"Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding"

For those of you keeping track, I’m pleased to announce that I can officially see the light burning brightly at the end of the tunnel! I’ve hinted at its supposed presence over the past few months, but it is time to publicly confirm its actual and blessed existence! Yesterday I spent 11 hours at the San Francisco Opera putting my first Octavian through his varied paces for our piano dress rehearsal. (And I’ve spent almost as many hours today recovering from said paces!) I’m still suffering from what feels like a mighty case of whiplash, considering that I had only 10 days of actual staging before running through the entire show yesterday on stage and in costume – which in my book falls into the category of one of those silly, pointless “Orange-Level Alerts”, but this time cautioning the on-set of possible insanity! The brilliant news, toasted over a rather large Weizen beer last night, was that I MADE IT TO THE END. I was able to get from the wonderful bed of the Marschallin and all its blissful sensuality, straight through to the profession of undying love to the pure Sophie (via a few detours in drag, mind you) without incident. At this point, that is a bonafide triumph in my book!


The bad news, which looms a bit heavily on me today, is that there is still an enormous amount of work left to be done. My goal is that through the next 2 days of orchestra work I can find that “Strauss Pulse”, which is a very different sensation of meter and flow than I am used to as in, for example, Rossini. All the pulsating syncopations and angular phrases of Octavian still have to be given a breadth and release that differs wildly from the type of precision you find in other repertoire. Musically it is truly another world (even from the Composer’s music in “Ariadne”), and I’m enjoying the learning curve tremendously. I’m close to finding it, but definitely need this next week of the orchestra’s texture and color underneath me to finally nail it down.

I also need to clean up much of the physical aspect of this character. What a juggling act this is. We meet him in the most relaxed, informal environment of his lover’s bedroom (an all-encompassing Paradise to him) where he can truly let his hair down; and yet he must remain at all times at one with the training and decorum of a true nobleman. However, he is only 17 years old (and 2 months, to be exact), so I must also capture the impulsive, awkward, immaturity of a real adolescent. He has all the Countly poise and etiquette in his physicality, but his emotional state is thrust into terrible confusion as the Marschallin casts him aside with little explanation (that he can comprehend, at least), as well as the dramatic moment of instant electricity with Sophie. His world dramatically, perhaps even violently, changes course twice within 24 hours, and his capacity to absorb it all is not immediately apparent. Ah, how beautifully art can imitate life!

But then let us not forget the country peasant girl – a role that Octavian gleefully and eagerly throws himself into. I’m still trying to find the elusive magic of comic timing on this one, and I’m pretty sure it will come down to simple precision. Finding the balance of ‘playing it’, but not overdoing it, as well as finding the clarity that when he has a moment to let down as the country girl, he immediately comes back into the physicality of an exacerbated nobleman. I find myself easily falling into a “Cherubino” physicality (floppy and petulant) rather than that of a distinguished, ‘nobly’ irritated man. It’s a DELICATELY drawn line, but it is vitally important to me that these distinctions be crystal clear in MY mind, second nature, in fact, so the audience then is free to draw its OWN conclusions. I’m close to finding it, again, but will cling to this next week of rehearsal time to make it more organic, finding my own sense of ownership of this glorious character, who has, quite simply, THE BEST entrance music in all of opera at the top of Act 2.

So, if you’d allow me to take a radical detour in the conversation, prompted by this talk of art imitating life that I spoke of earlier, I’m fascinated at how great composers and librettists have been able to capture on stage the wonderment of how swiftly one’s real life can change. While one takes place in a fabricated space, is (often) rehearsed vigorously, and plays out under bright lights in front of thousands of strangers, the other can hit you with one swift, solitary blow, singularly and privately, as the rest of the world simply marches on around you.

Three weeks ago I was walking down Broadway just before sunset on a crystal clear evening after a rehearsal at the MET, and I was checking my phone messages. The first one arrived: “Joyce, this is your sister, Amy. You have to come home now. Mom…well…Mom is in trouble. Come home now.” The second followed immediately, with that sterile voice announcing: “Next new message.” “Joyce. It’s Amy again. Call me.” I found a park bench in the median between NY’s East and West sides at 72nd and Broadway, set down my scores, and phoned my sister back, knowing instinctively that the news was to be final.

“Joyce, are you sitting down?”

“Yes.”

“Is anyone with you?”

“No”, was my reply, but the reality was that there were thousands of strangers bustling to and fro all around me in taxis, on bicycles, and on foot, not a single one of them registering how my life was about to change. The memory I have is that unbeknownst to them, they all seemed to instantaneously burst into slow motion around me as the news arrived.

My Mom suffered from the same lung condition as my Father did, COPD, which affects all aspects of one’s breathing, and she had recently taken a turn for the worse -- however nothing signaled that her death would be expected any time soon – she was stable, and the doctors had said she could maintain this level for a long time. It had, however, become apparent that it was time for her to have 24-hour care. This strong, proud Irish woman was now face to face with her worst fear.

Well, as they wheeled her out to the car that was to take her to her new home, (one of "THOSE places"), she pushed herself up to get out of the wheelchair, and wouldn't you know it? She had a massive coronary on the spot. While on the surface she was willing to take this next step and fully understood it was really her only option, I think deep-down she had said all she needed to say, lived every minute she had needed to live, and simply didn't care to partake in those added, unnecessary moments of anguish and suffering. She passed quickly, in a blaze of glory, as seemed very fitting to a lady who had a real streak of fire in her breast.

Honestly, I can't help but envision my Dad hovering above her, knowing what awaited her lying in one of “those beds”, connected to more tubes than could possibly seem humane, and simply reaching from down the sky, pulling her to be close to him. In a million years, I can't see her leaving this world any other way.

Up until her final breath she had both her wit and her wits, her fire and her pride, and that beautiful, devilish grin planted firmly on her face. She knew all of her children were either by her side physically, or very close to her in spirit, and she had come to have a relationship with each one of us that seemed unlikely a decade ago. She could die in peace, knowing she was leaving her legacy behind: a family of seven children that is close, loving and strong.


It seems unreal that a human spirit can be taken so quickly. But what seems even more amazing to me the mark a single human life can make -- even a quiet, unassuming life lived out in simple sacrifice and dedication. She gave up so much of her unique identity to raise her seven children, remaining always by her husband's side - living through moments of incredible turmoil, rash misunderstandings, and painful silences, but also through uncontrolled laughter, quiet dignity, and examples of fierce strength and conviction.

Ah. Yes. Perhaps she actually found her unique identity through all of that.


I did not have an easy relationship with my Mom, and that's not easy to write. But I found my way through the difficult moments, and happily, willingly found a way to understand her, accept her, accept our relationship, and embrace it. I have an enormous feeling that I learned more from her than I ever gave her credit for, but she knew all that, and I believe she finally accepted that about me as well. That is a beautiful thing to write.

If I stop to think too much on the past year of my life, my brain seems to want to, well, put quite simply, to explode: I’m currently preparing my 5th new role in just 14 months, (not to mention having completed a full recording as well as an ambitious recital tour), I eloped, and I buried both of my parents.

I had a huge decision to make after receiving that call from my sister: whether or not I would perform the next evening as Rosina at the Metropolitan Opera. After talking at length with my family (“There is nothing you can do here, Joyce – you do whatever you need to do.”), I made the decision to sing. With the ENORMOUS help of the most generous and supportive colleagues ever...


