Tomorrow is the first day of classes back East.
I miss it.
In some ways, I feel like the last two years were just some dream that zipped by. Did I really get to sing and learn and practice and perform music for two whole years? How is it possible that it is already gone?
I feel like I've dropped through a wormhole to another universe with a completely different landscape and culture, not to mention the new (and yet old - same as two years ago) to-dos. Things look familiar, and yet they are skewed just enough to feel strange.
I miss my world of music and artists.
~Hope
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Moving
Well, I'm now in a suspended hybrid state, rather like some bizarre chemistry experiment. I have one foot on the East Coast and one on the West, trying to find a job that will fit with my background and interests. It's a bit tricky in the current market. If you have any ideas, let me know! I'm open to anything.
The more immediate issue, however, is that e. only has tortillas, cheese, refried beans, and ramen in his apartment. This does not make for a breakfast of champions. It does, however, make me extremely glad that a) I stuffed three boxes of granola bars into my suitcase and b) there is a grocery store right across the street.
Time to head out to pick up the essentials: fruits and veggies, cereal, and, of course, Caffeine!
~Hope
The more immediate issue, however, is that e. only has tortillas, cheese, refried beans, and ramen in his apartment. This does not make for a breakfast of champions. It does, however, make me extremely glad that a) I stuffed three boxes of granola bars into my suitcase and b) there is a grocery store right across the street.
Time to head out to pick up the essentials: fruits and veggies, cereal, and, of course, Caffeine!
~Hope
Monday, July 26, 2010
Lost and Found
Today, I found some music books that I had squirreled away about ten years ago. One was a yellow-covered Italian art songs book by Schirmer that brought back memories. It was one of my earliest books from way back when I started voice lessons.
Most singers can recollect the first time they sang "Amarilli" or "Se tu m'ami" or the like - Italian art songs from centuries ago that are perfect for young singers. They are tonal and simple to learn, often with a repeating part. Plus, Italian is a great "first foreign language" to sing in. The vowels are not complex, so you can really focus on tone and the production of sound.
I carefully tucked the Schirmer book into a box to take with me as I move so that I can pull it out if I end up teaching voice lessons someday. Maybe I'll also pull some back into my own repertoire; it would be fun to see them from a new, more experienced perspective.
~Hope
Most singers can recollect the first time they sang "Amarilli" or "Se tu m'ami" or the like - Italian art songs from centuries ago that are perfect for young singers. They are tonal and simple to learn, often with a repeating part. Plus, Italian is a great "first foreign language" to sing in. The vowels are not complex, so you can really focus on tone and the production of sound.
I carefully tucked the Schirmer book into a box to take with me as I move so that I can pull it out if I end up teaching voice lessons someday. Maybe I'll also pull some back into my own repertoire; it would be fun to see them from a new, more experienced perspective.
~Hope
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Celebrating
Deep in the heart of coal country, there is a town that saw its heyday between the 1890s and the 1920s in the age when steel was big and its coal lit the fires that forged that ever-present metal. Today, the town still sits crammed between the mine-laced mountains, and there are still roadside businesses that sell some of the remaining black bounty to folks who still use it to heat their homes.
As you drive past the little coal sellers, you see a mountain on your left that upon closer look you notice is made of coal scraps. This 500-foot tall pile is the coal that was too sulfurous to be good for home use, and so it was set aside as it was mined. Too troublesome to be placed back in the bowels of the earth, it stands on top, a monument to the town's backbreaking labor.
The main street is dotted with parks of the type created in early 20th century America; little oases in the middle of a once-carriage driven road, they have a few trees and benches neatly placed for weary walkers. These patches of green along with the 1900s bank buildings that still reflect the once-prosperous architecture are the most elegant elements remaining in the town. They are nestled beside neon-signed nail salons and bars, autobody shops, and many boarded-up businesses that more accurately show the current state of the town. Many of the people residing there now are part of multi-generational welfare families who, when asked what they do for a living, will tell you, "I'm on disability." There are other folks who work an array of jobs that include highly educated occupations as well, but the main thrust of the economic ambiance remains one of poverty.
Even the houses seem a bit sad. Many are true centenarians, and you catch glimmers of a front porch culture that faded when television invaded our living rooms. The white paint on their facades is often besmirched with the black coal dust that still can permeate the air here. Yet, underneath their drooping exteriors, there is a sparkle of a happier time.
That sparkle takes shape and form and enters the streets twice a year. Once is Christmas when the smallest and saddest houses are often the most transformed. The folks who live there take great pride in pulling out all the stops with myriad Christmas decorations. The other time is the Fourth of July.
This little town, this area that seems to be in a permanent recession, puts on the greatest fireworks display that I have ever seen. That includes Boston, New York, and Washington D.C.
Every year that this town can scrape together enough funds to hold it, the firefighters climb up on that mountain of discarded coal and shoot off a truly impressive display. They never do it halfway. If the funds aren't there, they don't hold it at all. But if they manage to raise what must be $50,000 or more, they blow it all up in a truly spectacular celebration of our nation's independence.
As you drive into town on that night, you pass cars lined up for several miles along the sides of the road. People are already parked and pulling lawn chairs out of their trunks in the hopes of securing their favorite viewing spot. Just before you hit the main street, traffic slows and two firemen holding a giant trashcan greet you. "Care to donate to the fireworks?" they ask you, and you can't resist dropping in some cash in the hopes that your contribution just might enable next year's display.
My family parks in the lot of an old gas station with a clear view of the coal mountain. We usually happily grab the last spot in the place and then walk the five blocks or so to the eateries. Two women in their 60s run the Coney Island hot dog stand, which is a cramped little diner that looks like it's been there for a century. The women operate with the kind of automatic efficiency that is built over thousands of hours of doing the same thing. You can pick up your chili-and-onion-covered hot dog and chow down alongside other loyal patrons. My mom usually skips this part, choosing instead to save room for the homemade ice cream place just up the street. There, a double dip is $2.25, and plastic-topped cans are placed on the counter collecting tips for the workers and - what else - donations for next year's fireworks.
As you walk back the main street, you pass clusters of people delightedly kibbitzing as they sit in their lawn chairs in the small parks, all facing the coal mountain. They watch their kids run around and set off small fireworks or play with sparklers and snappers - gunpowder-filled paper twists that explode with a pop and an occasional spark when they hit the ground.
Meanwhile, houses all around the area are setting off their own fireworks. Some are so sophisticated that you wonder if the real display has started yet. But, no, it's just people showing off for the gathered crowds. You always see a daredevil stunt or two, like people standing on a rooftop and tossing a lit explosive off to the ground where it does a reverse firework and blows up with a bang. The laughter that ensues from the lucky folks who set the thing off is a mixture of giddy relief and an adrenaline rush. It's the same sound you hear when people come off a particularly fine roller coaster in an amusement park - the "Thank-God-I'm-alive-but-let's-do-it-again" giggles.
Keep walking, and you'll pass the soda machine that boasts the Nascar celebrity holding out a Coca-Cola bottle to tempt you. Everyone in this town will know who he is.
One abandoned gas station with the sign still up from the 1960s and a couple darkened buildings later, and you'll be back at the lawn chairs in the gas station parking lot, staring up at the darkening sky and wondering when the display will start.
Around 9:45 or whenever the crew judges that the charcoal backdrop is sufficiently dark to allow the fireworks to be seen in sharpest relief, there is an enormously loud explosion to signal the start of the half hour display.
With a soft "shhhhooot!", comet trails leap off the coal mountain into the sky where they burst into sophisticated patterns of light and color. There are gentle ones that look like gold filigree as they shimmer down. Others are enormous asterisks that turn red, then green, then white as you watch their tips. (These are the ones you more typically see in the larger cities.) Some create miraculous shapes that are precise rings with one dot outside of them or a Saturn-like picture complete with planetary rings. Every year, there also seem to be new ones, innovative concoctions that make you gasp as you wonder how someone could figure out how to multistage a firework - and then make the ends look like actual star shapes. And at regular intervals, the company sets off ones that flash brightly just before a huge BOOM fills the sky.
There isn't any music that would show fancy mathematical calculations as things explode with the drum beats, and I actually prefer that. Nothing distracts from the colorful majesty of these engineering marvels. You can focus only on how interesting and amazing the fireworks are, and they deliver.
The timing is also superb. The crew sets off a few at the outset, one by one so that you can enjoy them in their full splendor. There are specifically designed orders of launch so that a shimmering gold backdrop comes behind a star-like explosion or two stars explode just offset from each other. And every five minutes or so, there is a rapid firing that shows off a whole postcard-picture at once and leaves the sky filled with smoke and the audience wondering if that's the big finale.
The finale itself is really something to behold. By this point, the coal mountain is glowing orange at the launch point, and a true fountain of smoke is climbing into the sky. The final launch is a series of specially timed and positioned fireworks that explode right over your head, some with spans of several hundred feet in the sky. Everything is perfectly placed and perfectly timed, and when the last sparks fade into the black, the entire town erupts in cheers and applause that can be heard way up on that mountain, a burst of appreciation for those who risked so much to create this beautiful testament to the hardy American spirit and the celebration of the Fourth.
~Hope
As you drive past the little coal sellers, you see a mountain on your left that upon closer look you notice is made of coal scraps. This 500-foot tall pile is the coal that was too sulfurous to be good for home use, and so it was set aside as it was mined. Too troublesome to be placed back in the bowels of the earth, it stands on top, a monument to the town's backbreaking labor.
The main street is dotted with parks of the type created in early 20th century America; little oases in the middle of a once-carriage driven road, they have a few trees and benches neatly placed for weary walkers. These patches of green along with the 1900s bank buildings that still reflect the once-prosperous architecture are the most elegant elements remaining in the town. They are nestled beside neon-signed nail salons and bars, autobody shops, and many boarded-up businesses that more accurately show the current state of the town. Many of the people residing there now are part of multi-generational welfare families who, when asked what they do for a living, will tell you, "I'm on disability." There are other folks who work an array of jobs that include highly educated occupations as well, but the main thrust of the economic ambiance remains one of poverty.
Even the houses seem a bit sad. Many are true centenarians, and you catch glimmers of a front porch culture that faded when television invaded our living rooms. The white paint on their facades is often besmirched with the black coal dust that still can permeate the air here. Yet, underneath their drooping exteriors, there is a sparkle of a happier time.
That sparkle takes shape and form and enters the streets twice a year. Once is Christmas when the smallest and saddest houses are often the most transformed. The folks who live there take great pride in pulling out all the stops with myriad Christmas decorations. The other time is the Fourth of July.
This little town, this area that seems to be in a permanent recession, puts on the greatest fireworks display that I have ever seen. That includes Boston, New York, and Washington D.C.
Every year that this town can scrape together enough funds to hold it, the firefighters climb up on that mountain of discarded coal and shoot off a truly impressive display. They never do it halfway. If the funds aren't there, they don't hold it at all. But if they manage to raise what must be $50,000 or more, they blow it all up in a truly spectacular celebration of our nation's independence.
As you drive into town on that night, you pass cars lined up for several miles along the sides of the road. People are already parked and pulling lawn chairs out of their trunks in the hopes of securing their favorite viewing spot. Just before you hit the main street, traffic slows and two firemen holding a giant trashcan greet you. "Care to donate to the fireworks?" they ask you, and you can't resist dropping in some cash in the hopes that your contribution just might enable next year's display.
My family parks in the lot of an old gas station with a clear view of the coal mountain. We usually happily grab the last spot in the place and then walk the five blocks or so to the eateries. Two women in their 60s run the Coney Island hot dog stand, which is a cramped little diner that looks like it's been there for a century. The women operate with the kind of automatic efficiency that is built over thousands of hours of doing the same thing. You can pick up your chili-and-onion-covered hot dog and chow down alongside other loyal patrons. My mom usually skips this part, choosing instead to save room for the homemade ice cream place just up the street. There, a double dip is $2.25, and plastic-topped cans are placed on the counter collecting tips for the workers and - what else - donations for next year's fireworks.
As you walk back the main street, you pass clusters of people delightedly kibbitzing as they sit in their lawn chairs in the small parks, all facing the coal mountain. They watch their kids run around and set off small fireworks or play with sparklers and snappers - gunpowder-filled paper twists that explode with a pop and an occasional spark when they hit the ground.
Meanwhile, houses all around the area are setting off their own fireworks. Some are so sophisticated that you wonder if the real display has started yet. But, no, it's just people showing off for the gathered crowds. You always see a daredevil stunt or two, like people standing on a rooftop and tossing a lit explosive off to the ground where it does a reverse firework and blows up with a bang. The laughter that ensues from the lucky folks who set the thing off is a mixture of giddy relief and an adrenaline rush. It's the same sound you hear when people come off a particularly fine roller coaster in an amusement park - the "Thank-God-I'm-alive-but-let's-do-it-again" giggles.
Keep walking, and you'll pass the soda machine that boasts the Nascar celebrity holding out a Coca-Cola bottle to tempt you. Everyone in this town will know who he is.
One abandoned gas station with the sign still up from the 1960s and a couple darkened buildings later, and you'll be back at the lawn chairs in the gas station parking lot, staring up at the darkening sky and wondering when the display will start.
Around 9:45 or whenever the crew judges that the charcoal backdrop is sufficiently dark to allow the fireworks to be seen in sharpest relief, there is an enormously loud explosion to signal the start of the half hour display.
