Risk

So let's catch up! I hate being sick. When you’re in a balmy place for the winter, you’re supposed to be able to circumvent THE BUG, no? When you drink fresh squeezed orange juice each morning (mmm…when in Rome…), loading up on vitamin C, nature’s perfect medicine, you’re supposed to be able to skirt THE AFFLICTION, no? When you’re happy and enjoying life, you are expected to shun any kind of infirmity, NO?

No.

That ‘dust’ I inhaled during my unforgettable, moody backstreet tour of Barcelona decided to take up near-permanent resident status in my throat and morphed into a rather nasty throat infection. Definitely a nightmare for any singer. I made a visit to the local Catalan ENT (Graçias, Dottor Clarós!) on the morning of my second to last show, and despite the incomprehensible behavior of my taxi driver who repeatedly and unfathomably refused to stop and ask for directions as he got us more and more lost on the endless one-way streets of his city, the patient Doc took a long look at my throat and gave me the thumb’s up for singing that night. He assured me I would do no damage, and that my cords looked fine and dandy. (Quick detour: it floors me each time I see a photo of vocal cords, because their diminutive and unassuming properties boggle my mind!)

Even though I still couldn’t phonate fluidly or consistently in my middle register, I was holding on to the words of the good Doctor that my cords were fine, and any swelling could be brought into check with a mild anti-inflammatory. So, as the clock ticked obstinately away, I desperately fought to stay positive and once again, coax my voice into singing this role I love so much.

5:00 pm: I’m in my dressing room, and there is simply no phonation happening (or even hinting at happening) in my middle voice. And by ‘no phonation’ I mean NONE. The top was there, and I had a rather extraordinary ability to access a rowdily resonant chest voice (which I enjoyed quite a lot as visions of Amneris floated in my head!). But Eb to G# in my middle octave? NADA. ZIPPO. ZILCH. As I was about to stand up from my piano bench to slink into the artistic administrator’s office, admitting what felt like defeat and saying I had no choice but to cancel, a Spanish vision walked through my door: the brilliant, great, lovely Carlos Chausson.

I first met Señor Chausson where, as a bonafide newbie and out of place American, I was fulfilling my 2nd cast duties as Cenerentola in Madrid. From day one, he took this lonely, non-Spanish speaking girl under his wing and made me feel more than welcome, with his disarming humor, excellent English and smiling face, always encouraging and supporting in every way. Fast forward a few years, and we found ourselves playing evil guardian and kept ward in the Paris production of “Barbiere” – and again, his compassionate, wise guidance carried me through some really tough times. Well, as the fates allowed, he was substituting that evening for an ailing Magnifico, and he bounced into my room ready to take the Liceu by storm, but immediately he knew I was in trouble. He listened to me vocalize a bit, offered a few nuggets of council and said, “Well, you’ll be 60-70% vocally, so you can do it – but you are not 100% and you just have to decide if you want to risk it.”

The chemistry of a stage family is a strange one – a single person can completely change the dynamic for better of for worse, tipping the ‘energy’ balance dramatically in either direction; Carlos happens to be one of the golden ones who lights up everyone around him. I knew that going out with him by my side, I just might have a fighting chance. I also knew that this was a role I knew inside and out, and even if vocally I wasn’t in prime form, I could still give a (hopefully!) moving and touching performance. I also believed that I could pace it in the right way in order to arrive in one piece at the end. Specifically: I could alter some of my cadenzas, shorten some of the longer held notes, cheat a bit on the big ensemble numbers, and beg my colleagues’ indulgence! (For example, Juan Diego was quite gracious, tailoring our duet to be a bit more ‘intimate’ so that I could adjust some of my normal dynamics, etc. Oddly enough, I found it perhaps the most touching duet of the run!) And, because this role is so ingrained in my body and spirit, I knew I could afford to concentrate completely on the technical aspect of how to survive the 3 hours.

Enter: “Amnerisentola”. I am a HUGE lover of those daring, golden age ladies who plunged audaciously and capriciously into the depths of their chest voices – how it could thrill! Well, this particular Cenerentola ‘went there’ and I dipped into that chest voice all night long, knowing full well that my voice teacher may well have had a heart attack had he been in the stalls that night, but it was a survival mechanism for those 3 hours. As I self-monitored my voice, I could still float the top notes, could still access any dynamic, and my lower register had never been so reedy! But those stubborn middle notes simply REFUSED to come into play. Halfway through the second act, I get one last chance to vocalize in my dressing room before the ‘big number’, and I try the first phrase:

“Nac /qui / all’affanno…”

(The “/”s are shorthand for the loud, broken cracks in my voice.)

“OK, then…I’m cracking.”

“I’m cracking on the opening phrase of the final aria that I’ve sung hundreds of times.”

I sing the phrase 4 times.

I crack 4 times.

There is nowhere to hide.