(Laurence, Russell, John, Sam and all – I love you guys!), I got through our show with flying colors, even if I couldn’t make it through the curtain call, for it hit me with an enormous impact that my parents will never again see another performance of mine. They will never be 6th row and center to get nervous, to applaud, or to cry.

But it became immediately apparent to me that music would be a vast source of healing for me, as it always has been. Singing that night allowed me to physically release so much of the pain and emotion I was feeling, as well as to celebrate so much of what their influence and support has allowed me to do. It was my humble tribute to them, to thank them for their lives and their love.

I still cannot believe that my world continues on, and they are no longer a part of it. How SWIFTLY and COMPLETELY their presence is gone. Now I comprehend the adage of “life is short – enjoy it while you can”, and the value of treasuring every moment you share with a loved one. Now I begin to comprehend what the Marschallin tries to explain to poor Octavian, that “time is indeed a strange thing.” Hearing the great Soile Isokowski singing these words to me touches me so very deeply. How privileged I am to work through such complicated human emotion during the day, courtesy of the brilliant Richard Strauss and Hugo von Hofmannsthal.

I know this is a long entry, and most certainly a diverse one. But it is my life – this clash of worlds, this extremity of emotion and experience, this ‘adventure’! And most assuredly, life does not always stop to give you time to adjust and figure it all out – we sometimes have to do it on the fly (as Octavian learns as well!). I’ll get my most welcome VACATION at the end of this run to slow down, catch up, recoup and regroup – but until then, I welcome the challenge of this little Straussian Count, counting myself fortunate to be surrounded by such peerless colleagues, and above all, consider myself beyond blessed to be the daughter of such beautiful people, my Mom and my Dad. I hope my life will serve as a true tribute to their dedication and example.

Sills & Thrills

Allow me to take you back to a day here in New York City, just over a month ago: the sky was pelting the downtrodden residents of the Big Apple with freezing rain, mercilessly reminding us that winter was to have the final word just then, and my cell phone rang. Now, in the apartment I’m currently renting, the best cell phone reception I can hope for is the occasional ‘single bar’ on my phone, which simply teases me into thinking that I may actually be able to carry on a live conversation; but mind you, it’s only a tease. In some ways, it’s a welcome relief. But not on this blustery winter day: as I attempt to beat the cell phone gods at their own game, I boldly answer, “Hello? HELLO!” and I catch just enough of the dulcet tones of this caller’s voice to hear:

“Hel.…is this……DiDona..?..…this is…everly Sills.”

I’m no rocket scientist. But it took me about .4 seconds flat to open my tiny window, stick my head into the pelting, freezing rain and say, “Ms. Sills? What? I’m sorry, WHO IS THIS?”

It was the smile in her voice that gave her away. I would have recognized it anywhere.

So fast forward through the jagged rain, the beating heart, the dry mouth, and the gaping jaw, and I managed to hear that she was presenting me with her award for this year. THE Beverly Sills award. This was huge. That conversation will last much longer in my memory than the terrible weather, for she was quite generous in sharing her reasons for choosing me as the winner for 2007, which I won’t bore you with here. Suffice it to say, hearing sincere compliments from the legendary, groundbreaking artist, Ms. Sills, is more valuable than any amount of money put on a check.


(With Beverly Sills, Agnes Varis, and 'the check')

Which leads to me to the not-at-all-small amount of money written on the check, which happened to be donated by one legendary lady in her own right, Agnes Varis. She was concerned a year ago that Beverly Sills secure the kind of lasting recognition deserving of her legacy, and so she gave the Metropolitan Opera a cool million dollars in her fellow Brooklyn native’s name, designating it to be for promising, young American singers, and insuring many years of such grants. You see, Beverly wanted to go to France in the early stages of her career to study French, but never had the means – it’s not surprising that she doesn’t want that to happen to other young singers.

Can I find the words to say how honored I am? How overwhelmed? No, not really. On so very many levels it astounds me. The only thing I want to say, apart from declaring the abundant gratitude I feel, is to convey what a privilege it is to be linked to these two Brooklyn Ladies (or perhaps two ‘firecrackers’ is a better description?) who have single-handedly accomplished so much for the past, present and future of opera in America. I take this award as a true charge to fulfill the promise and potential they see in me. I wouldn’t want to let either of them down.

Wow.

But in the meantime, I’m back in “Seville”, and lo and behold, there is magic to report! I knew April 26 would be an electric night, however I wasn’t at all prepared for the sheer enormity of it. My dear friend, Lawrence Brownlee, was scheduled to make his Metropolitan Opera Debut, and I was afforded the privilege of sharing the stage with him on that auspicious night. I knew he was ready, and I knew the MET audience would sit in that theater and not know what hit them.


(Larry and I in the lobby of the Teatro alla Scala in front of a statue to the one and only Rossini, July 2005)

However, I wasn’t quite ready! As often happens when one gets a bit run-down, the minute those dormant bugs sense an opportunity, they pounce. And sure enough, a good old-fashioned infection took up residence in my throat.

*Please touch wood while reading the following sentence:

To this day, I have yet to cancel a performance because of illness.

[Thank you. However, if you didn’t actually touch wood, please do so now! THANK YOU!!!]

In fact, I hadn’t seen an ENT for nearly 3 years! But I knew immediately that this had the potential to be a whopper! As the days passed and gallons of orange juice and zinc lozenges were ingested, I was on the mend; but I wasn’t at all sure how singing Rosina on the stage of the MET on a less than healthy throat would fare; so I put the MET staff on alert the day of the big debut, and they were quite wonderful and accommodating waiting for news of my vocal state. (I hereby nominate Sissy Strauss for canonization.) I had a major decision to make. On the doctor’s assurance that there was relatively little-to-no risk, I decided to sing. But I wanted an announcement made. I’ve never done that before, and truth be told, I still have mixed emotions about it, but the determining factor for me was the fact that because I had never sung ill before, I didn’t know what might happen - there was a big unknown walking out onto the stage. My thought was that IF something started to derail, the audience’s enjoyment of the show would not suffer much, if they knew ahead of time what the cause would be. So we did the announcement, I sang fine, and the audience probably scratched their heads wondering what the big deal was!

However, the “big deal” was about to make his debut! I knew from the opening bars that both he and Russell Braun, the new-to-this-production Figaro, would be on form. No worries. And as the show progressed it had a new, spontaneous vitality that was enormously fun to play. The audience was having a blast. However, anyone with a semi-working knowledge of the opera world was waiting for the BIG moment for the tenor – the famous ending aria that is so rarely performed, “Cessa di piú resistere”. How would this not-so-tall, African-American, not-Latin tenor stack up?

It was perfection. He reduced me to both a fountain of tears and a torrent of giggles at the same time. I’ve never felt such emotion for another singer on the stage before in my life, and I can’t imagine that there will be too many more moments like it in my career. Larry and I were both winners in the now defunct Stewart Awards back in 1998. I’ve seen his career go through many ‘downs’ at the start, to now what seems like a string of never-ending ‘ups’. We shared the stage at La Scala in “Cenerentola”, and I saw the hungry Milanese applaud him vociferously. I have only an inkling of some of the struggles he has faced, and we have tackled many conversations about the inherent difficulties of race or stature in this business (and in the world): he certainly is not the only talented singer to face an uphill battle. However, I have NEVER ONCE known him to make an excuse for himself, or to complain that he is all-too-often compared to other singers, or to agonize over a lost chance or perceived unfairness. I have ONLY known him take every comment or occurrence and ask, “What do I need to learn from this?” “How can I be better?” “How will this make me grow?” That is a lesson for not only every working singer, but for every human being as well, and is one reason I count Larry as a true inspiration.