With a soft "shhhhooot!", comet trails leap off the coal mountain into the sky where they burst into sophisticated patterns of light and color. There are gentle ones that look like gold filigree as they shimmer down. Others are enormous asterisks that turn red, then green, then white as you watch their tips. (These are the ones you more typically see in the larger cities.) Some create miraculous shapes that are precise rings with one dot outside of them or a Saturn-like picture complete with planetary rings. Every year, there also seem to be new ones, innovative concoctions that make you gasp as you wonder how someone could figure out how to multistage a firework - and then make the ends look like actual star shapes. And at regular intervals, the company sets off ones that flash brightly just before a huge BOOM fills the sky.
There isn't any music that would show fancy mathematical calculations as things explode with the drum beats, and I actually prefer that. Nothing distracts from the colorful majesty of these engineering marvels. You can focus only on how interesting and amazing the fireworks are, and they deliver.
The timing is also superb. The crew sets off a few at the outset, one by one so that you can enjoy them in their full splendor. There are specifically designed orders of launch so that a shimmering gold backdrop comes behind a star-like explosion or two stars explode just offset from each other. And every five minutes or so, there is a rapid firing that shows off a whole postcard-picture at once and leaves the sky filled with smoke and the audience wondering if that's the big finale.
The finale itself is really something to behold. By this point, the coal mountain is glowing orange at the launch point, and a true fountain of smoke is climbing into the sky. The final launch is a series of specially timed and positioned fireworks that explode right over your head, some with spans of several hundred feet in the sky. Everything is perfectly placed and perfectly timed, and when the last sparks fade into the black, the entire town erupts in cheers and applause that can be heard way up on that mountain, a burst of appreciation for those who risked so much to create this beautiful testament to the hardy American spirit and the celebration of the Fourth.
~Hope
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Moving forward
Well, the recital came and went, as did my last academic paper ever. Graduation popped up a couple weeks ago, and all too soon it was time to close up my now-empty apartment. My wonderful parents have been storing everything in their house from the many moves that have come before and including this one, and I'm now in the midst of sorting through everything. It is an odd and at times overwhelming task, but it's cathartic in its own way.
What's not so cathartic is the job search. I'm still in the midst of it. Two very different entities were ready to offer me positions when each company separately had financial issues and either canceled the position or closed up shop entirely. I'm wrestling with notions of how to find what will be fulfilling and whether that's even possible in the current climate and with my impending student loan payments. It's hard to know what to trade off and when.
So we'll see. Some days, I think I should just call the government and negotiate an unemployment deferment on the loans, put out a hat and stand on the beach and busk. I don't need to eat much - peanut butter sandwiches and carrots should cover me. I think I still have an old stash of multivitamins that should carry me through for a little while.
In the meantime, various family obligations are keeping me busy, as is the multitude of boxes and papers. Time to dive back into the cardboard mountain!
~Hope
What's not so cathartic is the job search. I'm still in the midst of it. Two very different entities were ready to offer me positions when each company separately had financial issues and either canceled the position or closed up shop entirely. I'm wrestling with notions of how to find what will be fulfilling and whether that's even possible in the current climate and with my impending student loan payments. It's hard to know what to trade off and when.
So we'll see. Some days, I think I should just call the government and negotiate an unemployment deferment on the loans, put out a hat and stand on the beach and busk. I don't need to eat much - peanut butter sandwiches and carrots should cover me. I think I still have an old stash of multivitamins that should carry me through for a little while.
In the meantime, various family obligations are keeping me busy, as is the multitude of boxes and papers. Time to dive back into the cardboard mountain!
~Hope
Thursday, June 3, 2010
The Recital
The week of the recital finally arrived. My significant other came a few days before the Big Day and helped me tape the dress rehearsal, which was on Thursday. Afterward, my voice teacher told me not to watch or listen to the dress, worried that I'd over-analyze and try to fix too much, I think. She was about to hand me her notes and make me promise to "only pick four things to do", but then realized I'd still read them all and try to implement them all. So she condensed them for me into a summary version that dealt largely with diction. Evidently, once you get into that hall, you have to triple everything you're doing or people won't understand it. I asked my boyfriend for his opinion - whether he could understand the English pieces. His comment? "You were singing in English?"
Guess what became my focus for the next two days?
Because my boyfriend and I don't often get to see each other, I spent too much time talking after the dress and felt a bit hoarse on Friday. Time for Total Voice Rest. I actually took out a notepad and wrote to communicate for about twelve hours.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. My voice was okay. I spent the morning getting ready - hair, makeup, the dress, and the all-important vocal warm up. I did my usual five minute warm-up and stopped. No sense singing out my voice before the performance.
We left the apartment at 12:20ish to get to the hall. The management company in my building decided to show my apartment that day, but they were kind enough to give me until 12:30 to leave. I apologized in advance for the mess that I knew would be there, at least in the crammed closets. What can I say? On a performance day, I really don't worry about what is strewn where.
When we got to the hall, my boyfriend dropped me off and went to find parking. I entered the hall only to find my family. I quickly scooted them off since I didn't want to be distracted before singing. They were wonderful to come, and they brought the traditional refreshments for afterward - so nice not to have to worry about that.
I placed my program notes on the music stand in the lobby of the hall and greeted the usher, who is also a singer, so I knew she'd be good. I went to the Green Room to drop off my belongings and then stepped onstage with my accompanist to position the piano. It's always a trick to get it properly centered so that the sound and the lighting are the best. On any stage, there tend to be a few sweet spots.
We finalized things, and then I went to wait in the Green Room. I was slightly nervous but feeling pretty happy and confident overall. Soon, it was time.
The first couple sets went fine with a few minor voice cut-outs. I'm not sure whether that was due to my strong diction focus or whether I was just a bit cloudy with allergies and dryness. Regardless, the audience evidently couldn't hear it in the reverb of the hall. It shows up on the recordings, though.
What I was most surprised about was how confident and in control I felt. For the first time, I felt the audience energy - something I had always considered a bit "woo woo" as one of my professors says. But it was there. And it suddenly became clear to me how to control and shape it along with my performance. My nerves were the "in-line butterflies" that Bobby McFerrin talked about, and I was riding the wave of energy instead of drowning in it.
Then I left the stage for the second time.
I sat down backstage, a bit drained, and the nerves really hit me. I walked out again for the most intimate of my sets, the stillest and rawest one - Desdemona's Willow Song. It is utter grief and despair without the gauze of insanity that Ophelia has. Totally naked. And I was struck with nerves. My breath got high, and they went from what would have been extraordinary to something just mediocre. The Vocalise that came next was a bit stressed because my breath was still high in my body. Happily, it wasn't anything that most amateur audience members would be able to detect, I think. But it was still disappointing.
The second half of the program was more comfortable. I was back to myself. A few mishaps here and there, but largely okay. The encore was a bit of a fiasco, but it was a funny fiasco. In the dress, last minute and without running it, we had changed a four measure piano part to a two measure piano part. Each measure repeats, and this bit shows up throughout as the intro and the interlude to all the verses. Right before we walked out onstage for the performance, the one baritone said "2 measures, not 4, right?" And we all nodded. But sure enough, when we started, I missed it. (I've sung this piece for over ten years, always with the 4 measure interlude.) So our entry was a little shaky. I missed it again on the next verse part and ended up pretending that it was meant to be only the guys singing. Pretty funny overall. Fortunately, at this point, the piece was an extra bit of fun jazz gravy for me.
We had a crowd of about 45 people. The 20-30 person contingent from the main donor group was absent (but for one lovely lady) because the Met HD broadcast of Armida was at the same time. And as one woman said to me, "Well, it was either you or Renee Fleming - Hope or Renee, Hope or Renee - sorry Hope." With two other voice recitals that Saturday and finals the next week, about half the audience skipped out without staying for the reception. But folks managed to say hello and congrats in the ensuing days.
Most remarkably, a couple of dear friends flew a private plane in just for the recital. They stayed for tapas that night with my significant other and me. (My family skedaddled right after the recital because they had a long ways to travel home.)
Overall, it was a really wonderful day. I feel like I've finally exorcised the demons of my college senior recital. And while this one wasn't perfect and definitely fell short of my best hopes for it, at least moments were good. And it was definitely a learning experience. Watching the DVD and listening to the CD, I've learned what I need to do next time. For instance, happiness doesn't read nearly as easily from the stage for me, so I need to really project that more in joyful pieces. Sadness or anger is much easier. And mixing languages in the same group can be tough. And knowing the acoustics of the hall is invaluable - for my voice, the overtones that come through can be richer, but I need to add bright ones for certain halls like this one.
On the upside, a Serbian guitar professor who knew nothing of my diction struggles told me that he didn't even need the program notes; he got every word. Score!
~Hope
Guess what became my focus for the next two days?
Because my boyfriend and I don't often get to see each other, I spent too much time talking after the dress and felt a bit hoarse on Friday. Time for Total Voice Rest. I actually took out a notepad and wrote to communicate for about twelve hours.
Saturday morning dawned bright and clear. My voice was okay. I spent the morning getting ready - hair, makeup, the dress, and the all-important vocal warm up. I did my usual five minute warm-up and stopped. No sense singing out my voice before the performance.
We left the apartment at 12:20ish to get to the hall. The management company in my building decided to show my apartment that day, but they were kind enough to give me until 12:30 to leave. I apologized in advance for the mess that I knew would be there, at least in the crammed closets. What can I say? On a performance day, I really don't worry about what is strewn where.
When we got to the hall, my boyfriend dropped me off and went to find parking. I entered the hall only to find my family. I quickly scooted them off since I didn't want to be distracted before singing. They were wonderful to come, and they brought the traditional refreshments for afterward - so nice not to have to worry about that.
I placed my program notes on the music stand in the lobby of the hall and greeted the usher, who is also a singer, so I knew she'd be good. I went to the Green Room to drop off my belongings and then stepped onstage with my accompanist to position the piano. It's always a trick to get it properly centered so that the sound and the lighting are the best. On any stage, there tend to be a few sweet spots.
We finalized things, and then I went to wait in the Green Room. I was slightly nervous but feeling pretty happy and confident overall. Soon, it was time.
The first couple sets went fine with a few minor voice cut-outs. I'm not sure whether that was due to my strong diction focus or whether I was just a bit cloudy with allergies and dryness. Regardless, the audience evidently couldn't hear it in the reverb of the hall. It shows up on the recordings, though.
What I was most surprised about was how confident and in control I felt. For the first time, I felt the audience energy - something I had always considered a bit "woo woo" as one of my professors says. But it was there. And it suddenly became clear to me how to control and shape it along with my performance. My nerves were the "in-line butterflies" that Bobby McFerrin talked about, and I was riding the wave of energy instead of drowning in it.
Then I left the stage for the second time.
I sat down backstage, a bit drained, and the nerves really hit me. I walked out again for the most intimate of my sets, the stillest and rawest one - Desdemona's Willow Song. It is utter grief and despair without the gauze of insanity that Ophelia has. Totally naked. And I was struck with nerves. My breath got high, and they went from what would have been extraordinary to something just mediocre. The Vocalise that came next was a bit stressed because my breath was still high in my body. Happily, it wasn't anything that most amateur audience members would be able to detect, I think. But it was still disappointing.
The second half of the program was more comfortable. I was back to myself. A few mishaps here and there, but largely okay. The encore was a bit of a fiasco, but it was a funny fiasco. In the dress, last minute and without running it, we had changed a four measure piano part to a two measure piano part. Each measure repeats, and this bit shows up throughout as the intro and the interlude to all the verses. Right before we walked out onstage for the performance, the one baritone said "2 measures, not 4, right?" And we all nodded. But sure enough, when we started, I missed it. (I've sung this piece for over ten years, always with the 4 measure interlude.) So our entry was a little shaky. I missed it again on the next verse part and ended up pretending that it was meant to be only the guys singing. Pretty funny overall. Fortunately, at this point, the piece was an extra bit of fun jazz gravy for me.
We had a crowd of about 45 people. The 20-30 person contingent from the main donor group was absent (but for one lovely lady) because the Met HD broadcast of Armida was at the same time. And as one woman said to me, "Well, it was either you or Renee Fleming - Hope or Renee, Hope or Renee - sorry Hope." With two other voice recitals that Saturday and finals the next week, about half the audience skipped out without staying for the reception. But folks managed to say hello and congrats in the ensuing days.
Most remarkably, a couple of dear friends flew a private plane in just for the recital. They stayed for tapas that night with my significant other and me. (My family skedaddled right after the recital because they had a long ways to travel home.)
Overall, it was a really wonderful day. I feel like I've finally exorcised the demons of my college senior recital. And while this one wasn't perfect and definitely fell short of my best hopes for it, at least moments were good. And it was definitely a learning experience. Watching the DVD and listening to the CD, I've learned what I need to do next time. For instance, happiness doesn't read nearly as easily from the stage for me, so I need to really project that more in joyful pieces. Sadness or anger is much easier. And mixing languages in the same group can be tough. And knowing the acoustics of the hall is invaluable - for my voice, the overtones that come through can be richer, but I need to add bright ones for certain halls like this one.
On the upside, a Serbian guitar professor who knew nothing of my diction struggles told me that he didn't even need the program notes; he got every word. Score!
~Hope
Saturday, April 24, 2010
7 days
On Thursday, I was hit with the realization that my recital was 9 days away, and a fresh burst of terror struck me. The past couple days, I have been in the hall where I'll sing, watching other students perform their juries. Just walking in, my pulse speeds up and my palms start to sweat. I sit there in the audience, picturing myself on that stage, feeling every ounce of fear if any of the performers are showing it, and hoping against hope that I will stand there 7 days from now with a clean voice, a healthy voice, and breath that doesn't fail me like it did 8 years ago.