There is no one to call.

The loving but horrified look on my husband’s face (sitting on my dressing room sofa) says it all: “Oh sweetheart, you’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

Time to put my money where my mouth is, right? How many times have I spoken the innocent phrase, “It’s only opera, after all”?

Well, there is no doubt that I’m a risk taker. However, I am definitely a calculated risk taker, and I knew that even if I blew a few lines here or there, I had nothing to prove with this role. In fact, I never step on stage to ‘prove’ anything – so in a way, I felt more or less safe: our taping for the DVD was successfully completed, Barcelona had embraced me, ‘the world’ knows I can sing the role, more or less. But all the rationalizing and intellectualizing in the world can’t camouflage the powerful, encompassing fear of “oh my GOD what if I CRACK????”

Well, I tip-toed my way through the opening phrase – attempting to avoid wretched cracks, trying constantly to not panic and to focus simply on hooking up the breath. But most importantly, I tried to follow the advice of my teacher: I continued to take risks. I just went for it.

It was definitely not one of my best vocal performances, (or maybe the opposite is true) but the audience stayed with me, my cast members held me up, and even though at the end of the night I knew it was a risk I probably would not take again, I got through it.

(And for those keeping track, in fact, TWO of those beloved rose petals fell directly into the palms of my hands that night … go figure, right?)

3 days of rest followed, with my final performance challenging me, but not nearly as much as the previous, and before I knew it, our bags were packed, Barcelona disappeared below my feet, and I was on a dry, crowded airplane headed home for a 48 hour stay, with just enough time to do laundry (oh how I miss a dryer when in Europe and using my simple Bounce sheets!), sort through stacks (and stacks!) of mail, find a dress coat on sale, and realize how much I miss sleeping in my very own bed. The trip home was so short and hectic, I didn’t even get to say hello to any of my family before being assaulted in yet another security line at the airport, and landing smack in the middle of freezing-cold whirlwind stay in New York City. Quick hop back to Kansas City, with more of those horrid security clearances, to gather the warmest clothes I own to weather the Windy City, and before I know it, I’m back in ‘Seville’ in the most zany and delightful production of Barber!

All of THIS, however, must be another entry, (but I promise it will be a GREAT one, with tales of Leontyne Price, Van Cliburn, et al!) for my fingers are tired of typing, surely if you’ve made it this far, your eyes are weary of reading, and Handel is calling me to work on his little black notes. Let the games begin!

Gratitude - Day 56

I'm grateful to be singing (or, I should say, rehearsing at this point) in a show that is a complete BLAST to be a part of, full of laughs and old-time gags, with the fingerprints of all the greats who have been in this show for the past 20 years. This is another production that Frederica von Stade debuted a number of years ago (and yes, I still have that "Are you kidding me?" moment when I think about it...), but also the great Claudio Desderi inventing brilliant stage moment after brilliant stage moment. I love hearing the stories from the great and incomparable director, John Copley, relaying how they came up with the 'stick in the *ss moment', or how the lingerie bits came into play; it's a true testament to the brilliant artists who debuted this show some 20 years ago for me to be able to step into it and feel completely at home. A whacky home, yes - but home nonetheless!

Gratitude - Day 55 (after an intense absence!)

I'm BACK! I've been sick and spending a LOT of time in airports in the past 10 days, NOT taking photos - but being extremely grateful nevertheless. But I'm back in action, now, almost recovered, and grateful for a stunning view from my new 'home' for the next few weeks in Chicago, Illinois, USA!

(PS - more soon!)

Gratitude - on hold...

...only until I get better. Wish I knew what has decided to take up a most unwelcome residence in my chest cavity, but I can't quite get a hold of it! However, it means the only interesting photo I'd be able to snap while homebound today would be of my cup of hot tea - which I tried to actually capture in some interesting, meaningful way, but it was not cooperating! So - I continue to rest, for I'd love to be able to sing 100% tomorrow night for the ticket-buyers, as well as some dear friends who are travelling here to see the show!

Come on meds - DO YOUR JOB!!! (Most sadly, I'm even missing Rolando's recital here in Barcelona because of this stupid thing! I wish him EVERY success tonight - I know the entire theater will be cheering him on.)

I HAVE been able to finally finish my copy of "Cold Sassy Tree" (along with the last of my kleenex - what a tear jerker!), and to catch up on loads of translating - so those are other possible subjects for photos, but it's just not in me today!

Off for another steaming cup o' tea!

Cheers!

Gratitude - Day 54

I don't actually have a photo to post for Day #54, quite simply because I had other things on my mind. On Thursday, my husband and I were treated to an incredible day in Barcelona: Joan Font, the head of El Comediants and the director of this vivid production of "Cenerentola", took us on a most intimate, back street tour of Barcelona, his hometown and the source of his wild imagination and love of theater. The first stop was an old shop (originating in 1838!) that surely gave birth to Joan's passion for all things theatrical. We discovered there was a maze of back rooms in this seemingly tiny shop, El Ingenio, located in an unassuming back alley, which houses what must be thousands of traditional Catalan masks and moldings, dating back hundreds of years. Each region in Catalunya has it's own signature persona and accompanying mask, and these are all housed here, and replicated upon request.