(With Larry after the premiere of "La Cenerentola" in Houston, Jan 2007)

So when he took center stage that night, in front of a sold-out MET audience, but more importantly in front of, and dare I say in tribute to, his Mother and Father, he was saying so very many things for so very many people. This was HIS moment to shine. It was his family’s moment to shine. It was a true thing of beauty to watch a person step into the light, take their moment, share it with so many loved ones, and celebrate all that is beautiful in this world. How lucky I was to share in it.

Every single artist has what appear to be insuperable obstacles on their journey to achieve their dream. Let’s be honest: every single human being has them in their own unique way and time. Sometimes, an example is given to us, so that we may witness first hand, may concretely observe, that it IS, in fact, POSSIBLE to overcome those challenges that seem insurmountable. And not only to just overcome them, but to rip them to shreds in the process! I’m so proud to know someone who has the courage to do just that, and that shares it so freely with the rest of us.

I’m reminded of one of the most inspirational quotes I’ve ever come across. Please forgive me, because it’s been credited to both Nelson Mandela and Marianne Williamson, and I’m not at all sure who is correctly attributed. With due respect to both of them, I’m not sure it ultimately matters:

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


Cheers!

"La Maja de Kansas " -El Pais

(Photo: Ken Howard; Metropolitan Opera)

8 down, 2 more to go. Is it July, yet? I’m getting there! Someone told me a few weeks ago that there was definitely a light shining brilliantly at the end of this long, concentrated tunnel, and while I still may not actually see it’s welcome ray of relief, I sense the darkness is somehow giving way slowly, but SURELY! I’m counting on it. Now, because my seat on the train is facing backwards, lending itself towards a sense of nostalgia, let’s work that way as well:

Last night I stood in front of a near-capacity crowd in Madrid singing the great (and I do mean GREAT) songs of their Masters, selling myself as a “Maja dolorosa”, and it was quite nearly one of the most intimidating things I have ever attempted! I knew it was quite an astute audience, and a simple caricature of my “idea of a Spaniard” just wouldn’t cut it here (nor anywhere, of course!). I did trust very much in my passion for this music and in my feeling for it, but knowing I was daring to walk in the hallowed grounds of Teresa Berganza and Victoria de los Angeles (one of my true idols), hesitation gripped my throat just a bit in wondering if they would get any of the words or not, if they would find my presentation genuine, and if they would be accepting of my contribution to ‘their’ music. Nerves crept into my head a bit as I inverted the odd phrase here and there, inventing several words that I can only pray did not have a ring of “Taco Bell” about them, but overall I did my best to embrace every syllable and evocative emotion. The result? I can’t say that it was my most carefree performance to date, but I gave it everything I had, and throughout the evening they gave me a reception muy caliente, calling for 3 encores in the end. Few “Brava’s” have meant as much to me as those I heard after the de Falla and Montsalvatge pieces – truly, words to be cherished!

Previous to Madrid, it has been quite a dense and fulfilling tour. It was most special to sing a recital in Paris; as I said during the concert, I have always considered Paris my “European home”, as it was here that I really got my big breaks on the operatic stage, and I have had the opportunity to sing so many varied and rewarding projects there. The time had come to sing a recital for this warm public, and seeing so many friends and longtime supporters attend was such a gift to me.

Amsterdam was such a thrill, I cannot say. (But, naturally, I shall try!) The recital hall there must truly be one of the best (if not the greatest) in the world: it pulsates with a profound history and significance that cannot be feigned, and from the walls the unmistakable sense of a rich and noble legacy bleeds through each nook and cranny. I found myself overwhelmed with tears as privately I took my 30 minutes to warm up and feel out the space: to find yourself completely alone at a piano, ready to make music in such a hallowed space is an experience never to be taken for granted and always to be cherished. Wow. And that was even before the public arrived! Happily, they welcomed me with the warmest of Dutch arms and I was reminded once again of what a distinctive, extraordinary city Amsterdam is!


(The Concertgebouw)

What can possibly be said about the experience of singing on the stage of the Wigmore Hall in fair London Town? Yes, the hall is magnificent, if only for that grand dome alone; however, it is certainly the audience that furnishes the air of magic and possibility. Such a thing can never be manufactured and certainly it is rare, for they engage so directly in the performance, that a true duet is performed between artist and listener. The silent, electric hush that settles over the hall when the quietest passage is being sung intoxicates me beyond words. I think I told them I felt as if I was having a mad love affair with them – don’t tell my husband!


(The famed "Wigmore Hall Dome", cradled high above the stage, working it's accoustical magic)

Speaking of my husband, let’s talk about Moscow! Maestro Leonardo Vordoni and I made our debut concert together as the “Maestro and Mezzo Show” on April 3 in Moscow. I had chills as my plane touched down, for the thought that I could pass freely into Moscow and perform for this eager public in what was once a cold war enemy to my country dumbfounded me. What an experience to see such a colossal change in our lifetime. Now as I’ve said before, I try not to make this journal too weighted with things personal, as there is rightly another diary for that; however I cannot help but brag about what a fabulous job my husband did bringing Handel, Mozart and Rossini to a Russian Orchestra, eliciting them to play with real style and life. I know I’m duly biased, however, he was beautiful to watch and to make music with. It just flowed out of him. We made the very easy and singular decision early on that we would not entwine our professional and private lives more than we ever felt comfortable doing, and as a young conductor, it is the only option for him to start his career completely on his own and not ‘via’ my career (which is one of the gazillion reasons of why I love him!), however, this was a golden opportunity on which to capitalize and I’m so happy we did. I was just so very proud of him, and found him a brilliant conductor to make music with. Bravo, Amore Mio!!!


(Celebrating in Red Square -- what beautiful thing to be able to do!)

And finally, my bid for the Academy Award (eh hem!): As I flew home HIGH as the Russian Space Station from the final performance of Rosina at the MET, transmitted live across the world via radio and screen, I knew I should have sat down then and there to chronicle the events of the day; but as I said, I was simply too high. Melancholy actually set in not too long after the final cut-off, for it was hard not to think: “Well, that’s it then. That’s as good as it will ever get!” But I absolutely choose not to think in that direction. Instead, I choose to celebrate every single thing that brought me to that moment in time, and as fate would have it, most of those ‘things’ had purchased tickets to watch the show! I made a few phone calls as I was getting into makeup (my brother was pulling into the parking lot of the packed theater in Seattle, a sister was tailgating with girlfriends in KC, a friend was running late in Houston, and a husband, almost more nervous than I was gave me the pep talk of a life), but those nerves I felt were quickly settled by knowing that so many supporters were cheering us on from every corner imaginable. The buzz backstage was off the charts, as every cog in the MET wheel was set on hyper-alert, and we singers were all doing our best to not let the nips and tucks, notes and tweaks, cameras, microphones and overall frenetic chaos infiltrate our concentration.