In my senior year of college, I gave a recital. It was a disaster. I walked onto that stage in the 1000 seat hall that looked like an amphitheatre (placing me in what felt like a low-power position - below everyone), and started to shake so badly that I couldn't hit and sustain notes above the G above G above middle C. My program was liberally sprinkled with high notes, so this wasn't good.
Part of the issue was that the deck was stacked a bit out of my favor. My main voice teacher had moved after my junior year, and I switched to someone in the community whom we thought would be good. She was helpful in many ways, but one thing that she didn't realize was that a senior recital should be no longer than 40 minutes. Mine was 2 hours. Also, a dress rehearsal should be at least two days ahead; you need one day to rest your voice completely after singing a program. My dress was the day before. So I walked into the performance already exhausted.
I also wore a dress that was too tight around my ribs, constricting my ability to breathe.
I know all of these things, and I know that my recital here is different. I am no longer 22 and light of voice. I have performed literally hundreds of hours more than I did in college. My program this time is 40-50 minutes, and it is carefully structured so that I don't have too many big pieces or too many small pieces. My technique is infinitely more solid, and I have excellent teachers here who will not let me fail.
All that said, I still look ahead to next Saturday, and I worry. I want so badly to do well, to express the full impact of these two wonderful years of learning, to put into practice all of the things my teacher here has taught me so that I don't get the same reaction I did 8 years ago when my teacher then said, "You could have knocked the *@!$ out of that and you so didn't!"
But that's only part of it.
In truth, I think I have largely been able to shed the ghost of the old singer who gave that awful performance. I know my music well, and I am concentrating more now on expression, on being inside the text and the flow of the characters rather than on the perfect tone or breath or resonance. Still this performance looms large.
I think the rest of the weight of the day has to do with this being the end. It is the final touch of two years of music making, two years where all I've thought about has been sound and characters, notes and words, expression and breathing and being. This is it. I am not going to make performance my career - and for very good reasons. I don't want the travel, and it is too financially unpredictable. I like bits of my other professional life, too. But I will miss this.
I will miss waking up in the morning and deciding where and when to practice.
I will miss walking the wood-paneled halls and hearing a cacophony of classical music sifting through the air, various instruments all played at their highest levels of proficiency striving for that extra spark that most people can't even define but will notice as an extra-special performance by a really gifted performer.
I will miss sitting in studio class every week, crammed into a one-armed desk in a classroom typical in every way but for the Steinway at the front that serves as a backdrop for some of the most talented singers and actors I've ever known.
I will miss walking into my voice teacher's studio, collapsing into the cushy green armchair and talking to her as she eats lunch.
I will miss standing in front of a music stand in front of that teacher and watching her joyful eyes dance as she instructs me in some musical or technical nuance. "Mean what you say!" she'll exclaim, and suddenly my sound will round out and sparkle.
I will miss breathing and singing and listening to my extraordinary accompanist who knows just how to support me to bring out the best expression.
And so this upcoming recital is vested with all of that, too. It is the culmination of and it is my goodbye to these incredible two years of music. I'm trying to hold off on processing that part of it too much because I'm not sure I'll be able to focus on the music itself if I start thinking of that during the show.
So instead I look at my pictures. I've printed paintings and photographs for each piece in my recital, visual images that I try to place myself within so that I can evoke the character and mood better. I will stand backstage and study those spots of color, and I will walk onstage and spin the stories that describe those pictures. I will sing not to make a pretty sound or to display perfect technique but because it is the only medium that fully expresses the emotions and colors of these characters. It breathes life into the words and makes them vivid.
I just hope I can convey it all. I so hope it goes well.
~Hope
In my senior year of college, I gave a recital. It was a disaster. I walked onto that stage in the 1000 seat hall that looked like an amphitheatre (placing me in what felt like a low-power position - below everyone), and started to shake so badly that I couldn't hit and sustain notes above the G above G above middle C. My program was liberally sprinkled with high notes, so this wasn't good.
Part of the issue was that the deck was stacked a bit out of my favor. My main voice teacher had moved after my junior year, and I switched to someone in the community whom we thought would be good. She was helpful in many ways, but one thing that she didn't realize was that a senior recital should be no longer than 40 minutes. Mine was 2 hours. Also, a dress rehearsal should be at least two days ahead; you need one day to rest your voice completely after singing a program. My dress was the day before. So I walked into the performance already exhausted.
I also wore a dress that was too tight around my ribs, constricting my ability to breathe.
I know all of these things, and I know that my recital here is different. I am no longer 22 and light of voice. I have performed literally hundreds of hours more than I did in college. My program this time is 40-50 minutes, and it is carefully structured so that I don't have too many big pieces or too many small pieces. My technique is infinitely more solid, and I have excellent teachers here who will not let me fail.
All that said, I still look ahead to next Saturday, and I worry. I want so badly to do well, to express the full impact of these two wonderful years of learning, to put into practice all of the things my teacher here has taught me so that I don't get the same reaction I did 8 years ago when my teacher then said, "You could have knocked the *@!$ out of that and you so didn't!"
But that's only part of it.
In truth, I think I have largely been able to shed the ghost of the old singer who gave that awful performance. I know my music well, and I am concentrating more now on expression, on being inside the text and the flow of the characters rather than on the perfect tone or breath or resonance. Still this performance looms large.
I think the rest of the weight of the day has to do with this being the end. It is the final touch of two years of music making, two years where all I've thought about has been sound and characters, notes and words, expression and breathing and being. This is it. I am not going to make performance my career - and for very good reasons. I don't want the travel, and it is too financially unpredictable. I like bits of my other professional life, too. But I will miss this.
I will miss waking up in the morning and deciding where and when to practice.
I will miss walking the wood-paneled halls and hearing a cacophony of classical music sifting through the air, various instruments all played at their highest levels of proficiency striving for that extra spark that most people can't even define but will notice as an extra-special performance by a really gifted performer.
I will miss sitting in studio class every week, crammed into a one-armed desk in a classroom typical in every way but for the Steinway at the front that serves as a backdrop for some of the most talented singers and actors I've ever known.
I will miss walking into my voice teacher's studio, collapsing into the cushy green armchair and talking to her as she eats lunch.
I will miss standing in front of a music stand in front of that teacher and watching her joyful eyes dance as she instructs me in some musical or technical nuance. "Mean what you say!" she'll exclaim, and suddenly my sound will round out and sparkle.
I will miss breathing and singing and listening to my extraordinary accompanist who knows just how to support me to bring out the best expression.
And so this upcoming recital is vested with all of that, too. It is the culmination of and it is my goodbye to these incredible two years of music. I'm trying to hold off on processing that part of it too much because I'm not sure I'll be able to focus on the music itself if I start thinking of that during the show.
So instead I look at my pictures. I've printed paintings and photographs for each piece in my recital, visual images that I try to place myself within so that I can evoke the character and mood better. I will stand backstage and study those spots of color, and I will walk onstage and spin the stories that describe those pictures. I will sing not to make a pretty sound or to display perfect technique but because it is the only medium that fully expresses the emotions and colors of these characters. It breathes life into the words and makes them vivid.
I just hope I can convey it all. I so hope it goes well.
~Hope
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Spinning
Well, I made it through the orals - and passed! I'm very happy. Now I just need to clean up the aftermath that is my apartment. It looks like a Xerox machine exploded in here.
This coming week, I'm going to attempt to knock out the remaining academic and graduate assistant to dos so that next week, I can focus entirely on recital preparation. I also need to keep practicing and finding my mental pictures for the performance, continuing to work on being in the flow and in the moment.
On the upside, I've seen some amazing performances over the last week or so that are great examples to learn from! Last Saturday, I attended three voice recitals - all wonderful. Last night, I saw a phenomenal double bill featuring two professors from the voice department. The first piece was a Coffee Cantata that Bach wrote. It premiered at a coffee house in Leipzig during a time when coffee was the newfangled thing in Germany. According to the program notes, there was tension during the 18th century between the old guard, who thought good ole German beer was the only way to go, and the younger set that really loved coffee. In the cantata, a father threatens his daughter with old maid-dom if she refuses to give up coffee. She accedes :) It's a really cute 3 person chamber work (father, daughter, and narrator). They performed it with cello and piano.
The second opera was by Lee Hoiby. Called Bon Appetit, it sets an episode of Julia Child's cooking show to music. She makes a chocolate cake. The performer actually mixed up real ingredients onstage on a play set, singing the whole time. This requires incredible coordination. Backstage secrets? The egg whites she whips into peaks (in a race between the electric mixer and her hand mixing in a copper bowl) are really Cool Whip. (The professor said she tried real egg whites and couldn't make them work during the time allowed for the mixing in the music.) And the chocolate she melts on the "stove" has a healthy dose of Hershey's syrup so that it looks liquid when she lifts the spoon out.
It was an incredible performance.
And today, I went to see four hours of musical theatre, operetta, and opera at the Lotte Lenya competition. The contestants, who are judged on their ability to sing all three well, were all tremendous. Many are in young artists' programs at big name houses, like the Met or the Lyric in Chicago. Others have already been on Broadway or performing at Lincoln Center. The bios read like a "Who's Who" of up and coming artists. A great, great show.
Let's hope that some of these amazing performances trickle down into my own work for the recital!
~Hope
This coming week, I'm going to attempt to knock out the remaining academic and graduate assistant to dos so that next week, I can focus entirely on recital preparation. I also need to keep practicing and finding my mental pictures for the performance, continuing to work on being in the flow and in the moment.
On the upside, I've seen some amazing performances over the last week or so that are great examples to learn from! Last Saturday, I attended three voice recitals - all wonderful. Last night, I saw a phenomenal double bill featuring two professors from the voice department. The first piece was a Coffee Cantata that Bach wrote. It premiered at a coffee house in Leipzig during a time when coffee was the newfangled thing in Germany. According to the program notes, there was tension during the 18th century between the old guard, who thought good ole German beer was the only way to go, and the younger set that really loved coffee. In the cantata, a father threatens his daughter with old maid-dom if she refuses to give up coffee. She accedes :) It's a really cute 3 person chamber work (father, daughter, and narrator). They performed it with cello and piano.
The second opera was by Lee Hoiby. Called Bon Appetit, it sets an episode of Julia Child's cooking show to music. She makes a chocolate cake. The performer actually mixed up real ingredients onstage on a play set, singing the whole time. This requires incredible coordination. Backstage secrets? The egg whites she whips into peaks (in a race between the electric mixer and her hand mixing in a copper bowl) are really Cool Whip. (The professor said she tried real egg whites and couldn't make them work during the time allowed for the mixing in the music.) And the chocolate she melts on the "stove" has a healthy dose of Hershey's syrup so that it looks liquid when she lifts the spoon out.
It was an incredible performance.
And today, I went to see four hours of musical theatre, operetta, and opera at the Lotte Lenya competition. The contestants, who are judged on their ability to sing all three well, were all tremendous. Many are in young artists' programs at big name houses, like the Met or the Lyric in Chicago. Others have already been on Broadway or performing at Lincoln Center. The bios read like a "Who's Who" of up and coming artists. A great, great show.
Let's hope that some of these amazing performances trickle down into my own work for the recital!
~Hope
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Crunch Time
I'm in the midst of preparing for my oral exams, which are on Wednesday morning. I also have a recital Tuesday night. Tack on a large theory assignment on Prokofiev which is making me run screaming to Mozart, and you pretty much have my life for the next few days and the last couple weeks.
In the meantime, there were three voice recitals today that I had to attend. All were beautifully done. Two were my studio mates' degree recitals. It's always so neat to see people do well. I tend to get teary-eyed at the end of these because they work so hard and it goes so wonderfully, and that just makes me happy for them.
So I'll focus on those happy thoughts while I go back to battling Prokofiev.
Charge!!
~Hope
In the meantime, there were three voice recitals today that I had to attend. All were beautifully done. Two were my studio mates' degree recitals. It's always so neat to see people do well. I tend to get teary-eyed at the end of these because they work so hard and it goes so wonderfully, and that just makes me happy for them.
So I'll focus on those happy thoughts while I go back to battling Prokofiev.
Charge!!
~Hope
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
More Happy Things
Today was another good day.
I just got home from a phenomenal concert conducted by a wonderful, Grammy-award-winning musician who teaches here. The repertoire? Rameau's Suite from Nais, Telemann's Suite in Bb, Handel's Royal Fireworks Music, and an extraordinary set by Francis Poulenc entitled La Bal Masque.
A friend of mine sang the baritone part in the Poulenc, and he had a complete character. Clad in a long suit coat and light grey pants, he looked quite the dandy. Placed beside his chair was a wine bottle (filled with water) that he deliberately drank from during the instrumental interludes. The poetry was wonderful and surreal, and my friend's acting created a full story all the way through the cycle. His singing was fantastic and funny, and his gestures really allowed the drunken storyteller to come through in spades. He filled the large hall with his dramatic persona.
Earlier in the day, I was fortunate to be able to help out a couple folks. And I remembered that yesterday, a visiting prospective student, who is currently a senior at another academic institution, asked me whether I was a senior here :)
Tomorrow, I get to dive into Debussy!
~Hope
I just got home from a phenomenal concert conducted by a wonderful, Grammy-award-winning musician who teaches here. The repertoire? Rameau's Suite from Nais, Telemann's Suite in Bb, Handel's Royal Fireworks Music, and an extraordinary set by Francis Poulenc entitled La Bal Masque.
