The beautfiul end of the tunnel!

This morning the dense fog hovers claustro-phobically over the city by the bay, and while it’s tempting to feel as if the day will stay dreary and overcast, one knows with authority that it will soon lift, and that the scorching, luminous sun will emerge to reveal the blinding cerulean skies above. Ah, the marvelous marvels of San Francisco!

Tossing aside any valiant attempt at a cohesive entry this time around, I offer instead the varied ramblings of a tired, yet energized, close-to-vacation singer with the soundtrack of “School’s out for the summer!” blaring through my head! It feels like decades since I’ve claimed this song as my June Anthem! Ramble away:

*What an unabashed thrill, and constant, on-going master class to watch Kristinn Sigmundsson craft his Baron Ochs every night. I’ve never been able to stomach that character much before to be quite honest, for it can so very easily cross over into a nauseating caricature that makes the 4-hour opera feel as if it is the entire Ring Cycle given without intermissions. My hypothesis on why his creation actually evolves to be so endearing and ultimately sympathetic: Kristinn respects and loves the character, never settling for the obvious choice. He truly thinks he is entitled to all he is demanding, and considers himself a true Don Juan in each of his encounters. It is an unabashed delight to watch. Throw in his majestic, malleable facial expressions and you have a masterful performance on hand. Oh, right – I nearly forgot: he also SINGS the bejeebers out of the role! Heilige Mutter von Maria Taferl he’s good!

Lesson learned: never take for granted that a character (or person, for that matter!) is decidedly, 100% worthy of being written off!

*What a lesson in humble artistry to share the stage with Soile Isokowski’s Marschallin. She has the unique ability, even in a 3,500-seat theater, to draw in the audience, inviting them to listen to her most intimate thoughts spun out in a refined, most delicately silver-spun line, breaking your heart with her honest, pure sound. Her perfect use of the text, her trust in the beautiful vocal writing of Strauss, her innate coloring of each phrase, and her ability to get out of the way of the music gives her Marschallin such a human, fragile life. And as far as I’m concerned, her voicing of the line, “da drinn ist die silberne Ros’n…” is all one would ever need to believe that a true paradise exists somewhere. It is “Desert Island” good.

Lesson learned: never miss the opportunity to hear this wonderful artist!

*Anyone concerned about the direction of opera in today’s media-driven climate need not worry if it produces singers like Miah Persson. What a vibrant, committed artist who sings beautifully and insists on never being less than 100% committed to the union between the music and the drama. She sings with a technique that serves her unbelievably well, even through dreaded allergies and other physical circumstances, she is impeccably and thoroughly prepared as a colleague and an immaculate musician, and she brings an instinctive, vital energy to the stage that makes Sophie a much more multi-dimensional character than she might appear on paper. There is no better scenario than to be on stage with colleagues that LISTEN to you, REACT with you, and CREATE the drama in real-time, and Miah does this in spades!

Lesson learned: look to singers like this to insure the future of opera!

*Kudos to any casting/artistic director who is committed to casting an entire piece from strength to strength, knowing that a truly breathtaking theatrical event thrives on every role being brought to vivid life and sung impeccably well. I don’t know that I’ve witnessed a better example of that than in this realization of Der Rosenkavalier. There wasn’t one sung line where the audience was asked to suspend its belief or exhibit patience with a sub-par performance. From the perfectly accomplished Faninal of Jochen Schmeckenbecher (best name in the world!), to the Duenna of Adler fellow Heidi Melton (watch out opera world, here she comes!), to the brilliance of fellow Wichita State Alum, Cathy Cook’s gloriously sexy Anina, it was a stellar cast from top to bottom, and allowed the audience, I think, to truly escape into and believe in this world. This gets my blood pumping! As a rich bonus, every single person in this cast was an unmitigated joy to share the front and back stage with, and made this experience yet another magical moment in time for me.

Lesson learned: there are no small roles. Well, OK, let’s be honest: there ARE, in fact, “small roles”, however, this lesson is that they don’t automatically or necessarily yield a small IMPACT! Bravi, tutti!



*This is the most glorious music to sing. Some people have asked me if I approach the singing differently, or question why my voice seems to take on different colors/timbres in this role. Honestly, I’m not smart enough to juggle separate techniques for each genre I sing – I have one ‘technique’ and sing in one “manner” (IF I’m behaving myself) and fully expect it to serve any type of music I may sing, be it Rossini, lieder or Strauss. I fully believe the answer simply lies in the fact that the language, the vocal writing and the orchestration all work together to inform the colors and phrasing in one’s singing. It comes down to singing what has been handed to us by the composer (in this case perfectly penned by Strauss), and staying out of the way of the music. If, for example, Rossini, Strauss and Britten were all given the same notes to play with, they would each come up with a completely different interpretation, set with different phrasing, unique text, and separate requirements – regardless of the notes being the same values on the page, the results would be light years apart in sound and impact. This is one reason I love exploring varied repertoire, and never find even a hint of boredom setting in.

Lesson learned: stay out of the way, Stupid!