(with John Relyea, Juan Diego Florez, and Peter Mattei)

From the opening chords of the overture I can usually tell what kind of show it is going to be, and I knew right from the start of this particular trip to Seville that everyone would be on top form, leaving nothing back in the dressing room. It was thrilling to watch my colleagues soar with such prowess, to feel the exhilarating energy from the audience pervade the theater, and to be so completely into the story and into the moment that the ubiquitous presence of those cameras and boom mikes seemed to simply melt away. Magic ensued. The fact that I was performing for so many people in such a larger-than-life way felt, on the one hand, completely natural, and on the other hand, beyond the wildest dream I could have ever dared to visualize. How beautiful to be given a moment such as that: one that united so many of my loved ones across so many miles, one which challenged me as a performer as never before, and one that will live in my memory for so many years to come. Profound gratitude is the only way to describe what I feel.

So, my train is nearly pulling into the land of the exhilarating Jota and of the inspired painter, Goya, and my once invincible laptop battery is drained, so it must be time to say adios. Not only Zaragoza calls, but also, alas, still begging for my attention is that pesky Octavian, not to mention a looming tax deadline (the extension has now become a celebrated ritual!), and the myriad other things that tend to eternally hover on my to-do list! I best get right to it, as I think it’s the only way to witness that burning, brilliant light at the end of this tunnel first hand – I sure hope it was worth waiting for!
Besos!

"Dear March, come in"

Is it July, yet? How about May? How can it ONLY be the start of March? (However, having said that, thank GOD it’s only the start of March!) I must apologize to all of New York City, for I fear that the high, lusty, gusty winds we're experiencing are strictly the fault of this whirlwind traveling vocalist. Once I catch my breath here, I'm sure they’ll die down! At the close of Saturday night's recital at the thrilling (and I DO mean THRILLING) Spivey Hall in Atlanta, Georgia, I turned to the poor guy opening and closing the stage door for us and nearly screamed, "Remind me NEVER to program 4 recitals in 7 days EVER again!" To which he looked at me quite sheepishly as if to say, "Um. OK. Don’t do that again."

Now mind you, I’m the very first person in line to say that the singer's schedule, repertoire, career, etc. are no one's responsibility but their own. It's far too easy to blame everyone in the world before looking at yourself for answers. So naturally, I'm the one holding the buck for the scheduling of this tour. But starting out earlier meant less time at home, and there wasn't one venue I wanted to omit; so I 'squeezed' the timing a bit. I do have the sensation that I 'squeezed' rather successfully, but I learned a valuable lesson: too much squeezing of the calendar is a dangerous thing if one values their vocal and mental health. Lesson dutifully learned.


(The ice storm cometh!)

With that tired disclaimer on the record, I want to shout from the rooftops that I've had the most extraordinary time with the first part of this tour! (After a run of Rosina’s at the MET, I'll revisit the program in six cities throughout Europe, and I can't WAIT to get back to it.) I began dubbing it the "Power Outage Tour", because at the start in Iowa, we were drenched in hours of freezing rain, followed by inches upon inches of falling snow, all of which led to power failures throughout the entire campus and town. The concert organizers galvanized their resources and gathered countless candles to prepare for the inevitable candlelight concert. Sadly, the power came back on just in time for the program, for I would have loved to have had the experience of singing the program surrounded by burning wicks and dripping wax. Happily, I’m sure the audience was much more comfortable not listening to a vibrato made all too quick from chattering teeth! It was a glorious way to kick off the tour, due to the fervent students and faculty there at Grinnell College.

Washington, DC was next, as I was guest on the prestigious Vocal Arts Society Series. What a warm, knowledgeable, enthusiastic audience. It's one of the only active series in the US that programs strictly vocalists, and I'm thrilled to see their gallant efforts paid off with a sold-out audience jumping to their feet. It also astonished me to feel how much a single program can grow from one concert to the next. I could feel an enormous leap in confidence and command between the two inaugural concerts, solidifying my strong belief for singers to repeat, repeat, and repeat. (And then, yes, repeat it once again.) On a personal note, the beautiful Evelyn Lear, a legendary American soprano and teacher, was in attendance and went out of her way to speak with me at length. She lost her husband last fall, a legendary man in his own right, Thomas Stewart, and both were very supportive and influential in my early years of training in Houston. I was deeply touched by the passion and fortitude she exuded. My heart goes out to her for her loss, and my gratitude is great for her tenacity and directness. I hope all 'young' singers get the chance to talk with some of the legends along the way; I know we are the future and we are moving forward in exciting ways, but we also work in an art form that must never lose the precious links to the past. It is yet another tightrope to walk.


How does one get to Carnegie Hall? Well, I took a taxi. (And I'll admit it: I LOVED saying to the driver, "56th and 7th Avenue, please. That's Carnegie Hall. The artist's entrance, please!") I am quite certain that if my career goes another 10 years or so, I'll still be like a little girl on Christmas morning thinking, "I'm at CARNEGIE HALL!" It is a dream come true, and I'll never pretend otherwise. That having been said, I felt as if I belonged there, and when it came time to warm up and make my entrance, I was there to sing. Weill Hall is the 'small hall', (and yes, you can believe that I vowed to return to the bigger hall next time!), and it dawned on me very quickly that it would be a VERY exposed place to sing – meaning there was no room for error. Looking out into the hall I could see and recognize many faces, knowing all the time that they could hear every single rasp or cheated breath because of the proximity of the seats and the somewhat dry acoustic. That's a most disconcerting feeling for a singer. I think most of us prefer some 'cushion' between the audience and us, either of space, or reverb, or blinding lights. It's astonishing how much more naked you feel in a space like that, both physically and vocally. However, going back a few journal entries, when I spoke about how aiming to be 'right' for an artist is deadly, I quickly took mental hold of my nerves and just went for it. Again, I felt we took another colossal step forward in the artistic content of the program, and that is a tremendous feeling as an artist – knowing that growth is transpiring. The celebration across the street afterwards with my dear friends was the delicious icing on the cake.

By this time in the 'tour', I was exhausted. It's an emotional exhaustion more than anything, but surely the traveling every other day contributes to the rubberband-y feeling in your muscles! But there was one more recital to get through, and I couldn't wait, for everyone in the business was warning me, "You just wait until you get to Spivey Hall. Just WAIT!" Well, the wait was worth it, as it's quite truly a marvel. Maybe it seats 400 people? It's only 15 years old, and yet it already had the feeling of history about it. Maybe it's the hundreds and hundreds of photos of all the great musicians of the past 15 years that drown the hallways with their veneers and strings, or maybe it's just that unspoken magic that ignites itself in the odd, rare hall, but I sensed it immediately. I was also moved to read that the legend himself, Robert Shaw, gave the dedication when the hall opened. ("Spivey Hall is to music what light is to painting," he said.) If my Father had to name one musician that was his all-time favorite, it surely was Maestro Robert Shaw. His recordings of all the great choral music served to announce the Christmas Season for my family (and still does to this day), was played at my Father's funeral, introduced me to the glories of Bach and the soul of the spirituals, haunted me with so many of the great Requiems, and is on the most-played playlist on my ipod. He is the pinnacle of musical genius for me. And here I was in what was more or less 'his' hall. I was honored, to say the very least.