A friend of mine sang the baritone part in the Poulenc, and he had a complete character. Clad in a long suit coat and light grey pants, he looked quite the dandy. Placed beside his chair was a wine bottle (filled with water) that he deliberately drank from during the instrumental interludes. The poetry was wonderful and surreal, and my friend's acting created a full story all the way through the cycle. His singing was fantastic and funny, and his gestures really allowed the drunken storyteller to come through in spades. He filled the large hall with his dramatic persona.
Earlier in the day, I was fortunate to be able to help out a couple folks. And I remembered that yesterday, a visiting prospective student, who is currently a senior at another academic institution, asked me whether I was a senior here :)
Tomorrow, I get to dive into Debussy!
~Hope
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Happy Day
I had a happy day today.
Partly, this was because the sun came out for the first time in a few days, and the temperature increased yet again.
Partly, this was because I had enough time to practice.
Partly, this was because I had a great coaching where the professor offered some very useful expressive tidbits. For the Nielsen piece I'm doing, I was trying to find a way to differentiate between the two verses. He suggested that Ariel might be talking to two different people instead of just Miranda (from The Tempest.) Although he initially thought of Ferdinand as the other one, he then came up with Prospero, which is perfect because the way Ariel would talk to his master and the wizard of the island is very different from how he would talk to the young woman, Miranda, whom he may or may not love (depending on which poet you follow). Then, my professor reminded me that I should make the whole thing less jumpy - more legato - despite the dotted rhythms, and that made it even better. And then we moved on to the Honegger, where a faster tempo my professor took made all the difference in the first section of the piece.
It's always good to feel like you're making progress, you know?
The other reason today was fantastic was that I gave a good performance in studio class. I've been working with Strauss's Drei Lieder der Ophelia, which are a bit challenging to say the least. The depict the character in a state of madness and grief, and I kept thinking about how to convey madness onstage. A series of comments from my professors and revelations from my own thinking over the past few months finally clicked yesterday:
Interesting.
Of course, that is a stage that I need to pass through. I don't want the mistakes a month from now in the actual performance. But it may be that they are part of the gradual letting go of my vise-like monitoring of my accuracy.
She and my classmates also pointed out that there were moments when I stopped communicating, when the language that was so present with the audience was suddenly pulled back towards myself. These were the times when I was listening to myself, judging, and analyzing what I was doing.
So much of vocal performance is a flow idea - the notion that you are completely immersed in this moving stream of notes and words. It is critical to be able to stay within that flow, in the water, rather than pulling out and watching from the shore. I'm working on being in the current all the time.
And now I get to go read about Honegger and Debussy. How great is that?
~Hope
Partly, this was because the sun came out for the first time in a few days, and the temperature increased yet again.
Partly, this was because I had enough time to practice.
Partly, this was because I had a great coaching where the professor offered some very useful expressive tidbits. For the Nielsen piece I'm doing, I was trying to find a way to differentiate between the two verses. He suggested that Ariel might be talking to two different people instead of just Miranda (from The Tempest.) Although he initially thought of Ferdinand as the other one, he then came up with Prospero, which is perfect because the way Ariel would talk to his master and the wizard of the island is very different from how he would talk to the young woman, Miranda, whom he may or may not love (depending on which poet you follow). Then, my professor reminded me that I should make the whole thing less jumpy - more legato - despite the dotted rhythms, and that made it even better. And then we moved on to the Honegger, where a faster tempo my professor took made all the difference in the first section of the piece.
It's always good to feel like you're making progress, you know?
The other reason today was fantastic was that I gave a good performance in studio class. I've been working with Strauss's Drei Lieder der Ophelia, which are a bit challenging to say the least. The depict the character in a state of madness and grief, and I kept thinking about how to convey madness onstage. A series of comments from my professors and revelations from my own thinking over the past few months finally clicked yesterday:
- What makes madness so chilling is the sudden changes - the way someone flips from being in one emotional state to being in another just instantaneously and without warning.
- People who are crazy think that they are normal. So Ophelia can sing each section truthfully.
- The madness in these pieces is very much in the accompaniment. I don't need to add too much on top of that.
- And, the big one, from my voice teacher last week: "Just tell the story, like you're telling it to children."
Interesting.
Of course, that is a stage that I need to pass through. I don't want the mistakes a month from now in the actual performance. But it may be that they are part of the gradual letting go of my vise-like monitoring of my accuracy.
She and my classmates also pointed out that there were moments when I stopped communicating, when the language that was so present with the audience was suddenly pulled back towards myself. These were the times when I was listening to myself, judging, and analyzing what I was doing.
So much of vocal performance is a flow idea - the notion that you are completely immersed in this moving stream of notes and words. It is critical to be able to stay within that flow, in the water, rather than pulling out and watching from the shore. I'm working on being in the current all the time.
And now I get to go read about Honegger and Debussy. How great is that?
~Hope
Monday, March 29, 2010
Finito
Yesterday was my last performance of our opera gala. It was also my last opera here and my last time performing in our large theatre. It was a rather bittersweet day. (Please forgive the chocolate picture pun :) )
I wasn't singing yesterday - my singing scene had been double cast and it was the other cast's turn. But I was doing my little French speaking part as the Maid in Manon. It was nice to have this as a little "encore" performance since it enabled me to gradually process the fact that this was it - finito. I also got to snap quite a few photos, which you can see on Facebook. Pictures are often my way of processing something and saying goodbye.
So here's to the wonderful folks in the cast and crew and to all those, both inside and outside the school, who have made my experience here phenomenal! I send you all chocolate hugs. And these are made of milk chocolate - no bitterness in sight.
~Hope
Playing with Numbers
My theory class right now is all about atonal music. This demands a special kind of analysis since there isn't really a "key" (as in when we say a piece is in the key of E major, for example). There also isn't often any traditional harmony, and it tends to break all the Rules for Good Composition that were set up centuries ago. And it sometimes doesn't sound like it has a definable melody or even melodic fragments. It's a very different school.
So how do you approach something like that?
The secret, scholars have found, is often math. And sometimes, composers seem to write their music deliberately using mathematics - either consciously or intuitively.
In one of the main analytical approaches, you basically divide a piece up into groups of notes. Then, you translate these groups into a numerical code called a "set class".
For example, I can take the notes B, D, and Eb. It doesn't matter what octave they're in. First, place them in ascending order within the octave according to a few rules. (The first and last notes should have the smallest interval possible between them. If there's a tie, break it with the first and second notes, the first and third, etc.)
So that's B, D, Eb.
Then, make the first pitch the number 0. Count the number of half steps between the first pitch and each of the other pitches. Those are the number codes for the other pitches.
So B, D, Eb becomes 034.
034 is its "set class". This enables you to look across a piece and see other similar patterns.
F, Ab, A would also be 034. They are in the same family.
Much of the analysis of these kinds of pieces involves dividing the piece into the right vertical or horizontal groupings and looking for repeated numerical patterns.
Today, we analyzed Webern's Opus 5, Number III, which is a string quartet piece. In measure 6, the two violins and the viola each play a series of three notes that line up in chords. If you look horizontally at the group of notes the first violin plays, they form the set class 034. The notes in the second violin? Also 034. The viola? Also 034.
What's really cool is that, if you look vertically at the chords, each chord (the first note of the two violins and the viola, for instance) also is set class 034.
It's a nifty little acrostic. As we were discussing this in class, I started to think about how very Carollinian this is. Lewis Carol played with numbers and with words so often in his work that he keeps literary and mathematical scholars endlessly entertained. These patterns and pattern-finding games also show up in poetry and other alphabetic delights. Think about palindromes, for instance.
I got to wondering whether any composer had played with both numbers and words in this particular way. My theory prof wasn't sure of anyone, although he mentioned that Luigi Nono used syllables in his work.
It just seems like art song (which is the setting of poetry to music) would be the perfect meeting place for those who love playing with words and with numbers. I'll keep looking for someone who's composed using both. In the meantime, if you know of anyone, please leave a comment and let me know.
~Hope
So how do you approach something like that?
The secret, scholars have found, is often math. And sometimes, composers seem to write their music deliberately using mathematics - either consciously or intuitively.
In one of the main analytical approaches, you basically divide a piece up into groups of notes. Then, you translate these groups into a numerical code called a "set class".
For example, I can take the notes B, D, and Eb. It doesn't matter what octave they're in. First, place them in ascending order within the octave according to a few rules. (The first and last notes should have the smallest interval possible between them. If there's a tie, break it with the first and second notes, the first and third, etc.)
So that's B, D, Eb.
Then, make the first pitch the number 0. Count the number of half steps between the first pitch and each of the other pitches. Those are the number codes for the other pitches.
So B, D, Eb becomes 034.
034 is its "set class". This enables you to look across a piece and see other similar patterns.
F, Ab, A would also be 034. They are in the same family.
Much of the analysis of these kinds of pieces involves dividing the piece into the right vertical or horizontal groupings and looking for repeated numerical patterns.
Today, we analyzed Webern's Opus 5, Number III, which is a string quartet piece. In measure 6, the two violins and the viola each play a series of three notes that line up in chords. If you look horizontally at the group of notes the first violin plays, they form the set class 034. The notes in the second violin? Also 034. The viola? Also 034.
What's really cool is that, if you look vertically at the chords, each chord (the first note of the two violins and the viola, for instance) also is set class 034.
It's a nifty little acrostic. As we were discussing this in class, I started to think about how very Carollinian this is. Lewis Carol played with numbers and with words so often in his work that he keeps literary and mathematical scholars endlessly entertained. These patterns and pattern-finding games also show up in poetry and other alphabetic delights. Think about palindromes, for instance.
I got to wondering whether any composer had played with both numbers and words in this particular way. My theory prof wasn't sure of anyone, although he mentioned that Luigi Nono used syllables in his work.
It just seems like art song (which is the setting of poetry to music) would be the perfect meeting place for those who love playing with words and with numbers. I'll keep looking for someone who's composed using both. In the meantime, if you know of anyone, please leave a comment and let me know.
~Hope
Friday, March 26, 2010
Ariadne Music
If you're curious what the Ariadne music is like, here's a YouTube video you can watch.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXs4BaVYkbY
My character is the blonde one in this scene. Go 3 minutes and 50 seconds in, and you'll hear the Naiad-Dryad-Echo parts that they sing. About 5 minutes and 40 seconds in through the end is the real trio.
This production is modern and plays the characters as more annoyed than anything else. Our production has the nymphs in full mythological regalia and plays them as curious about Ariadne and her sorrow and then compassionate. So don't take the emotional lens used in the YouTube video as absolute. But the music is indeed beautiful.
~Hope
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MXs4BaVYkbY
My character is the blonde one in this scene. Go 3 minutes and 50 seconds in, and you'll hear the Naiad-Dryad-Echo parts that they sing. About 5 minutes and 40 seconds in through the end is the real trio.
This production is modern and plays the characters as more annoyed than anything else. Our production has the nymphs in full mythological regalia and plays them as curious about Ariadne and her sorrow and then compassionate. So don't take the emotional lens used in the YouTube video as absolute. But the music is indeed beautiful.
~Hope
Opening and Closing Night
Tonight was opening night for the Opera Gala. It was also the last time I'll sing on this particular stage in this particular hall. I perform again on Sunday, but I only do my little speaking role - the Maid in Manon.
Everything went really well tonight. People sounded amazing. There were a few minor glitches here and there - there always are - but, by and large, I consider the evening a success. The audience was warm and responsive (although I think they were a little confused by Ariadne), and we all felt really good about things.
My own experience was so much fun. I was really keyed up from the beginning but with the good kind of energy, not debilitating nerves. I stepped onstage and just took the opportunity to have fun, to really move with the music and the nymph character. We were all in ballet shoes, and the costumes were fantastic, so I just tried to "ooze" as much as possible. (I played a water nymph - the Naiad. It's usually the highest part in the nymph trio that you hear in the opera.)
We had one minor costume glitch. Each nymph had a series of things decorating her costume that represented her world. Echo, the nymph of the air, had feathers and a cape (very subtle and tastefully done.) Dryad, the wood nymph, had a monarch butterfly in her hair and, draped across her back, branches with rosy pearls that looked like flower buds. As the Naiad, the water nymph, I had a starfish and pearls in my hair and fishnet and more pearls draped across my front. Unfortunately, this was the first night the Dryad had her additional drapery, and we discovered during a dressing room picture that her pearls and my fishnet could get caught together pretty easily.
Despite our best efforts onstage, there was one point when we got snagged -- in the middle of Ariadne's dramatic comments about herself and Theseus. There, the nymphs clump together in a sympathetic background group. We have to move within a minute or so, and Dryad and I both noticed we were snagged - my front to her back. I tried to untangle us surreptitiously while she wafted in front of me to camouflage my concentrated workings. I started to think we might have to pull a Siamese twin move for the rest of the scene when suddenly, we were free.
As I said yesterday - the beauty of live theatre is that anything can and does happen :)
The picture you see above is basically what I see when I'm waiting in the wings for my cue as the Maid in Manon. The lighting is a little different. (I took this photo when I got to the theatre for my call time tonight.) But it gives you a sense of what I was talking about with the Roman numerals and the diagrams.
So now I get to try to wash off the copious amounts of makeup I'm wearing. And then it's off to sleep, likely to dream what I've been dreaming for the past week or so -- the music from Ariadne.
