two glasses of wine later, we managed to get her back on the train so she could get back to Lausanne. I can’t describe to you how much it means that old friends will travel such distances to see me. When you spend most of your life on planes and trains and in hotels, friendly faces are an incredibly welcome change of pace. So Eugene and I visited a little and then I went to sleep. Sort of. I have this terrible habit of not going to bed at a reasonable hour when I’m all by myself. It’s like I can’t relax, and I have no gauge on the lateness of the hour without someone else saying, “hey, it’s time to go to bed.” Wednesday morning was super easy-going. Yogurt and coffee and Grey’s Anatomy before the audition. The pianist was delightful – the director of the studio program – and I felt comfortable and ready. It was also my first day without any kind of nasal meds. My nose is dry as all get-out, but at least I can breathe through it. I met the members of the panel – the Intendant, the music director, the Dramaturg, the assistant to the Intendant, all of them very friendly. I offered Fire, they asked for the Queen, and then asked if I wouldn’t mind swapping out with the HUGE German bass waiting outside. He was very friendly – commented on my very good German – and sang things from Rheingold and Parsifal. My lands, what a voice. They then asked me to sing Musetta and talked a little bit about their interest in me, especially as pertains to the studio program. It wasn’t anything I had considered, but perhaps I should. If I’m going to get work in repertoire other than the Queen, that means I need time to work on that other repertoire and a venue in which to sing it. If Basel is willing to take a chance on me, I may very well take them up on it.
Afterward, Eugene and I went wandering around the city, over the bridge, and around the Rhine. We bought swiss chocolate, groceries for supper, and settled in for a lovely meal with Grey’s Anatomy. And then I had a meltdown.
An email arrived from Düsseldorf, saying that my first two arias were great but that they weren’t totally überzeugend by my 2nd Queen aria and that they would keep me on the list for Einspring opportunities, which basically means I’m a bench soprano. There are far worse things. But when your hormones are raging and you get such an email, it doesn’t take a lot to pull the lever into crazy. I spent the next several hours obsessing about why I don’t win competitions (um, what?) why I didn’t get into any young artist programs at major opera houses (excuse me, hello?) and why big houses don’t seem to want me (okay, that’s just excessive). And after Eugene left, yeah, you know it, I started to google. This is the biggest red flag ever. When you start to look and see what other people say about your singing.
I’ll say this now – I was tickled pink when Nola Defender took up paragraphs talking about my Queen of the Night in New Orleans. It was a great experience, I thought I sang better than I had in a while, and I loved being there.
Am I still singing a B-house Queen of the Night? Possibly.
Am I on my way to singing an ass-kicking A-house Queen of the Night? For sure.
So when I saw the review in Opera News, my heart fell through the floor. The reviewer said my coloratura wasn’t clean enough. And in one fell swoop, there it goes. Thud. So then I googled the reviewer. Who happens to be???
The head of libraries at Tulane.
Here’s a question for ye masses:
When I’m in my right mind (read: not estrogen-charged in a foreign country between auditions) do you think I go singing for someone with a degree in library science to get their opinions on my singing?
Not so much. But when you’re in the shame spiral, there you are. I didn’t sleep well, I procrastinated the whole way to bed, and was just sure I’d wake up feeling like poop.
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