(A sigh of relief shared with Leo, as the first leg of the tour finished up!)

My head is still spinning with thoughts from the past week; so much music is still running rampant and unleashed through my mind with thoughts of what I could do better, how I can find better pacing or make a greater impact, and I’m wondering how it is that music can continue to speak to you with greater force and color when you simply continue to sing the same notes and words over and over again. This must be the magical power of music. The other element that is so clear to me is that the recital platform is perhaps the single, greatest teacher for a singer. You simply cannot fake it. Surely it can be the most intimidating as well, but I feel as if I have learned so much from these four evenings of music. I'm finding that the less I ask to receive from an audience, ("Did you like me?" "Did I sound ok?" "Do you think I'm OK as a singer…as a person?"), the more free I am to simply give.

Coming off the cloud of recital-land, today was the 'first day of school', as we singers sometimes lovingly refer to the first day of rehearsal on a new show. It does sum up the feeling quite well, as you're meeting a whole new class of people, as well as catching up with those you haven't seen for a few productions. It’s wonderful. I found out that for my role debut of Rosina at the Metropolitan Opera, I will see NEITHER the stage NOR the orchestra before my opening night. Gulp. (Insert "singing requires a thick skin" analogy here!) I'm just thrilled that Rosina is a role I know backwards and forwards and that I'm doing it with a world-class cast that I know and adore. As incredibly nerve-wracking as this could be, and while I'm sure the ensemble may have a few intriguing moments, I guarantee that it will be an EXHILARATING night: personally I think an opera like Barbiere benefits from excitement like that, when the singers are on the very tips of their toes, alert and full of anticipation. Naturally I would love a full run-thru in costume with orchestra, etc, but I'm jumping into this with everything I have: it is a true honor to sing Rosina at the Metropolitan Opera and I plan on enjoying every electrifying moment, hiccups and all!

There. You see? If it were May already, I'd be missing out on all that excitement. Happy March, everyone!
"There came a wind like a bugle…"

Fender-benders, tirades and Spanish sunshine!

I truly did have the strongest of intentions of getting a journal (or even two!) written during my time in Houston, chronicling the multi-faceted events that kept me more than busy for these past 6 weeks, but alas, I’m in nearly the same, identical place on the highway as for my last entry, simply headed in the other direction. (Ah, and yet how sweet that it is the direction of home!) I suppose it’s another example of life coming full circle giving us a golden opportunity for closure!

(In rehearsal for Cenerentola at HGO)

Were it not for the fender-bender which we encountered just north of Dallas yesterday evening, (ok, let’s be honest…can a ‘fender-bender’ accurately describe an accident that breaks your radiator, power steering and air conditioning all in one swipe? I didn’t think so.), I’d still be riding an enormous high from the magical experience of this Cenerentola at the Houston Grand Opera. From the first moment of the first rehearsal, I knew this would be a special experience. The directing team, El Comediants, from Barcelona Spain (the very same squad responsible for creating the Opening Ceremony to the Barcelona Summer Olympics!), arrived on the scene bubbling over with creative ideas and a contagious, positive attitude, feeding their imaginative concepts by the minute. They had a very clear idea of the ‘look’ they wanted for the show, and yet were still completely flexible in letting us throw our thoughts and impulses into the fire. What we ended up with was a VIBRANT, intelligent, funny, heartbreaking, fresh approach, full of traditional as well as new ideas, wild costumes, rambunctious rats, geometric makeup, and an audience standing on its feet every night!

I cannot stress enough the importance of having a positive working environment where the singers not only feel free to contribute and take risks during the rehearsal process, but are encouraged to do so, as well. I think with this approach you arrive at the opening night with a cast that isn’t preoccupied with being ‘correct’, but instead are busy CREATING on the stage. I never want to work any other way!

I was able to steal away just before the opening night to receive an award from my Alma Mater, Wichita State University, where they generously bestowed on me the honor of “Young Alumni of the Year”. To say I was honored and deeply touched would be quite an understatement, not only because of the number of distinguished graduates the University consistently produces, but also because of the number of old friends and supporters that came to share in the evening. In seeing the faces of the influential professors beaming with pride, the committed members of the first church choir to hire me as their conductor and leader giddy with excitement, and some of my oldest, dearest friends reducing me to tears of laughter with the never tiresome recollections of Madrigal Feasts and choir tour escapades, I realized once again how many people have had a hand in guiding and preparing me for my life. I was quite emotional receiving the award, as thoughts of my Dad’s numerous trips to hear me try out the odd choir solo or my first Hansel were still quite fresh, as I suspect they will remain for quite sometime. What washed over me as these smiling faces listened to every word of my off-the-cuff acceptance speech was that each of them is with me every single time I take the stage. I looked out on their familiar faces and realized that they all contributed to the building blocks of my foundation – NOT ONLY as a performer, but more importantly, as a person. I’m so proud to say I am “Shocker”, and their continued recognition and support mean so much to me. It served as a beautiful reminder that you never know what contribution a solitary person just might bring to your table, nor what kind of effect you just may have on them. How thrilling to know we are always contributing!


(As Hansel at Wichita State University, 1991-2)

A great opportunity happened upon me just before the final dress rehearsal, in that I was invited out to a local high school to sing and speak with them about ‘what I do’. I insisted that they attend the final dress rehearsal before I visited them so they could see me in the context of ‘what I do’, and I think it was a roaring success, judging from the ‘whoops’ and ‘woo-hoos’ resonating from the hall that night! Come to find out, even though it was the first opera for every single one of them, they LOVED the show, and when I walked into their classroom, their enthusiasm and excitement bowled me over. I was mentioning this visit to Anthony Freud, HGO’s General Director, the next day, and I said, “Who knows if any of them will grow up to sing in opera, or run a company, but MAYBE they’ll buy a ticket in the future, or contribute $100 down the way.” And he simply looked at me, shook his head, and replied, “but Joyce, that’s not why we do it. That’s not what outreach and education are about: they are NOT a means to an end. We do it simply because we must.” I knew in that precise moment that Houston is an extremely fortunate city to have this man of vision at the helm, and that the world of Opera in general has hope, knowing there are people running it who have such a committed, focused belief in what we do.

Which makes for a lovely segue to a truly horrid article that recently polluted my inbox: there is a ‘journalist’ who writes for the El Paso Times, Mr. Muench, and he saw fit to berate and bully the El Paso City Council for passing a grant to help the El Paso Opera bail itself out of dire financial times. Actually, he saw fit to ridicule the art form with outdated and offensive stereotypes, proceeding to chide the children of the town warning them that they would surely rather take their “TAKS” tests than attend an opera! Well, I love a good fight, and adored registering my response (along with hundreds of other singers), and adored being handed the opportunity to defend my passion to this idiot. I suppose there always have been idiots afloat out there, spewing venom and poison against things that make them think and which challenge their comfort zone, but I for one am thrilled there are also intelligent, passionate individuals who do not let bullies like this man intimidate them into veering away from their vision. We have people like Anthony Freud who believe in committing to a community and reaching out to young people, simply because ‘we must’.

We face many obstacles, as have all the great artists of the past, but we are strong in the fight, and we are winning one small classroom at a time! I don’t know how much I can truly affect on my own, but I can say that my commitment is to bring honesty and conviction to all that I do.