~Hope
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Ode on a Grecian Urn
As I'm sure yours did, my high school English classes covered a broad swath of poetry, plays, novels, and short stories. I usually remember only snippets of these unless specific titles are mentioned to me, but there's one exception: John Keats's "Ode on a Grecian Urn".
It's not that I recall the specific words in the poem. What I remember is the discussion that accompanied it. The main point, according to my teacher, was that anticipation is sweeter than the actual event. So the lover chasing his beloved never catches her, and that's perhaps the best possible outcome. The two of them are forever frozen in anticipation of an embrace.
Now, I'm not so sure that I would want to be perpetually in a state of anticipation without any fulfillment, especially with a kiss. But I do agree that there is a definite beauty to anticipation. In fact, I think about that a lot right now in the midst of the opera gala I'm doing.
This week has been filled with nightly five hour dress rehearsals in preparation for tomorrow's opening. Every night, I stand backstage, dressed either as a water nymph or a maid, waiting for my cue. And every night, I look around and drink it all in and think about how much I love this.
I love looking at the lights hanging above with their blue or yellow colors.
I love seeing the backs of the flats - the upright pieces of the sets - with their careful diagrams and Roman numeral labels that tell the stagehands where all the pieces fit together.
I love standing beside the legs - the narrow black curtains that flank the stage and wings - and feeling them absorb both light and sound, as though I'm two years old again and hiding underneath the dining room table in my own little world.
I love listening to the amazing singers, my fellow students, who grace the stage with such beauty and poise. I marvel every time that these people are nearly all under the age of 25, and yet they have such power and professionalism in their tone and stage presence.
I love hearing the different colors in the orchestra that float upwards and around the stage, gently cradling the sounds of the singers and carrying them out into the audience like a wave.
I love exchanging smiles with the tech crew and feeling the warmth that comes from doing a show - you're all in it together.
But mostly, I love just standing there in the wings, waiting, watching, and listening to everything going on onstage, knowing that the audience can't see me, but I can hear everything and I'm a part of this whole wonderful and magical thing we call a show. And I love not having any sense of wistfulness because, soon, I get to walk through the doors in that flat and be on that stage, a place that is completely alive, and even though I'm just saying a small line in French or singing a small set of notes, I'm still there, and I have the chance to embody a character, pronounce something with feeling, and sing something beautiful. I get to walk the high wire that is live performance where anything can and does happen.
But, for this moment, I'm standing in the wings. I'm anticipating.
~Hope
It's not that I recall the specific words in the poem. What I remember is the discussion that accompanied it. The main point, according to my teacher, was that anticipation is sweeter than the actual event. So the lover chasing his beloved never catches her, and that's perhaps the best possible outcome. The two of them are forever frozen in anticipation of an embrace.
Now, I'm not so sure that I would want to be perpetually in a state of anticipation without any fulfillment, especially with a kiss. But I do agree that there is a definite beauty to anticipation. In fact, I think about that a lot right now in the midst of the opera gala I'm doing.
This week has been filled with nightly five hour dress rehearsals in preparation for tomorrow's opening. Every night, I stand backstage, dressed either as a water nymph or a maid, waiting for my cue. And every night, I look around and drink it all in and think about how much I love this.
I love looking at the lights hanging above with their blue or yellow colors.
I love seeing the backs of the flats - the upright pieces of the sets - with their careful diagrams and Roman numeral labels that tell the stagehands where all the pieces fit together.
I love standing beside the legs - the narrow black curtains that flank the stage and wings - and feeling them absorb both light and sound, as though I'm two years old again and hiding underneath the dining room table in my own little world.
I love listening to the amazing singers, my fellow students, who grace the stage with such beauty and poise. I marvel every time that these people are nearly all under the age of 25, and yet they have such power and professionalism in their tone and stage presence.
I love hearing the different colors in the orchestra that float upwards and around the stage, gently cradling the sounds of the singers and carrying them out into the audience like a wave.
I love exchanging smiles with the tech crew and feeling the warmth that comes from doing a show - you're all in it together.
But mostly, I love just standing there in the wings, waiting, watching, and listening to everything going on onstage, knowing that the audience can't see me, but I can hear everything and I'm a part of this whole wonderful and magical thing we call a show. And I love not having any sense of wistfulness because, soon, I get to walk through the doors in that flat and be on that stage, a place that is completely alive, and even though I'm just saying a small line in French or singing a small set of notes, I'm still there, and I have the chance to embody a character, pronounce something with feeling, and sing something beautiful. I get to walk the high wire that is live performance where anything can and does happen.
But, for this moment, I'm standing in the wings. I'm anticipating.
~Hope
Thursday, March 18, 2010
La Vita di Musica
More and more these days, I find myself taking a snapshot of certain moments or experiences. This often happens when I'm getting fatigued in the midst of a long rehearsal, and I catch myself watching the clock. At those moments, I'm increasingly giving myself a metaphorical shoulder-shake and splash of cold water. It's that little voice that whispers "Wake up! Savor this! You'll never have this again."
Yesterday, it happened in the middle of the orchestra rehearsal for the scene from Manon. I play the Maid for this one, so I only have a couple of spoken lines. I sat there through the 40 minute rehearsal, mostly stuck to an orchestra chair. (There are typical orchestra chairs - black with black cushions, meant to look just dressy enough onstage and yet comfortable enough for musicians to sit in for hours at a time.) Anyway, I got up for my few lines and sat down again, watching the conductor and listening to the singers spin out the lines I've heard many times before. But then my gaze drifted over the instrumental musicians, these incredible students who are so skilled at their craft. Many of them will people the top orchestras around the world. Nearly all of them are capable of doing so. And here I was, in the privileged backstage position, watching them rehearse to be our accompanists next week.
This was one of those snapshot moments.
~Hope
Yesterday, it happened in the middle of the orchestra rehearsal for the scene from Manon. I play the Maid for this one, so I only have a couple of spoken lines. I sat there through the 40 minute rehearsal, mostly stuck to an orchestra chair. (There are typical orchestra chairs - black with black cushions, meant to look just dressy enough onstage and yet comfortable enough for musicians to sit in for hours at a time.) Anyway, I got up for my few lines and sat down again, watching the conductor and listening to the singers spin out the lines I've heard many times before. But then my gaze drifted over the instrumental musicians, these incredible students who are so skilled at their craft. Many of them will people the top orchestras around the world. Nearly all of them are capable of doing so. And here I was, in the privileged backstage position, watching them rehearse to be our accompanists next week.
This was one of those snapshot moments.
~Hope
Monday, March 15, 2010
Composer Tidbits
Today, we had a Q&A session with Israeli composer Shulamit Ran. A vivacious woman who just lives to compose, she had a few choice tidbits that I thought you might enjoy reading:
Her bio says that she wrote her first songs at age 7. When asked about this, she said that she had no idea she was "composing" - it was just something natural for her. Age 7 was when she started to be comfortable with reading. She would come home from school and read to her mother. In the stories she read, there would occasionally be text that was formatted differently, indicating that the character was singing that part. There were no notes attached - just the words. But when Ms. Ran got there, she would sing the words.
Her mother asked her where she learned the tune.
"It's here," replied Ms. Ran, pointing to the text.
"But the melody," queried her mother, "did you learn that in school?"
And Ms. Ran again repeated, "It's here" and pointed to the text. To Ms. Ran, the notes she was singing were obvious. She thought that anyone reading this text would come up with the same notes. It just seemed implied by the text. She had no idea that she was creating the melody.
Pretty neat, no?
Another great comment she made was about the obligation to the audience. I'll try to recount it in her words as best as I can remember them:
"We occupy people's most important possession -time. Music occurs in time. So when someone comes to hear a piece, whether it's 20 minutes or 2 hours, we ask them to sit there and give their time. So I figure I'd better offer something very special in return."
The final anecdote I'd like to tell you is her answer to a question about how she "stretches the envelope" with her music.
"There's nothing new under the sun," she began. "Everything has been done before by somebody else. And if I'm the first to do something, there will be five, ten, twenty-five people after me. So it doesn't matter that I'm the first. What matters is that I make it personal and authentic."
She then recounted a story about interviewing another Israeli composer who pointed out that, in the opening of The Old Testament, there's the phrase "God created the heavens and the earth." The Hebrew word for that "created" is unique, different than our normal conception of "created". It conveys a true sense of "first", of creating from nothingness.
"So," she said, "each of you probably has a different notion of God. But whatever your conception, the idea is that only God creates. The rest - it's all been done before."
As the moderating professor pointed out, this is a refreshing idea for an artist. It means we don't have to search so hard to come up with the completely original interpretation that's never been seen before. Rather, we just need to be authentic, personal, singing with our own voice and soul.
An interesting day.
~Hope
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Happy Pi Day!
Happy Pi Day!
Google actually has a fantastic doodle celebrating this holiday, which became official last year when Congress passed a resolution declaring March 14th Pi Day.
I was away all last week job hunting. Happily, I met lots of interesting and warm people who offered to connect me with all sorts of other interesting and warm people. It was absolutely crazy busy. On the upside, I feel like I've moved things ahead enough on the job front that I can now concentrate on the million other things I actually need to do for school.
My oral exam presentation outline and bibliography is due in a little over a week, so I'm working all day today on fleshing that out. I'd like to just write the presentation and be done with it, so hopefully I can knock that out today. I'm supposed to give a 20 minute presentation on one song set from my recital. I've picked one of the Ariel sets. (Ariel is the sprite from Shakespeare's The Tempest.)
I also need to be prepared for questions on the rest of my recital. These will cover a broad range of topics: the composer and lyricist biographies, who influenced the composer, what else the composer wrote and how this piece fits in with that, performance practice and compositional technique for each of the pieces, and any music or art movements associated with this composer. I also need to have a high-level understand of the structure of each piece. For my presentation, I need to know the theory in greater depth so that I can support my hypothesis.
Lots to do. Maybe Pi Day will provide some magical focus and inspiration by virtue of its mathematical prowess.
~Hope
Google actually has a fantastic doodle celebrating this holiday, which became official last year when Congress passed a resolution declaring March 14th Pi Day.
I was away all last week job hunting. Happily, I met lots of interesting and warm people who offered to connect me with all sorts of other interesting and warm people. It was absolutely crazy busy. On the upside, I feel like I've moved things ahead enough on the job front that I can now concentrate on the million other things I actually need to do for school.
My oral exam presentation outline and bibliography is due in a little over a week, so I'm working all day today on fleshing that out. I'd like to just write the presentation and be done with it, so hopefully I can knock that out today. I'm supposed to give a 20 minute presentation on one song set from my recital. I've picked one of the Ariel sets. (Ariel is the sprite from Shakespeare's The Tempest.)
I also need to be prepared for questions on the rest of my recital. These will cover a broad range of topics: the composer and lyricist biographies, who influenced the composer, what else the composer wrote and how this piece fits in with that, performance practice and compositional technique for each of the pieces, and any music or art movements associated with this composer. I also need to have a high-level understand of the structure of each piece. For my presentation, I need to know the theory in greater depth so that I can support my hypothesis.
Lots to do. Maybe Pi Day will provide some magical focus and inspiration by virtue of its mathematical prowess.
~Hope
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Imagination
I had a conversation tonight with someone who said, "If it isn't real, I don't see much point in talking about it." In this vein, fictional books or movies are things to be enjoyed but not explored, experienced the moment as an escape but not expanded upon or analyzed. And fictional characters, like those I create for my pieces, are just pointless and boring distractions.
Which brings up a good question: is it worth spending time on the imaginary? What does it do for us? Surely, getting to know a fictional character and thinking through her motivations and feelings doesn't do as much for us as getting to know a "real" person.
Or does it?
I would argue that contemplating fiction, whether in the form of a book or an opera, is more than just a moment of escape. Rather, I agree with those who say it teaches us about our own humanity. It is a way to experience emotions, to develop empathy.
David Schickler wrote a novel titled Kissing in Manhattan. In this book, he describes a man who becomes a priest because God is the only being who can stand the priest thinking about Him all the time. Mortals and animals become uncomfortable under the intensity of his piercing gaze and penetrating mind.
To me, fictional characters are the other beings who can stand us thinking about them all the time. We can explore Ophelia's madness, question her actions and words at length without worrying about offending or tiring her. There are no lines to cross as there would be even with a very close friend. We see some of her private moments, and we get a full sampling of her dialogue with others. There are no wrong assumptions about the moments we don't see. And in her truth, we catch a glimpse of what grief looks like and what unhappy madness could be.
Fiction and imagination are not wastes of time; rather, they are sometimes the most efficient gateway to understanding the span of humanity.
But maybe that's just me.
~Hope
Which brings up a good question: is it worth spending time on the imaginary? What does it do for us? Surely, getting to know a fictional character and thinking through her motivations and feelings doesn't do as much for us as getting to know a "real" person.
Or does it?
I would argue that contemplating fiction, whether in the form of a book or an opera, is more than just a moment of escape. Rather, I agree with those who say it teaches us about our own humanity. It is a way to experience emotions, to develop empathy.
David Schickler wrote a novel titled Kissing in Manhattan. In this book, he describes a man who becomes a priest because God is the only being who can stand the priest thinking about Him all the time. Mortals and animals become uncomfortable under the intensity of his piercing gaze and penetrating mind.
To me, fictional characters are the other beings who can stand us thinking about them all the time. We can explore Ophelia's madness, question her actions and words at length without worrying about offending or tiring her. There are no lines to cross as there would be even with a very close friend. We see some of her private moments, and we get a full sampling of her dialogue with others. There are no wrong assumptions about the moments we don't see. And in her truth, we catch a glimpse of what grief looks like and what unhappy madness could be.