*I love my job. I continue to pinch myself that I am continually given the opportunity to bring such masterful music to life. The fog that has hung over me this past year with the loss of my parents is undoubtedly real, profound and life changing, but through the midst of the mist I have had music to cling to. I endeavor to continually recognize that music is not the only thing in my life – it is simply a part of my life. But I have had the blessed fortune to be able to turn to it as a source of comfort and guidance and even therapy. In a most literal fashion, singing the role of Idamante seems almost cruelly ironic, but as I’ve noted before, Mozart’s music possesses a cleansing and healing quality entrenched in each phrase, and I know that it serves to be a guiding force through my grieving. While the words of the Marschallin can touch listeners in nearly any phase of their life, I know that listening to them each night on the stage has had a calming effect on me, and penetrates my heart deeply in my need to let go and not hold on to the past. It was as if my Father were whispering those very words into my heart to help me move forward.

Lesson learned: Leicht muß man sein mit leichtem Herz und leichten Händen halten und nehmen, halten und lassen…

(Light must we be, with light hearts and light hands, to hold and take hold, and to let go…)

Well, like the inevitable clock striking midnight, the fog has now lifted, inviting all to jump with abandon into the day here in San Francisco. It’s nearly time for me to clean out the refrigerator, clean up the rental unit, pack up my belongings and say goodbye to this rich city. I will surely miss the fresh air, the inventive, delicious cuisine and the “brisk” breezes, however it is the friends, the audience and the cast members that will leave the biggest imprint on me. Little do they all know it, but they have each helped me through a very difficult time with their patience, their enthusiasm, their artistry and their friendship. I began the journey of my first Octavian here, healed some of my grief here, walked through the light at the end of the tunnel, and quite simply, loved every minute of it.


Here is to brilliant azure skies, silver roses and letting go!

Production photos: ©Terrence McCarthy
San Francisco Opera, Der Rosenkavalier

In my thoughts

I almost started to write that today the "world of opera" mourns the announcement that the legendary Amercian soprano Beverly Sills is gravely ill. That is far too narrow a statement. Perhaps more importantly, the world is truly with her today in their thoughts and prayers. With my own small voice I wish her and her family the strength, comfort and resources they need in this most difficult time.


©Ken Howard

Contagious pride

Sunday was Gay Pride day across the nation, and while there were numerous remarkable and colorful parades across the land, surely San Francisco takes the prize for all out pride-ness! We had a matinee performance of "Der Rosenkavalier" that afternoon, and let me tell you, there was an ELECTRICITY in the air! I could tell immediately that it would be a fabulous and special show. Trying to stay in the spirit of things and kick things off in a festive way, I invited the Marschallin (the lovely Finnish soprano, Soile Isokowski, singing her final performance of the role here) and the Baron Ochs (the real-live Viking, Kristinn Sigmundsson) for a festive photo-op:


Personally, I had the easiest time of getting into the spirit of things, as not only was I dressed in drag as Octavian, but Octavian himself got to drag it up as Mariandel. I've never been so proud!

In all sincerity, it is an honor to call so many duly proud people my friends.

Wigs, Brocades and Canons, Oh my!

I've been shopping! In preparation for my upcoming REAL, LIVE, NO-CELL-PHONE VACATION (my first in over 5 years!), I took the plunge and made the long-anticipated purchase of a coveted SLR camera! I'm in heaven. I've been flirting with photography for awhile now, and even had the nerve to begin boasting that it was my 'hobby'; however it's hard to be taken seriuosly when your lens of choice belongs to a flimsy point-n-shoot camera! (See? One purchase and I'm a camera snob already! Now there will be no talking to me!) I did my homework, got very friendly with the neighborhood pro, Bill at Wolf Camera, and jumped into the world of filters, polarizers, and lenses (oh my!).

Call me "Trigger".

The beautiful thing is that it came just in time for my debut at the San Francisco Opera as Octavian, and I found the distraction of shooting photos backstage to be a beautiful balm to the nerves pulsing through my veins screaming "what have I gotten myself into????"

Up first: my very first powdered wig (in over 8 years of professional opera, that's rather astonishing, actually), with the most stunning roses in the background, sent by my 'adopted parents', Pam and Tom Frame, who, incidently, were my Merola sponsors 10 years ago in this very same city...


And second: for the brocade, a close-up of the stunning detail work hand-crafted on Octavian's "Presentation of the Rose" costume...


Perhaps it's worth mentioning that the costume was based on the original 1911 costume designs, and was originally worn by none-other than the great Frederica von Stade for the debut of this particular production in 1993. Considering that she stopped backstage beforehand to wish me good-luck made me feel that I was truly in the best of hands!

Thirdly, I'll rely on a professional photographer with the real bragging rights to demonstrate 'how it's done', with a shot of both the beautiful costume and wig in action...


A big thank you to Bob Cahen for this photo, who has been shooting opera at the Lyric Opera of Chicago and the San Francisco Opera for over 50 years. Not only does he have the most engaging stories about all the great Opera Stars of the past 50 years from Callas to DiStefano, but he currently has a magnificent exhibition of great photos on at the SFO - what a legacy he is creating!

"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…"