(With the committed and always brilliant Cathy Cook: a fellow WSU alumni, as well as a beautiful person and singer)

So we’re almost to the end of the journey. I get 10 days (whoops, make that 9 days, thanks to my fender…ok, to my accident!) at home to: file my 2006 taxes, spend 2 days doing master classes at a local college, memorize the final stubborn songs for my recital, figure out my gown situation for said recitals, have a birthday party, catch up with family and friends, bake a little, or maybe bake a lot, chop away a bit more at stubborn, glorious Octavian, dry clean my stale, luggage-bound winter clothes, get some face time with my squirmy, boisterous, brilliant nieces and nephews that are growing by bounds and leaps, sort through the heaped up mail and bills, throw in a few interviews to promote my new disc, address the nasty leak in the master bath that was rearing its ugly head on my last 2 day stay at home, squeeze in my unwelcome dental exam, and maybe, just maybe take in the current episodes of 24. (JACK! Your DAD!!!!) Wait. Is that all? OH. Looks like constant shoveling may be in the forecast as well!

Here’s to a beautiful Valentine’s Day for you all, and let’s hope the fender-bender quota has been met for the next several decades!

Happy New Year!

We’re driving from Kansas City to Houston: nearly 800 miles ahead of us, and it’s a bit like driving down Memory Lane, literally, as I’ve made this trip so many times over the past few years, whether going back and forth to college countless times at Wichita State University, or moving to Houston for the first time in a huge moving van packed to the rafters. It’s rather appropriate to be making a sentimental trip now, as it’s time to ring in the New Year, which naturally means a time of reflection, and for this I say, “Bring it on!” I arrived at the end of December feeling quite tired, and it finally dawned on me why: a complete new recital to the start off the year, revivals of the demanding and draining role, Dajanira, four new, extensive (and exhilarating!) roles back to back, with a ‘little’ recording (of nearly all new material!) thrown into the mix, adding in the thrill of a wedding and the agony of a huge personal loss – what a year!


(Celebrating with Leo and Simon, my manager)

I’ve had a big epiphany at the end of all this, (as I love to use the calendar as a welcome time of contemplation), and it’s a really good one. Through the demanding schedule, the extremely limited time at home, having to turn down dinner invitations because I need to study, not seeing my new husband for nearly 4 months straight, and dealing with the loss of my Father essentially all on my own, I found myself asking, “is this career worth it?” and, “Why do I put myself in the position of sacrificing so much of my life, singing for people I don’t know, in a world where the priorities of this ‘high art’ seem to be shifting in what could be an alarming direction?”

Big questions! The answer: because I truly love it and I believe in it.

I can’t flip the calendar forward 25 years and say that I’ll always feel this way, but at the conclusion of this year, 2006, I believe it more than ever. This career has showered me with innumerable opportunities: to travel and learn about the world and some of its diverse cultures, to work with brilliant talents and minds, to breathe life into the work of the greatest composers the world has ever known, to grant me the opportunity to explore at a deep level every imaginable emotion (and then some) we humans experience, teaching me at every step along the way, to be able to touch people, and communicate with them, helping open doors to their worlds for a few hours at a time. It’s a bit overwhelming, to tell the truth. This past stay in Paris has been a particularly difficult period for me, but looking back, having the incredible opportunity to sing through so many of the emotions I was dealing with personally, well it’s a lot cheaper than visit to a therapists office on 5th Avenue!

The bottom line is that I can look back on 2006 with great joy and gratitude for having experienced and ascertained so many different things, for having met so many wonderful, generous people, and at the end of the day, for having SURVIVED!


(A definite personal highlight: eloping with Leonardo!
Who does that?!?!)

My professional highlights:

*What a THRILL to sing for the Wigmore audience my one-off recital about Venice, a program I had been dreaming about doing for years, and finally the timing was just perfect to bring it to life. I was quite honored that they recorded it and that its release is being received very well! What a complete joy to sing for the Wigmore Audience!

*It was an incredible gift to revisit Dajanira again, and it wasn’t until reworking the mad scene at BAM that I felt I finally could sing it as I wanted to. (Which is another lesson in performing a role a number of times and letting it ‘season’ over time – I’m a BIG proponent of that!) I also found that because I knew the role much more intimately, I had to do less and less to achieve more effect: as the old motto continues to hold true, “LESS IS MORE!”

*MY FIRST SESTO! What can I say about this role? My perspective is quite interesting as I just finished a run of Idamante’s in Paris, and it is a role which is honestly at the very bottom of the list of roles I prefer to sing. I do think that Idomeneo is the superior opera, all things considered, but in my opinion the role of Sesto is unsurpassed in Mozart’s offerings for the mezzo. It was a great joy to finally sing the arias I had used numerous times in auditions in the context of the opera, and not surprisingly I found it to be an unparalleled joy to sing.

*¡PASIÓN! Three draining, exhausting, adrenalin-filled days recording this disc in the hills of the tiny, provincial Spanish town of Jafra, pushing ourselves amidst the intoxicating rhythms of Monstalvatge, De Falla, and company, and loving every minute of it! With the exception, maybe, of one track, I just adore every single selection on this disc, and having the chance to put my stamp on these pieces was an immense pleasure.

*MY FIRST CENDRILLON! Words are hard to come by to describe the experience of learning this role, and having the privilege of performing it in Laurent Pelly’s dazzling production in the magical setting of Santa Fe with such an outstanding cast, full or heart and soul. It was an enormous challenge for me, as it was my first serious French role, and I had my work cut out for me with not only the vast amounts of French, but also the dramatic vocal turn the role took as it progressed. It stretched me in many ways, and gave me memories to last a lifetime!


*MY FIRST COMPOSER! I had real reservations going into this role. I had been consumed with preparing Cendrillon, and the performances took so much of my energy that my preparation for Strauss’s naïve Komponist seemed to be way too slow. I had also been listening to the consummate artist, Tatiana Troyanos, a great deal, and I was thinking, “I just can’t do this role justice. I won’t be ready. I just can’t sing it like her.” (Another reason I’m not a big fan of relying on recordings to learn roles!) I even warned my manager, “Simon, I don’t know about this one…I don’t feel good about it. Maybe you shouldn’t come.” But I buckled down, kept myself at the piano, slowly pouring through it, and working very hard on the German. I arrived for the first rehearsals, and the memory wasn’t coming, the music hadn’t clicked into place for me, and I was feeling very far from the core of the role – something that is quite unusual for me, truth be told. But I kept working…and kept working. And BAM, I arrived one day for rehearsal, and it had clicked. I called it the “Strauss Click” where it just all of a sudden makes perfect sense, and could not possibly be set any other way. It was a beautiful day. And from that point on, I was able to revel in this character, and I completely fell in love with him. I hope I will have more opportunities to sing his anthem to music over the years, but in the meantime, my appetite is more than whetted for the coming Octavian!

I’ve worked with extraordinary colleagues in these productions, (as well with a few challenging ones), but over all, they have inspired me, pushed me, motivated and supported me, and as always, I have learned so much from them all. We’ve shared delicious meals, stimulating conversations, a few fabulous cocktails, and many great jokes. There has been personal tragedy along the way for many of us, and this remarkable family, spread out over many countries, time zones and languages, always pulls together and lets you know you are not alone.