Fiction and imagination are not wastes of time; rather, they are sometimes the most efficient gateway to understanding the span of humanity.
But maybe that's just me.
~Hope
Monday, March 1, 2010
Performances
Today was chock full of performances - mine and others.
It started fairly innocuously with a small meeting and a long theory class, but the prelude to these was my getting gussied up for my part in the afternoon recital. I've come to really enjoy the whole experience of putting on makeup. I use it so infrequently - really only for performances and interviews - that it has become part of my centering process. The very scents of the powders and creams evoke "readiness", "presence" and "poise" for me. Given that I'm not very fluid with applying everything, it takes me a while, and I put music on in the background, usually Bobby McFerrin who is a consummate performer. His art is such a mixture of high-quality technique with total accessibility icing-ed with a thick layer of joy and playfulness. (If you only know him for his spoof piece "Don't Worry; Be Happy", you've really missed out. Go check out his other work. And if he's giving a concert near you, do whatever it takes to get there.) Listening to Mr. McFerrin's live performances reminds me of the ecstatic delight inherent in performing.
The afternoon began with my own practicing and led into an opera rehearsal. I nipped out of the Ariadne rehearsal to scamper down the 8 flights of stairs to the green room for the Departmental Recital.
Departmentals function like a mill. People walk out, bow, sing, bow and walk off in quick succession. Because each pair (singer and pianist) usually only perform one piece, you don't really have that settling-in period that happens in performances. By the time you're used to this voice and outfits, the collaborative couple is done and a new one has taken its place. About 15 couples run through in about an hour, so it's a packed space.
It is, however, an excellent opportunity to sing on the stage of the recital hall before a large crowd. The entire voice department - faculty and students - attend, so you really get the experience of a nicely filled hall.
I hadn't sung on this stage since my audition. Since I'm giving my recital in this hall, I figured it was about time I experienced it again so I knew what to picture and plan for as I rehearse. It is extremely helpful to visualize a performance space in practice so that you know where to look or spot, how much of people you'll be able to see (i.e., can you make eye contact? or are you lucky to be able to tell which seats actually have a person in them?), and what the stage generally looks and feels like.
Aurally, each space is acoustically different. Some halls reverberate like crazy. Others are so dry that it feels like you're singing into a pillow. This particular hall is very warm. Sound resonates just enough, and the stage takes the music and throws it into the hall. But as a performer, you don't feel like you're in the center of your sound. It's not too dry, but the stage definitely has the feel of a smaller room rather than a great hall. If you're not prepared for that, you can oversing, thinking that the sound you hear must be all there is, that the hall isn't filled with your music.
Today, I sang two settings of The Willow Song from Shakespeare's Othello. One was by Joseph Baber, a contemporary American composer who set the work in English. The other was by Kilpinen, who set it in Swedish. Both settings are very simple and very beautiful, allowing Desdemona's grief to really come through without any artifice. The trick as a performer is to be that honest and simple in the singing as well. You can't "make" anything happen - i.e., no planned gestures - easier said than done for somebody who feels like it can't possibly be that simple.
I think it went fairly well. My fellow students and the teachers were very positive, which made me happy :)
Right after that, I rushed home, downed some lasagna, and ran back to school for two more recitals. One was a collaborative piano (accompanying) recital, which was incredible. Every set was gorgeous. I now know that I need to listen to more Respighi. Go check out is Notturno - truly beautiful!
The second recital was a master's recital in voice with a Bach cantata, a song cycle by Faure, and a couple Purcell pieces that were arranged by Britten. Very interesting.
And now, it's time to fall into bed and, hopefully, dream of music.
~Hope
It started fairly innocuously with a small meeting and a long theory class, but the prelude to these was my getting gussied up for my part in the afternoon recital. I've come to really enjoy the whole experience of putting on makeup. I use it so infrequently - really only for performances and interviews - that it has become part of my centering process. The very scents of the powders and creams evoke "readiness", "presence" and "poise" for me. Given that I'm not very fluid with applying everything, it takes me a while, and I put music on in the background, usually Bobby McFerrin who is a consummate performer. His art is such a mixture of high-quality technique with total accessibility icing-ed with a thick layer of joy and playfulness. (If you only know him for his spoof piece "Don't Worry; Be Happy", you've really missed out. Go check out his other work. And if he's giving a concert near you, do whatever it takes to get there.) Listening to Mr. McFerrin's live performances reminds me of the ecstatic delight inherent in performing.
The afternoon began with my own practicing and led into an opera rehearsal. I nipped out of the Ariadne rehearsal to scamper down the 8 flights of stairs to the green room for the Departmental Recital.
Departmentals function like a mill. People walk out, bow, sing, bow and walk off in quick succession. Because each pair (singer and pianist) usually only perform one piece, you don't really have that settling-in period that happens in performances. By the time you're used to this voice and outfits, the collaborative couple is done and a new one has taken its place. About 15 couples run through in about an hour, so it's a packed space.
It is, however, an excellent opportunity to sing on the stage of the recital hall before a large crowd. The entire voice department - faculty and students - attend, so you really get the experience of a nicely filled hall.
I hadn't sung on this stage since my audition. Since I'm giving my recital in this hall, I figured it was about time I experienced it again so I knew what to picture and plan for as I rehearse. It is extremely helpful to visualize a performance space in practice so that you know where to look or spot, how much of people you'll be able to see (i.e., can you make eye contact? or are you lucky to be able to tell which seats actually have a person in them?), and what the stage generally looks and feels like.
Aurally, each space is acoustically different. Some halls reverberate like crazy. Others are so dry that it feels like you're singing into a pillow. This particular hall is very warm. Sound resonates just enough, and the stage takes the music and throws it into the hall. But as a performer, you don't feel like you're in the center of your sound. It's not too dry, but the stage definitely has the feel of a smaller room rather than a great hall. If you're not prepared for that, you can oversing, thinking that the sound you hear must be all there is, that the hall isn't filled with your music.
Today, I sang two settings of The Willow Song from Shakespeare's Othello. One was by Joseph Baber, a contemporary American composer who set the work in English. The other was by Kilpinen, who set it in Swedish. Both settings are very simple and very beautiful, allowing Desdemona's grief to really come through without any artifice. The trick as a performer is to be that honest and simple in the singing as well. You can't "make" anything happen - i.e., no planned gestures - easier said than done for somebody who feels like it can't possibly be that simple.
I think it went fairly well. My fellow students and the teachers were very positive, which made me happy :)
Right after that, I rushed home, downed some lasagna, and ran back to school for two more recitals. One was a collaborative piano (accompanying) recital, which was incredible. Every set was gorgeous. I now know that I need to listen to more Respighi. Go check out is Notturno - truly beautiful!
The second recital was a master's recital in voice with a Bach cantata, a song cycle by Faure, and a couple Purcell pieces that were arranged by Britten. Very interesting.
And now, it's time to fall into bed and, hopefully, dream of music.
~Hope
Monday, February 22, 2010
Run, Run, Run, Grand Jete!
When I was little, I took a few years of ballet lessons. Besides the particular odor of the dance studio, the color of its hardwood floors, and the feel of its metal bars, all I really remember from when I was really little is my teacher's voice enthusing, "RunRunRun GRAND jete!" (with little accents aigus over the "e"s in "jete") To me at the time, this sounded like "RunRunRun Grahnjehtay!" About 30 little girls and one little boy all clad in leotards would scamper around the room at top speed going "step step step LEAP! step step step LEAP!"
This memory is especially vivid right now since that's what my life feels like. It's a bit hectic with lots of LEAP!s to make, but it's also really fun. At the end of the day, the breathlessness that's there because I actually made all the leaps makes me really happy.
Today, I had a wonderful mix of various things. There was a bit of housework in the form of going to the grocery store. Accomplishing that always feels like a foray into the wilderness and a triumphant hunter-gatherer's return because I have no car, so a combination of bus-riding and snow-shoeing gets me to and fro. I also did a touch of vacuuming and dishes - good for little ole' not-so-domestic me!
There was also lots of singing, probably the primary reason why I'm glowing. I had plenty of personal practice, and I spent an hour in Ariadne rehearsal, where I discovered that I do remember all my blocking (choreographed stage movements).
My academic brain was sated with an hour and half of theory class, where I got to perform Brahms' "Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer" - in the low key, no less! And talking through the harmonic insights into Brahms' interpretation of the poem and storyline reminded me of why I love Lieder.
I met with some folks to talk through the conference topics and sessions and sent the requisite emails for that.
I had a great networking conversation with a really kind alum from my past company.
And I am about to dive into my outreach work in preparation for tomorrow's outreach performance.
Sleep will hopefully figure in here somehow....we'll see how that goes. But for now, I'm pretty thrilled that I actually made some progress on all of the big categories on my to-do list.
A very GRAND jete indeed!
~Hope
This memory is especially vivid right now since that's what my life feels like. It's a bit hectic with lots of LEAP!s to make, but it's also really fun. At the end of the day, the breathlessness that's there because I actually made all the leaps makes me really happy.
Today, I had a wonderful mix of various things. There was a bit of housework in the form of going to the grocery store. Accomplishing that always feels like a foray into the wilderness and a triumphant hunter-gatherer's return because I have no car, so a combination of bus-riding and snow-shoeing gets me to and fro. I also did a touch of vacuuming and dishes - good for little ole' not-so-domestic me!
There was also lots of singing, probably the primary reason why I'm glowing. I had plenty of personal practice, and I spent an hour in Ariadne rehearsal, where I discovered that I do remember all my blocking (choreographed stage movements).
My academic brain was sated with an hour and half of theory class, where I got to perform Brahms' "Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer" - in the low key, no less! And talking through the harmonic insights into Brahms' interpretation of the poem and storyline reminded me of why I love Lieder.
I met with some folks to talk through the conference topics and sessions and sent the requisite emails for that.
I had a great networking conversation with a really kind alum from my past company.
And I am about to dive into my outreach work in preparation for tomorrow's outreach performance.
Sleep will hopefully figure in here somehow....we'll see how that goes. But for now, I'm pretty thrilled that I actually made some progress on all of the big categories on my to-do list.
A very GRAND jete indeed!
~Hope
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Good day
I had a fantastic day yesterday, partly because I finally had a day mostly in one spot instead of running about from appointment to appointment. What made even more of a difference was that my day was focused on music - gasp! what a shock for a conservatory student. The conference and job hunt went on hold, and I spent my day singing my recital music, taking a voice lesson, signing up for a coaching, and researching my recital music in the library. Ok, there was a theory class in there as well, but theory is still a class, a place where I can kick back, take some notes, and think about music.
I think getting actual sleep the last two nights probably helped a bit as well.
Much of my work yesterday dealt with Desdemona, the wife of Othello whom he falsely accuses of adultery and then murders. Right after he's accused her but before he comes to their bedroom to strangle her, she is sitting with her only friend, Emilia. Desdemona tells Emilia that her mother had a maid who sang this folk song called The Willow Song right the night she died. And Desdemona feels like singing it then.
The Willow Song was a popular ballad in Shakespeare's day. We know it today because of Othello, but he actually lifted the lyrics from the popular cannon. The original was actually sung by a man about his faithless female lover, but the refrain, "Sing willow, willow, willow", was still there. Shakespeare transformed it, and later composers have taken Shakespeare's version, transformed it a bit, and added all sorts of music. Kilpinen created a Swedish version. Loewe did one in German. Khatchaturian - Russian. Gilbert & Sullivan - "Tit willow, tit willow, tit willow". Jean-Jacques Rousseau - the philosopher - wrote one in French. And several composers like Baber and Korngold set it in English. It's really interesting to hear the different takes. Some are major, some minor. The various languages give the text a different flavor as well. But all are filled with the same aching grief.
Today, lots of practice, a coaching, a couple meetings, and a rehearsal for Manon (I'm playing the maid who gets to say "C'est l'heure du souper, Monsieur."/"It's time for dinner, sir.") If I'm really good, I'll also knock out Monday's theory assignment. The weekly theory work due Mondays usually takes me about 5-10 hours, so it would be great to pull that off my to-do list today!
~Hope
I think getting actual sleep the last two nights probably helped a bit as well.
Much of my work yesterday dealt with Desdemona, the wife of Othello whom he falsely accuses of adultery and then murders. Right after he's accused her but before he comes to their bedroom to strangle her, she is sitting with her only friend, Emilia. Desdemona tells Emilia that her mother had a maid who sang this folk song called The Willow Song right the night she died. And Desdemona feels like singing it then.
The Willow Song was a popular ballad in Shakespeare's day. We know it today because of Othello, but he actually lifted the lyrics from the popular cannon. The original was actually sung by a man about his faithless female lover, but the refrain, "Sing willow, willow, willow", was still there. Shakespeare transformed it, and later composers have taken Shakespeare's version, transformed it a bit, and added all sorts of music. Kilpinen created a Swedish version. Loewe did one in German. Khatchaturian - Russian. Gilbert & Sullivan - "Tit willow, tit willow, tit willow". Jean-Jacques Rousseau - the philosopher - wrote one in French. And several composers like Baber and Korngold set it in English. It's really interesting to hear the different takes. Some are major, some minor. The various languages give the text a different flavor as well. But all are filled with the same aching grief.
Today, lots of practice, a coaching, a couple meetings, and a rehearsal for Manon (I'm playing the maid who gets to say "C'est l'heure du souper, Monsieur."/"It's time for dinner, sir.") If I'm really good, I'll also knock out Monday's theory assignment. The weekly theory work due Mondays usually takes me about 5-10 hours, so it would be great to pull that off my to-do list today!
