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
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
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
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