Over all it has been a remarkable year. In a dream encounter over the summer I was able to meet one of my lifetime heroes, George Brett (the Hall of Fame Third Basemen who led the Kansas City Royals to their only World Series Victory in 1985!), and I took the liberty to ask him how he pushed himself to keep growing, even when he was already at the top of his profession. He answered with real fire in his eyes, betraying his fierce, unrelenting competitive nature, and said, “I was never satisfied. At the end of the season I never looked back at how great I had done, I looked back with the question of what I could have done better, and set goals for myself for the coming season of what I wanted to improve upon.” This, my friends, was the secret to his excellence. So in looking forward, I can say I have a healthy set of goals facing me:


*I return to my well-worn roles of Cenerentola and Rosina, but this time in high-profile AMERICAN venues, and I want to sing these roles better than I ever have, in more idiomatic Italian, with more fire and brilliance in the phrasing, and with ever more truthful characterization.

*I take on my second major recital tour in a program I ADORE, and I want to devour it with great passion and joy, bringing some lesser known works to audiences, as well as finding more and more ease and comfort on the challenging recital stage.

*I jump into the trousers of my first Octavian, a real trek up the Mount Everest of mezzo roles, and I want to bring a fierce, unbridled energy and freshness to this irresistible character, all enveloped in a real honesty and exuberance.

*I tackle my first Ariodante in Geneva, and I want SO much for this role, it’s hard to put into words. I find that Handel is the most challenging and informing of composers, and it is such an incredible journey and JOY to sing his music – it will surely feel like ANOTHER hike up Mount Everest, which means I’ll be in great shape by the end of the year! It will be a tremendous amount of work, but I’m ready for it.

*My first real, bonafide, legitimate, GENUINE vacation in…I don’t know how many years. It looks like it will be a safari somewhere exotic, but the final details need to be ironed out. I cannot WAIT to be thrust into an environment completely void of anything resembling a vocal score! I will work very hard in the time surrounding it, but I will work VERY hard at letting completely down to recover and regroup! It will be paradise!

The final word I’ll say about 2006, with all its challenges and setbacks, disappointments and successes, encounters and near-misses:


I met Johnny Depp!

I wish each and every one of you every imaginable blessing for the coming New Year, full of health, contentment, peace and JOY, and I thank you for all of your support and enthusiasm over the past year!

Here’s to life!

Goodbye to my Dad

I suppose I will start out with a polite apology, asking for pardon for what will likely be a most personal entry. I really promised myself at the start of my ‘website adventure’ that I would strictly adhere to things pertaining to my career and to the stage, but I’m afraid in this business, the two too often co-mingle, and so late this night, I’m here with my most personal thoughts, and here lies a big part of me that wants the world to have a glimpse into my past few weeks. Glimpse away:

Last Thursday, in the early hours of the quiet morning, my Father passed away. I suppose it’s quite audacious of me to attempt to write about him, for how do you sum up a life? A death? A moment? I think the geniuses I represent on stage (Mozart, Handel, etc.) have come the closest to capturing something so delicate, so I know my attempt here will be most feeble, but it will be honest, as I would like to try and express a tiny bit of the great influence my Father had on my life and how grateful I am for his loving guidance.

I grew up going to Mass on Sunday mornings watching my Dad conduct his prized choir. The Vienna Boys Choir had nothing on my Dad’s group. They sang Byrd, Thompson, Bach, Handel and Palestrina like no other chorus possibly could. As a 10-year-old girl, I wasn’t yet old enough to join in the festivities, but I sat on the sidelines waiting MOST anxiously to be old enough to take part, breathing with all his cues as if they were meant just for me. And when I finally stepped in, able to take direction directly from him, having him look at me while he cued the altos, well, I thought I was the greatest singer to ever live, knowing that he needed me to “help keep them in tune” (or so he led me to believe!). I was on top of the world.

He came to every choral concert I had in high school and nearly every one in college. His approval was the only applause I looked for or ever needed. He attended the “Seven Last Words of Christ” concert I gave as a sophomore in High School at a local church, and the entire way home our conversation nearly exploded with spiritual fervor. He taught me in every single moment that we were together through treasured conversations about faith, about doubt, about life, about music, about fear, about joy, and about staying young at heart.

The last 2 weeks were spent at his bedside, as he was hooked to a machine that took each breath for him. Such a far cry from the man I remember building our house, hiking Byer’s Peak, working at his drawing board, or reading over my term papers. Because there was a breathing tube planted in his throat, those precious, cherished conversations were no longer possible. The million questions I still have for him will have to remain unanswered, and ‘faith’ will have to be my companion, as I trust that all I really needed to inquire of him was already asked and answered. After a lifetime of connection and conversation and experience, our time was limited to hand signals, blinking of eyes, and my simple, unqualified attempt to help him die. But I must take solace in the fact that we did live so many moments so fully together. However, had he passed away 100 years from now, it would have been tragically too soon.

Infinite thoughts rip through my mind in these days, more than seem possible to process, but I think my attempt to write tonight, is simply to have ‘the world’ know that a truly great man walked this earth, touched my life, and left me much richer than would seem practical. I can say unequivocally that I would not be the person that I am without his loving, and unending guidance in my life – in every possible way.

I could talk about the numerous musical experiences we shared: in the choir loft with him at the helm, on his first trip to Europe to listen to me sing in Notre Dame, in Hamburg to hear me sing with Domingo, sitting around the TV watching Don Giovanni from the MET, my high school choir performing Bach’s “Crucifixus” to his astonishment – but none of these moments capture all that he was. I have to talk also of the letters he would send me when I was so far away from home giving me comfort as nothing else could, of the stolen moments on our front door step watching the spring storms roll in while he assured me tornados could never actually hit our house, of watching the most spectacular electrical storms in the night skies of Colorado while he spoke of the vastness of the Universe and God’s design for all of us, of how he could reduce his 7 children to piles of giggles with the mere mention of “The Big Mouth Frog”, and of how he never missed an opportunity to look deeply in my eyes and tell me how proud he was of me – not only as a singer, but as a person. How persistent he was that I knew the difference between the two.

In a million years I could have never asked for a better compliment.

I’ve never watched anyone die before. My Dad certainly wouldn’t have been my first choice to learn the ropes with, but this was the plan – and ultimately, completely out of my control. How truly powerless we are in the face of death. And yet, through it all, my Father was teaching me. Teaching me how to surrender and how to let go with dignity. In one moment I held his hands as he looked at me to say he couldn’t breathe, and all I could tell him was, “Imagine you’re breathing in that fresh mountain air, Dad.” And his breathing would slow down and he would catch it – for that moment. And then I’d pray with him, and he would mouth the familiar, soothing words along with me, "Hail Mary, full of grace..."

I was his voice for those few, precious moments.

His last day will most certainly serve as fodder for great reflection for the rest of my life. We took him off the ventilator around noon (he had told us he was ready), and the following 3 hours were spent deciphering and following his orders: “get me a new room (out of the ICU), sit me up, put me in a chair at a table, with a glass of white wine and let me drink.” We actually accomplished it all, including the most genuine of toasts, 'Here's to your life, Dad!" The drinking of the wine took all the energy that he had, but the smile that came across his face was truly priceless. He was now ready.