~Hope
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Tornadoeing
There are so many balls in the air right now that I feel a bit like I'm in the midst of a tornado. It's a little like I'm in The Wizard of Oz, watching all house paraphenalia zip by me. Except the house paraphenalia in my world is more intangibles that need to be taken care of.
The big things?
The big things?
- Job hunt
- Conference I'm organizing for April 10th on business skills for graduating singers
- Recital
- Recital (I have to put it on there twice because it's Really Important. And A Lot of Work.)
- Outreach
- Classes (especially theory, which sucks up hours of time faster than a Hoover vacuum cleaner)
- Oral exams
- Possible upcoming competition requiring 30 more minutes of music
- March opera scenes program which will soon be 3 hours of rehearsal a day
If it were just the singing or even the singing and the classes, I'd be fine. But the conference and the job hunt are eating too much mindshare and heartshare. It's incredibly stressful to know that The Loan Payments Are Coming and a job is nothing more than a hazy specter on the horizon that may not even really exist. And the low ROI on emails is just disheartening.
For now, it's back to reading about Schubert's Moment Musical and the use of E natural as a "promissory note" (yes, as in a debt that should be repaid, in this case by resolution).
Hope you're having an easier time and much less tornadoeing.
~Hope
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Finito
Well, the opera finished on Saturday. My last performance was Thursday, but I was "on call" for Saturday in case the other Silberklang was out for the count for whatever reason. Since I'm not a doctor and haven't covered any other roles for a show in which I haven't actually played another part, this was my first experience being on call. I rather enjoyed it. There's something exciting about the thought that you just might have to rush to the theatre and have the costume and makeup people throw you into clothes so that you can be onstage that night. You probably won't have to perform...but you just might.
My sweetheart came up for my final show and stayed through the weekend. He brought me the most gorgeous flowers, gave me a massage, and cooked an extravagantly wonderful dinner of ginger-glazed, wasabi-crusted baked salmon with homemade wasabi mashed potatoes on the side and Thin Mint ice cream for dessert. (I'll post pictures of the flowers and the dinner later.) He also sat with me in a coffee shop through the hours of homework I had to do, took me to a tropical butterfly garden even though he melts in humidity, and ploughed through the snowdrifts and 2 degree Fahrenheit windchill as we walked to and from school. Suffice to say he qualifies for the Boyfriend of the Century award.
After he left Sunday, I finished up a few things and then crashed on Monday. I think I had a delayed reaction to the show ending since I was so keyed up about him being here for the weekend. I slept 13 hours Monday night. Now, I'm trying to jumpstart everything else that has been coasting along since the show (laundry, cleaning, job hunt, conference I'm organizing, recital work, classwork, catching up with people, etc.) Admittedly, some of the thing on that list have been getting a good amount of attention despite the show, but I do feel like I've just been keeping the balls in the air and now it's time to increase their height.
I'll post pictures soon. For now, it's off to rehearse for the next opera, which is coming up in March. My memorization deadline for my scene is Friday. Things move quickly around here!
~Hope
My sweetheart came up for my final show and stayed through the weekend. He brought me the most gorgeous flowers, gave me a massage, and cooked an extravagantly wonderful dinner of ginger-glazed, wasabi-crusted baked salmon with homemade wasabi mashed potatoes on the side and Thin Mint ice cream for dessert. (I'll post pictures of the flowers and the dinner later.) He also sat with me in a coffee shop through the hours of homework I had to do, took me to a tropical butterfly garden even though he melts in humidity, and ploughed through the snowdrifts and 2 degree Fahrenheit windchill as we walked to and from school. Suffice to say he qualifies for the Boyfriend of the Century award.
After he left Sunday, I finished up a few things and then crashed on Monday. I think I had a delayed reaction to the show ending since I was so keyed up about him being here for the weekend. I slept 13 hours Monday night. Now, I'm trying to jumpstart everything else that has been coasting along since the show (laundry, cleaning, job hunt, conference I'm organizing, recital work, classwork, catching up with people, etc.) Admittedly, some of the thing on that list have been getting a good amount of attention despite the show, but I do feel like I've just been keeping the balls in the air and now it's time to increase their height.
I'll post pictures soon. For now, it's off to rehearse for the next opera, which is coming up in March. My memorization deadline for my scene is Friday. Things move quickly around here!
~Hope
Monday, January 25, 2010
Two Down...
Yesterday was the second performance of the operas. My folks came up for the matinee, and it was really wonderful to have them in the audience. The rest of the crowd was pretty dead, so I was thrilled to hear my parents laughing out loud at the comedy. To be fair, I had primed them in advance. ("This is a comedy. It's okay to laugh and to laugh loudly. In fact, it's encouraged.") I think that sometimes audiences, especially for classical music, are a little hesitant to be vocal with laughter. They think it's not proper or something. But for comedies in particular, laughter is a gift to the performers. It tells them they are doing something right. It offers them energy and creates a virtuous cycle that lifts the whole performance to a higher level. And when the laughter is not there, we all feel like we're not doing enough or we're missing the mark.
The audiences for both shows have felt a little tame. Partly this is the demographic - a mostly older crowd for the first show and a matinee (young families+older crowd) for the second. Both feel like they should be polite, and there's a kind of reserve there. But something else has felt off beyond that. I didn't realize just what it was until I had a conversation with my voice teacher today.
She mentioned that many people feel uncomfortable being so close to the stage. We're performing in a black box theatre with about 60 seats. It's extremely intimate. The performers can look each person in the eye. Folks in the front row are often just a couple feet from us. As singing actors, we've been instructed to make eye contact and "sing directly to people". So we do. But this makes some audience members really antsy. I've had some people look away while I sing to them, deliberately avoiding eye contact. Others maintain eye contact with me but give me a rather "deer in headlights" vibe. A few actually grin and seem pleased that I'm singing to them. In every case, it's a different feeling, and it just feels odd. I didn't realize until today that part of what bothers me is the sense that I'm making people uncomfortable. It's a missed connection or a rather warped one - things don't quite meet up the way they are supposed to. In rehearsal, this didn't happen because everyone in the audience was a singer or a student - all of whom are perfectly fine with people singing to them. After all, they do that themselves.
I'm hoping that now that I know this, it will make the final performance (on Thursday) a bit easier. We'll see.
On a positive note, my voice teacher commented that she's "always astounded at how quickly you all get used to singing right to people in such a small space." Hopefully that will make my recital performance a lot easier come May. That hall is significantly bigger. I just need to make sure my characters for each piece in that recital are just as well-defined as Silberklang. It is so much simpler to sing right to people when you are somebody else onstage. It's like it offers a cloak or costume, a shield that enables you to take the risk and express without fear of truly personal reprisals or consequences.
On a lighter note, Buff, the character who plays opposite me during my aria, had some mustache issues yesterday. He's onstage for nearly the entire show, entering shortly after curtain rise and staying through the end. Right after we started, the right half of his mustache came unglued and started flapping as he breathed. He tried all kinds of subtle gestures and posturing and finally nipped off during the final number to get it re-glued.
The best part? He apologized to me for being "off" during my aria. I guess his mustache was completely flapping at that point. But the kicker is that I didn't even notice. I am so focused during that piece on running the circus that is opera that I didn't even look at his facial hair. When I look at him, I am staring right into his eyes. The rest of the times, I'm thinking about emoting the words (which are in German), breathing properly, opening my mouth in key places, opening and closing the fan in rhythm, making sure the fan stays on my wrist, watching my dress to make sure I don't trap it under the chair that I move, staying upright as I kneel and rise again, moving to the right marks on the stage, running the coloratura while gesturing to him on certain specific notes and smiling flirtatiously, keeping my eyes engaged, reminding myself about certain diction spots (a few tricky umlauts), and getting the body language right.
With all of that, who has time to look at a mustache?
:)
~Hope
The audiences for both shows have felt a little tame. Partly this is the demographic - a mostly older crowd for the first show and a matinee (young families+older crowd) for the second. Both feel like they should be polite, and there's a kind of reserve there. But something else has felt off beyond that. I didn't realize just what it was until I had a conversation with my voice teacher today.
She mentioned that many people feel uncomfortable being so close to the stage. We're performing in a black box theatre with about 60 seats. It's extremely intimate. The performers can look each person in the eye. Folks in the front row are often just a couple feet from us. As singing actors, we've been instructed to make eye contact and "sing directly to people". So we do. But this makes some audience members really antsy. I've had some people look away while I sing to them, deliberately avoiding eye contact. Others maintain eye contact with me but give me a rather "deer in headlights" vibe. A few actually grin and seem pleased that I'm singing to them. In every case, it's a different feeling, and it just feels odd. I didn't realize until today that part of what bothers me is the sense that I'm making people uncomfortable. It's a missed connection or a rather warped one - things don't quite meet up the way they are supposed to. In rehearsal, this didn't happen because everyone in the audience was a singer or a student - all of whom are perfectly fine with people singing to them. After all, they do that themselves.
I'm hoping that now that I know this, it will make the final performance (on Thursday) a bit easier. We'll see.
On a positive note, my voice teacher commented that she's "always astounded at how quickly you all get used to singing right to people in such a small space." Hopefully that will make my recital performance a lot easier come May. That hall is significantly bigger. I just need to make sure my characters for each piece in that recital are just as well-defined as Silberklang. It is so much simpler to sing right to people when you are somebody else onstage. It's like it offers a cloak or costume, a shield that enables you to take the risk and express without fear of truly personal reprisals or consequences.
On a lighter note, Buff, the character who plays opposite me during my aria, had some mustache issues yesterday. He's onstage for nearly the entire show, entering shortly after curtain rise and staying through the end. Right after we started, the right half of his mustache came unglued and started flapping as he breathed. He tried all kinds of subtle gestures and posturing and finally nipped off during the final number to get it re-glued.
The best part? He apologized to me for being "off" during my aria. I guess his mustache was completely flapping at that point. But the kicker is that I didn't even notice. I am so focused during that piece on running the circus that is opera that I didn't even look at his facial hair. When I look at him, I am staring right into his eyes. The rest of the times, I'm thinking about emoting the words (which are in German), breathing properly, opening my mouth in key places, opening and closing the fan in rhythm, making sure the fan stays on my wrist, watching my dress to make sure I don't trap it under the chair that I move, staying upright as I kneel and rise again, moving to the right marks on the stage, running the coloratura while gesturing to him on certain specific notes and smiling flirtatiously, keeping my eyes engaged, reminding myself about certain diction spots (a few tricky umlauts), and getting the body language right.
With all of that, who has time to look at a mustache?
:)
~Hope
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Opening Night
Tonight was the first performance of our run. It went pretty well overall with one big exception. Our wonderful accompanist and coach slammed his finger in the garage door a couple nights ago. He has a large part that involves acting (as the "new opera company's rehearsal pianist") as well as actually doing the accompanying for us. Luckily, we have another amazing coach who was able to step in last minute to do the playing. Tonight was my cast's first night singing with him. Thank heavens he's so talented at following! It's really hard to step in last minute like that and pick up everything. Our original coach still does the acting bits, and he now has some line about how a soprano bit his finger when he tried to cue her.
Our audience this evening was comprised of the donors to the voice and opera department. They are a truly warm and lovely group of people who were very respectful and polite. There were more gentle chuckles than guffaws in the audience tonight, a fact that threw a couple of our performers who are used to hearing the loud laughter from the cast members who watch during rehearsal. This is one tip if you ever go to see a comedy: it's okay to laugh. Really. Even if the rest of the audience isn't. Sometimes it just takes the one person who's willing to laugh out loud for the release button to be hit for the rest of the audience. And performers love it when you laugh.
In any case, it was a very warm atmosphere. You could feel the pride emanating from the audience members who take a very familial sense towards the students. It's like singing for happy relatives.
My dress is still poofy as ever. Tonight, though, they added a ton of purple flowers to my hat. I look like I'm wearing a garden. And my fan changed back to a cousin of the plastic one I'd been using in rehearsals. I enjoyed the new prop I had Tuesday, but it's comforting to have something for which I hold more kinetic memory.
Now, it's time to crash into bed and hope that my pillow doesn't eat any makeup I may have missed wiping off.
~Hope
Our audience this evening was comprised of the donors to the voice and opera department. They are a truly warm and lovely group of people who were very respectful and polite. There were more gentle chuckles than guffaws in the audience tonight, a fact that threw a couple of our performers who are used to hearing the loud laughter from the cast members who watch during rehearsal. This is one tip if you ever go to see a comedy: it's okay to laugh. Really. Even if the rest of the audience isn't. Sometimes it just takes the one person who's willing to laugh out loud for the release button to be hit for the rest of the audience. And performers love it when you laugh.
In any case, it was a very warm atmosphere. You could feel the pride emanating from the audience members who take a very familial sense towards the students. It's like singing for happy relatives.
My dress is still poofy as ever. Tonight, though, they added a ton of purple flowers to my hat. I look like I'm wearing a garden. And my fan changed back to a cousin of the plastic one I'd been using in rehearsals. I enjoyed the new prop I had Tuesday, but it's comforting to have something for which I hold more kinetic memory.
Now, it's time to crash into bed and hope that my pillow doesn't eat any makeup I may have missed wiping off.