It was beautiful to see the artisans at work first hand, and to wander the shelves of these creations. Truly magical.

And truly dusty.

Not to mention musty.

And ripe with smells and traces of the past hundred years - because I'm pretty sure regular (or even semi-regular) spring cleanings are not carried out here.

Add a few other dusty stops to an old bookstore, and some hidden churches, and that explains the hacking, wheezing, persistent cough that hit me like a thunderbolt when I got home. You see, in general, I aim to not be a hyper-sensitive singer always worried about the tiny pieces of gristle in my throat. I prefer to attempt an ordinary life free of paranoia and worry. I suppose I could have been a tiny bit more on alert when the smells and dry particles hovered over me with glee, but I was too caught up in the magic of the moment, watching the transformed Joan marvel at the world of masks coming to life around him to notice that my throat was about to revolt.

To make a long story short, the hacking cough kept me up all night, leaving me with no, (and I do mean NO!) voice in the morning....the morning of a performance of "La Cenerentola"...you know that role with all the vocal fireworks, spanning over 2 octaves with lots of high floaty notes and huge high notes at the end of the 3-hour marathon - you know, THAT little opera?

Riiiiiiight.

So it was a day full of panicking and gargling and flushing and coating and cooing and hacking and worrying and resting and humming and plotting. It wasn't until roughly 7:15 that I thought I might be able to do this. But oddly enough, I don't have a lot of experience of being sick on performance day, so I honestly didn't know what to expect.

Everyone was on alert, the management could not have been more helpful and supportive (muchas graçias!), an announcement was made (only my 2nd in my career to date, I'm happy to say...), and I was still standing at the end. In fact, on a VERY personal note, I really didn't know if I would make it to the end or not - and that's an immensely frightening feeling for a singer, because should you fail, there is absolutely no where to hide. (Granted, let's be clear: it's not frightening like being diagnosed with a fatal disease, or not being able to make your mortgage payment - I don't presume to elevate this experience too dramatically - I just put it in the context of my own personal experience.) But it was as scary a feeling as I have known on the stage. So, what did I do? I thought strongly of my Dad, hoping that in some way I might draw strength from his memory. Well, if anyone knows this production, at the very end of "Non più mesta" rose petals fall from the sky, and I usually end the aria with my arms outstretched - I know, classic singer pose! I can't help myself! But last night, for the very first time after roughly 18 performances of this production, one single petal fell perfectly, gently into the palm of my right hand. Call it superstitious, call it coincidence, call it anything you like - all I know is that I felt my Dad with me, and I finished the aria in tears. It was indeed a special moment of gratitude.

Gratitude - Day 53

I'm grateful I have a head.

Gratitude - Day 52

Where to begin? Here at the Liceu , a stunning exhibition is on display of many of Maria Callas' jewels from the great, historic roles and productions in which she starred. Actually, perhaps more accurately, in which she changed the face of opera. One glittering creation outdoes the next, but the photos that accompany the displays call to mind the reality that it was, in truth, not about the jewels at all - in fact, these stunning jewels somehow fade into the background when asked to compete against the intensity and fire raging in her eyes and the unbridled yet always studied passion of her voice. Ironically in seeing these astonishing pieces in person, it's all the more clear HOW potent "La Divina" must have been to surpass such stiff competition! There can be no mistaking the fact that she did change the course of opera through her fierce attention to details scribbled by the composers she revered, to her complete absorption of the characters she created, and by the way she redefined the definition of a true diva (a term sadly hijacked today by all too many wanna-be's.) I can't begin to imagine the torment that was her life - and now it feels impossible to separate her tragic life from the lines she sings which we listen to decades later, but this exhibit calls to mind the impact her artistry and her life had on so many numerous people. For these and so many other reasons, I am grateful for Maria Callas.

Gratitude - Day 51

I haven't been posting too many 'portraits' for this Gratitude Journal, simply because I don't ever want someone to think that if their photo isn't posted I'm not grateful for them - not at all! But I snapped this photo tonight of the beautiful Adela Rocha who is on staff of the Liceu Theater (in the press department, actually) and while I am grateful for her boundless energy and infectious enthusiasm, it makes me think further of how very many people are behind the scenes of the theater all working together to bring a 3 hour show to the public. It's easy for the audience to think it's all about the singers at the end of the night, but we really are just a part of the entire machinery to bring our piece to life. This beautiful face is one of the many who help this theater sell out all our shows - and indeed, I am grateful! (Graçias, Guapa!)