We’re not sure when he actually took his last breath, as his final moments were so serene and peaceful. I watched this man, my beloved father, orchestrate the laying down of his life during his last day, and with his dying breaths, he was teaching us all how to let go. He could never have done that if he hadn’t lived his life with such integrity, joy, service and faith. But his welcome reward for a very hard life of struggle and uncertainty was the most beautiful of deaths.

My sadness is profound and so very deep, but an unbridled joy is waging a great battle against it, trying hard to smother the pain. That’s because in a million years I never could have asked for a better father. I marvel at the man I knew my whole life, and surely will never know the extent to which he influenced and shaped me. The joy and faith he passed on to me will always be the defining goal that I strive to attain. My sadness feels endless, but I believe my infinite gratitude and joy of sharing in his life will win out over time.

Ironically, through his final hour, his death will always serve as the most brilliant example of how to LIVE.

Unsolicited Talking Heads

(The magnificent Royal Palace in Madrid)

I apologize ahead of time for what may be an incoherent rambling (and in all probability, highly politicized) edition of my journal; perhaps no more disjointed than usual, but certainly if you tend towards seasickness, grab a life jacket and hold on! You have been warned.

I feel as if my head is swimming with so many ideas, thoughts, conflicts and wonderings, that I will simply start the process of free association and let’s see where we end up.

Today I did two interviews for local Spanish magazines. I was excited, for as I may have mentioned previously, I’ve fallen in love with Spain, and to contribute to the music scene here has been a joy. However, I got a bit worried when the first thing out of the journalist’s mouth was, “Why do you have such a horrible photo in the program here? It’s (and I’m quoting here) “a HORROR”. (Only you must imagine that with the Spanish accent it takes on an even MORE degrading and appalling tone, mind you, as if I have somehow offended every god in the black and white photo universe! I mean REALLY, how COULD I?) Politely defending myself and the gazillions of dollars I spent on that “horror”, we quickly moved on to the business at hand. However, it does bring up in my mind how open we singers are to a constant barrage of criticism, unsolicited opinion, and constant comparison. I’m not complaining, because I do believe it’s part of the job description we accept when going into this business; but I do believe it is a real challenge to keep a healthy perspective day in and day out, as every comment and censure hurled in our direction we must sort and sift through to see if there is a grain of truth buried in it, and then simply discard the rest as if we hadn’t heard the assault, when in fact, we have heard it loud and clear. Ah, I love a good challenge!

Berlin. What can I possibly say about this? When I heard the news that the Berlin Opera was canceling a production of “Idomeneo” because there had been terrorist’s threats against the theater should it go on, my first reaction was “GOOD! That director is a sham and a disgrace to the art form, and his shows shouldn’t ever make it in front of the paying public”. (The controversial part was Idomeneo, the King, coming on shore at the end of the piece with the severed heads of, now let me get this straight: Neptune, Jesus Christ, Buddha, and the starring protagonist in this uproar, Muhammad. Hmm. I’m preparing Idomeneo right now, and in scouring the score can’t seem to find a single reference to this particular stage action. BUT, then again, I don’t know the production in question and cannot justly condemn it strictly on hearsay and the absurdity of such a ‘concept’. How this crap gets in front of the public, I cannot comprehend. I say, if the director himself had actually written a play about such characters, then FINE, BEAUTIFUL, and MORE POWER TO YOU, but it simply and unquestionably is NOT “Idomeneo”. But I’m not the boss.

However, after a petite pause, I became sincerely startled at my gut reaction. If a threat from an outside group can stop the voice of an artist, inducing comprehensive censuring by the theater meant to uphold and promote ‘art’, even art so highly offensive, where will the censuring stop? To whom will we have to answer? What in the world has happened to our civilization that we so easily will crumble against what we believe to be fundamental? How will we ever find our way out of this jumbled mess? The world needs now, more than ever, people of courage to stand up and say, ‘this is not acceptable’, and it won’t come from political leaders or media egomaniacs: it must come from ordinary people, from artists not afraid to shed light on our collective failings, from the public who will strive to tolerate different ideas put in front of them to gain a shred of understanding, and from people of all different persuasions to simply let the others BE.


(A bright spot, with the charming Maestro Jesus Lopez Cobos)

Oh, I know I’m not alone in the confusion and the bewilderment of our times. I know I’m not the only one looking into the sky with such uncertainty, (bordering on despair) about the tenuous state of our civilization. I stand in union with people that are fed up by every misfired, misguided, and misled action of those people that are ‘leading us’. But now, it has hit quite close to home, and perhaps there will be a time when I have to either stand up for what I believe in, or fall into line with the rest of the people who are living in fear.

Would I go on if the theater I was performing in were threatened? Would I stand up for something controversial, simply in the name of artistic freedom of expression, not to mention freedom of speech? These are questions I need to ask myself. Did they do the right thing in Germany? I don’t think so. But in the context of the world today, what would anyone else have done? What would I have done?

I know! I would have stood out in front of the theater and sang the Composer’s aria from “Ariadne”!!! How’s that for a segue? Why yes, I just happened to debut in that role this week. I confess that I am no longer a Strauss Virgin. There is no turning back. I’m addicted. I love it. I find it staggeringly beautiful and deeply moving, and firmly believe that more people need to behave like this man: innocently, passionately, afraid of nothing.

Well, perhaps I’m a BIT caught up in the drama of it all, but truth be told, I don’t know very many people with his courage and conviction and openness to life. It’s incredibly refreshing, and it is a TRUE pleasure to sing. I certainly wouldn’t have predicted I’d feel quite THIS enthusiastic about him (despite other singer’s warnings!), but here I am – completely taken. The opening went quite well, and while it’s still a bit scary to swim over Strauss’s orchestral writing without the dependable, familiar Rossinian patterns I’m accustomed to, (and without a life jacket), it was an unabashed joy.



A gift really is laid at the feet of any singer who gets to sing the anthem of the Composer at the end of the prologue, to sing that “music is the holiest of arts, one which encompasses all that words cannot express, and all that humans can be”. If I can add my voice to his music today, in the midst of all this chaos and turmoil, I will gladly take those inappropriate comments here and there, and march out onto stage to sing at the top of my lungs, hoping that some sort of understanding can be born out of it.

In the meantime, as I see it, life is beautiful, and I continue to enjoy Madrid. We’ve taken in a real bullfight (and will go again this weekend…I walked into that ring, saw the strapping Torero’s and immediately understood Carmen. No question.) The food continues to delight, the people continue to shine and aside from a few purse-snatchings for the cast, we are having a grand time together. The beautiful colleagues and staff here make this theater one of my very favorites to work in. I’m keeping busy on other things as well, working away at Octavian, Idamante and Sesto (when do I get to be in a skirt again?), trying to juggle the schedule for the coming years, anticipating what will be the best and most interesting choices to make. I’m handling the heartbreak of missing out on a role that I would kill to do in a particular theater, which for one reason or another won’t be in the cards for me – again, we have to walk the tightrope of heartbreak very carefully in this business! And on top of all that, I’m getting to catch up on reading and museum hopping – things that have sadly had to be on the back burner the past few months. All in all, it’s a rejuvenating period full of joy and chaos.

Welcome to life, I suppose.

Wait! Better get my life jacket!