~Hope
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Final Dress Rehearsal
Our final dress rehearsal was last night. Students from the school were allowed to attend, so we had a "real" audience. I can't decide whether it was easier to sing for them because they understand what it's like to be up there, wrestling with a new costume and prop, or whether it's harder because they are less openly delighted with the art form. In any case, I guess we'll see whether the audience energy ratchets up on Thursday night.
I was squeezed into my big-bustled costume and given gloves and a new fan. Since I have to open and close my fan, using it actively as part of my character and in very specific spots in the music, I spent a good thirty minutes before I went on snapping it open and then shut again. Of course, I got the gloves about 5 minutes before my entrance, which was a different experience entirely. You don't realize how much you rely on actually being able to touch something to control it. The first pair of gloves we tried were satin, and that was a disaster - fan slipping out of my grasp like crazy. So then we went to a cotton pair which, fortunately, the costumer Becca liked better with the outfit. Whew! And then it was time to strut snootily down that aisle onto the stage.
It is very different to figure out how to move in a costume that is suddenly doubled in weight from what you've been wearing. Period clothes from the 18th and 19th centuries are especially heavy. You have the full multilayered petticoat and perhaps a hoop or "bum roll". Then there's the taffeta top and bottom. And if you have a corset, boning adds weight, too. Plus, there's the length. It takes effort to consistently remember to shift your props so that you have a hand to actually gather the gown and pick it up. And you still need to sing and act and remember all your diction and the accent and, oh by the way, you can't seem to be thinking about all of that or the audience will see that you're glazed over. So maintain your focus and pick several audience members and sing directly to them.
Yep.
Opera is the ultimate multitasking environment.
It's a ton of fun. But I do feel drained after every rehearsal and production night. I finally found an analogy. It's the same feeling as when you come out of a three or four hour exam. The level of focus demanded is very similar, so the level of fatigue afterwards is also comparable. That said, I would much rather do ten of these productions than one exam. The fun quotient is significantly different :)
Time to finish up a bit of theory homework before I practice and head off to my lesson.
Happy Wednesday!
~Hope
I was squeezed into my big-bustled costume and given gloves and a new fan. Since I have to open and close my fan, using it actively as part of my character and in very specific spots in the music, I spent a good thirty minutes before I went on snapping it open and then shut again. Of course, I got the gloves about 5 minutes before my entrance, which was a different experience entirely. You don't realize how much you rely on actually being able to touch something to control it. The first pair of gloves we tried were satin, and that was a disaster - fan slipping out of my grasp like crazy. So then we went to a cotton pair which, fortunately, the costumer Becca liked better with the outfit. Whew! And then it was time to strut snootily down that aisle onto the stage.
It is very different to figure out how to move in a costume that is suddenly doubled in weight from what you've been wearing. Period clothes from the 18th and 19th centuries are especially heavy. You have the full multilayered petticoat and perhaps a hoop or "bum roll". Then there's the taffeta top and bottom. And if you have a corset, boning adds weight, too. Plus, there's the length. It takes effort to consistently remember to shift your props so that you have a hand to actually gather the gown and pick it up. And you still need to sing and act and remember all your diction and the accent and, oh by the way, you can't seem to be thinking about all of that or the audience will see that you're glazed over. So maintain your focus and pick several audience members and sing directly to them.
Yep.
Opera is the ultimate multitasking environment.
It's a ton of fun. But I do feel drained after every rehearsal and production night. I finally found an analogy. It's the same feeling as when you come out of a three or four hour exam. The level of focus demanded is very similar, so the level of fatigue afterwards is also comparable. That said, I would much rather do ten of these productions than one exam. The fun quotient is significantly different :)
Time to finish up a bit of theory homework before I practice and head off to my lesson.
Happy Wednesday!
~Hope
Monday, January 18, 2010
Veggie Vitamins!
Tonight, dinner was largely veggies. (Of course, some of those veggies were baked waffle fries, but hey - when you've got a craving...) I'm deliberately trying to stuff my diet with vitamins because this is a bit of an intense couple weeks. Being in a show takes a lot of energy and focus, and I want to make sure I'm on top of everything.
It's been a half-productive day. I managed to get a lot of correspondence off my desk/out of my inbox, but I still am struggling to like theory. Music theory should be a fun puzzle to me, but all I can think of is "I'd rather be learning the notes to this piece instead of parsing it into chords and Roman Numerals." Especially when it's Schubert. Roman numerals/key analysis is not easy in the ambiguous world of the nineteenth century German lieder. And, frankly, I find it a bit pointless.
If I've lost you with those last couple sentences, then you have a sense of what I feel like trying to get an analytical handle on this piece.
I think part of the difficulty is that my focus is shifting. I'm now trying to figure out next steps for next year, so a majority of my day centers around resume rewriting, cover letter crafting, and general job searching. Uncertainty has never been one of my favorite things, and I really want to know what's happening next. I want to have the plan laid out in numbered steps with dates and a nice little bar graph. Maybe a slide or two just for fun. More than that, I want to be happy with wherever I end up next year. So perhaps I just want to know that something will work out and that it will be good.
In the meantime, I'll keep packing the veggies and putting on the bustle for the hustle onstage. And savoring these last moments of performing here.
Tomorrow night is the first full-costume+makeup+hair dress rehearsal. Students from the school are invited to attend, so we'll have a "real" audience (rather than just other cast members). I'd best hit the hay so that I'll be able to pull off that German accent.
~Hope
It's been a half-productive day. I managed to get a lot of correspondence off my desk/out of my inbox, but I still am struggling to like theory. Music theory should be a fun puzzle to me, but all I can think of is "I'd rather be learning the notes to this piece instead of parsing it into chords and Roman Numerals." Especially when it's Schubert. Roman numerals/key analysis is not easy in the ambiguous world of the nineteenth century German lieder. And, frankly, I find it a bit pointless.
If I've lost you with those last couple sentences, then you have a sense of what I feel like trying to get an analytical handle on this piece.
I think part of the difficulty is that my focus is shifting. I'm now trying to figure out next steps for next year, so a majority of my day centers around resume rewriting, cover letter crafting, and general job searching. Uncertainty has never been one of my favorite things, and I really want to know what's happening next. I want to have the plan laid out in numbered steps with dates and a nice little bar graph. Maybe a slide or two just for fun. More than that, I want to be happy with wherever I end up next year. So perhaps I just want to know that something will work out and that it will be good.
In the meantime, I'll keep packing the veggies and putting on the bustle for the hustle onstage. And savoring these last moments of performing here.
Tomorrow night is the first full-costume+makeup+hair dress rehearsal. Students from the school are invited to attend, so we'll have a "real" audience (rather than just other cast members). I'd best hit the hay so that I'll be able to pull off that German accent.
~Hope
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Delight in Sunlight
Today, it was sunny for the first time in about a week. Somewhere around 9 am, the sky became a beautiful winter blue - the blue that isn't as fresh as spring skies or as intense as summer but is just a nice, cool, happy color. I opened my shades and sat in the stream of sunlight for several hours this morning. It was wonderful.
The rest of the day was filled with rehearsal and costume fittings. (My fingers automatically typed "customer" when I went to type "costume." I guess we know what profession I'm more used to...) My costume for the Impresario is amazing. It's a gold-green color, and I think it's made of taffeta. I have a black petticoat underneath with a giant bustle. Then, the outer costume itself is in two pieces - a boned corsetted top and a huge skirt. Have you ever seen the Disney Cinderella? Do you remember the large skirted monstrosities the stepsisters wore to the ball? The ones with the giant bums that look like they are made out of cake icing? The ones with all the bows randomly attached? Well, that's basically my dress.
After I play a diva for the Impresario, I get to switch gears completely and play a secret role for the next production - Suor Angelica. I won't disclose that now since it's probably meant to be a bit of a surprise until after the show, but it's definitely on the opposite side of the spectrum from my flashy first character.
A costume fitting basically entails trying on the costume so that the superhuman seamstresses can figure out what alterations to make in some sort of magic time so that everything fits everybody the way it's supposed to. Some costumes come with "adjustable things" - like several options for eyes that the hooks can fit to make a skirt have multiple possible widths. But still, it's a trick to make sure everything fits and looks good, especially when you're working with an intimate theatre like the black box we have for these productions.
After watching the rehearsal for Impresario (today the other cast performed) and filling in for my super-secret role in Suor Angelica, I took 45 minutes to practice some of my recital music. I'm working on a Russian piece that is a beautiful version of Desdemona's Willow Song with an introductory vocalise. (A vocalise is a song with a vocal line and accompaniment but with no lyrics. So the singer basically sings it on "ah".)
When I got home tonight, I cooked up some veggie lasagna and a batch of pumpkin muffins. I'm hoping that will provide some happy, nutritious food for the next two weeks while I'm running around crazily.
And now it's time to dive back into the to-do list!
~Hope
The rest of the day was filled with rehearsal and costume fittings. (My fingers automatically typed "customer" when I went to type "costume." I guess we know what profession I'm more used to...) My costume for the Impresario is amazing. It's a gold-green color, and I think it's made of taffeta. I have a black petticoat underneath with a giant bustle. Then, the outer costume itself is in two pieces - a boned corsetted top and a huge skirt. Have you ever seen the Disney Cinderella? Do you remember the large skirted monstrosities the stepsisters wore to the ball? The ones with the giant bums that look like they are made out of cake icing? The ones with all the bows randomly attached? Well, that's basically my dress.
After I play a diva for the Impresario, I get to switch gears completely and play a secret role for the next production - Suor Angelica. I won't disclose that now since it's probably meant to be a bit of a surprise until after the show, but it's definitely on the opposite side of the spectrum from my flashy first character.
A costume fitting basically entails trying on the costume so that the superhuman seamstresses can figure out what alterations to make in some sort of magic time so that everything fits everybody the way it's supposed to. Some costumes come with "adjustable things" - like several options for eyes that the hooks can fit to make a skirt have multiple possible widths. But still, it's a trick to make sure everything fits and looks good, especially when you're working with an intimate theatre like the black box we have for these productions.
After watching the rehearsal for Impresario (today the other cast performed) and filling in for my super-secret role in Suor Angelica, I took 45 minutes to practice some of my recital music. I'm working on a Russian piece that is a beautiful version of Desdemona's Willow Song with an introductory vocalise. (A vocalise is a song with a vocal line and accompaniment but with no lyrics. So the singer basically sings it on "ah".)
When I got home tonight, I cooked up some veggie lasagna and a batch of pumpkin muffins. I'm hoping that will provide some happy, nutritious food for the next two weeks while I'm running around crazily.
And now it's time to dive back into the to-do list!
~Hope
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Definitely a Morning Person
What is it about singing after 9 pm that leaves me totally drained afterwards? I've been getting 9 hours of sleep (well, for the past 2 nights anyway), and I ate a good pasta dinner tonight. Somehow, though, late evening rehearsals are just not my thing.
Tonight, we ran through the opera from 7-10. I sat and watched the other cast until around 9, when they switched to my cast. The singing itself was fine, but afterwards - eep what a headache.
So I think I'll be putting off my theory homework until the morrow. 5 am rise time sounds about right. If I'm lucky, I won't even need caffeine to get moving :)
Good night!
~Hope
Tonight, we ran through the opera from 7-10. I sat and watched the other cast until around 9, when they switched to my cast. The singing itself was fine, but afterwards - eep what a headache.
So I think I'll be putting off my theory homework until the morrow. 5 am rise time sounds about right. If I'm lucky, I won't even need caffeine to get moving :)
Good night!
~Hope
Monday, January 11, 2010
Welcome back!
Today was the start of the new semester. Snowy cold abounds, making it really pleasurable to sink into a one-armed desk chair or ensconce onself in a practice room with a battered Steinway.
My only class on Mondays is a Music Theory course in analytical techniques. This basically entails learning various ways of assessing a score. Today we talked about Schencker, a twentieth-century German theorist who boiled everything down to its simplest essence. For Schencker, there are really only 3 chords in a tonal piece: I, V, and I again. (I is the home chord in a key -- like CEG in C major. V is the chord built on the fifth note in a scale in that key. In C major, V is GBD.) Everything else is just a "passing tone" or elaboration. (This is only a slight exaggeration. His simplest level, called "background" really is just those 3 chords.)
The rest of my day involved some resume/cover letter crafting, a trip to the store to replenish my refrigerator that was left barren for the break, and some solid practicing. The opera goes up next week (eep!), and I'm trying to keep refining my character profile, polish my technique, and solidify and make organic my blocking (staged gestures and movements given by the director). This week, we'll dive back into rehearsals from the deep end, all in preparation for the first show next Thursday. Wish me well!
Hope your new year is off to a fantastic start!
~Hope
My only class on Mondays is a Music Theory course in analytical techniques. This basically entails learning various ways of assessing a score. Today we talked about Schencker, a twentieth-century German theorist who boiled everything down to its simplest essence. For Schencker, there are really only 3 chords in a tonal piece: I, V, and I again. (I is the home chord in a key -- like CEG in C major. V is the chord built on the fifth note in a scale in that key. In C major, V is GBD.) Everything else is just a "passing tone" or elaboration. (This is only a slight exaggeration. His simplest level, called "background" really is just those 3 chords.)
The rest of my day involved some resume/cover letter crafting, a trip to the store to replenish my refrigerator that was left barren for the break, and some solid practicing. The opera goes up next week (eep!), and I'm trying to keep refining my character profile, polish my technique, and solidify and make organic my blocking (staged gestures and movements given by the director). This week, we'll dive back into rehearsals from the deep end, all in preparation for the first show next Thursday. Wish me well!
Hope your new year is off to a fantastic start!
~Hope
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