A Broad Abroad, Chapter 1: I am a jelly donut

Hallo!  I’m on day drei of my two-month German audition extravaganza.  I’ve never been to Germany before, and now I’m trying to live like an authentic Berliner, a Berliner who travels all over Germany and neighboring Germanic countries as well. 

I decided I would try to write as much as possible during this time because everything here feels new and different.  First of all, I’m shrugging off the New York Young Artist Program audition season for the first time in eight years.  While this German audition season is not going to be pressure-free, the moment I looked at yaptracker and started clicking the “Not interested this year” option, I felt a tremendous weight lifted from my shoulders.  Suddenly, I stopped trying to fit a mold and felt the freedom to explore the big questions, “What do I want to sing?” and “Why do I enjoy singing this?”  After eight years of running into a wall, I finally took Milton Berle’s treasured advice to build a door.  I went from people-pleaser to Parker-pleaser, and I hope this perspective lasts even when the auditions get intense.

In some ways, the immersion has been easy.  I live in what most would call a small apartment, but compared to my New York studio, this place is quite spacious.  I miss having a microwave but love having a washing machine.  I miss my bathtub, but love my balcony.   The subway system is easy to navigate and so refreshingly clean!   The food has been a more difficult adjustment. I can’t make a judgment on German food yet because the truth is, I haven’t really experienced it.  With my food allergies, finding things I can eat has been difficult.  Add in my starving artist budget and I’ve been preparing most of my meals at home.  Even though I have studied German, I find the ingredient lists and labels on grocery store items very confusing, so I’ve been keeping things simple to avoid my two main nemeses:  dairy and tomatoes.  They’re in everything! I’m not proud of it, but I did opt for baby food at one point and it will probably happen again.  I miss the abundance of produce options I had in New York.  It’s hard enough to find spinach in some markets, let alone kale and jicama.  Potatoes will get really old really quickly. 

Ich bin.

Despite my lack of culinary options, I still worry about my weight while I’m here.  There is a Weight Watchers on my street that has meetings on Tuesday nights.  I can’t wait to see how it differs from those in America and seeing my weight will be a lot more pleasant with the metric system on my side.  I’ve been avoiding the enticing pastries and chocolate so far, but once I found dairy-free Nutella, I knew my willpower had an expiration date.  Without my weight loss utility belt of weighing and measuring tools and an encyclopedic knowledge of Weight Watchers points, I worry I may lose my way and gain some weight.  I want to nip it in the bud early and not after I find myself in a sea of strudel and streusel. When in the land of the wurst, prepare for the worst.

As far as the language is concerned, I expected everyone to assume I wanted to speak English, but surprisingly, I haven’t used it since I moved into my apartment.  I love being immersed in the language.  One great tool has been watching American sitcoms dubbed over in German.  The worse the show, the easier it is for me to translate the obvious punchlines.  Zweieinhalb Männer may not be funny, but at least Charlie Sheen is finally serving a purpose.  

I miss my close friends back in New York and I miss the way they make me laugh.  I have seen many charming and lovely things over the past few days, but I don’t think I’ve found anything terribly funny since my arrival.  Again, this is one of the unfortunate consequences of watching Two and a Half Men.  I miss laughing so much I considered it my cardio, but this makes me that much more excited about visiting Boom Chicago in Amsterdam.   Or maybe the taste for Schadenfreude will come with the taste for sausages.

Travel makes a wise man better, and a fool worse. -Thomas Fuller

San Diego Smize

Last week, I flew home to California so my family could be together for the first time in years.  Sometimes it seems as if we’re changing every minute, so naturally, so I flew home with some a combination of excitement and trepidation.  Would this be one for the photo album or for the therapist’s couch?  Only time would tell.

Despite the fact that my parents, my brother, and I are constantly evolving, we all seemed to come together like a Parker Pangaea.  I’m so proud of the grown-up my brother has become and he seems to be proud of me trying to become one myself.  As sensible adults, we were able to behave as immaturely as always, but this time while holding non-dairy iced chais.   We bought fancy scotch for my dad’s birthday; he paid, I obsessed over not being carded anymore.  We saw The Dark Knight Rises and he pretended it was his first time seeing it.  We had a catastrophic birthday cake cutting adventure resulting in more icing on me than on the cake.  We were a team again. 

For better or worse, I think my brother and I see each other for who we really are.  I am really trying to see myself that way as well, which seems to be more challenging.   I got new headshots while I was home, which required a conversation with my photographer as to what message I was trying to send about myself.  Apparently, the phrase “Me on my best day” wasn’t specific enough.  I decided I wanted to look young, fresh, confident, and fun.  Am I these things?  I tried to put my years of studying improv and America’s Next Top Model  marathons to use.  I tried to smile with my eyes (smize!), relax, breathe, and look natural.  This rarely comes to me in photos.  I am certifiably unphotogenic, and perhaps it’s because I want to look more at ease in photos than I am in real life.  So, I struggled during the headshot shoot. I often reverted to my sultry side, because for me, that’s just being shy with some sex appeal.  Looks #1 and #2 were conservative: minimal make-up, simple clothing, a variation of closed and open-mouthed smiles.  For look #3, I needed to shake it up.  I decided to stop worrying about the rules of headshots and just get some fun, editorial shots.  Natural make-up? Not on my watch!  The make-up artist gave me a smoky eye worth of Ru Paul’s Drag Race and teased my hair like a sixties bombshell.  She said, “I don’t think you’re of this era,” and with a yes and acceptance of that idea, I finally felt like I was in my own skin.  I threw off my pants to sport a Risky Business oversized collared shirt and bare legs ensemble.  I even threw off my bra because adjusting it was taking me out of the moment.  The photographer pounced on this idea, referencing a young Julie Christie and Goldie Hawn.  I felt so much more beautiful portraying someone other than myself.   I was at my most natural when I was looking the least authentic.   It was hard to wash off all of that mascara and see the vintage vixen swirl around the drain.

I’m looking forward to seeing the proofs and trying to remember not to be too hard on myself for not being Tyra Banks-worthy.  I want to challenge myself to be more confident under less cover-up.   I want to see the same person my relatives see when they look at me.  In a perfect world, I would be as perfect as my dog sees me, but let’s take this one step at a time.  Young, fresh, and confident?  Let’s start with genuine and see what develops.

You stay classy, San Diego.

What's my motivation?!

This has been a summer of challenges.  I desperately miss my friends who are at various music festivals this summer, living as full-time artists…full-time, non-starving artists.  At this time last year, I was on stage with Jeremy Irons and Helen Mirren.  This year, I’m alone in a studio apartment.  During these challenging periods, I am prone to wallowing and asking, what am I doing wrong?  When do I give up? Am I kidding myself?  However, I’m often neglecting the most important question: Why am I doing this?

In order to find the why, I have to go back to the when.  I have to think back to why I started singing in the first place, and why this is one of few things I’ve tried that I’ve never quit.  I can’t remember a time when music was not a part of my life.   Even in the womb, I was surrounded by music, as my mother was a choir teacher in North Carolina.  As a child in California, I vividly remember my mother brushing and braiding my hair before school while running warm-up exercises with her girls’ choir.  I always loved singing, and even when I wasn’t singing, I was infamous for my piercing, high-pitched squeals that suggested I was a true diva training.  I grew up singing in church, in choirs, community theater, and around the family upright piano.  I listened to my older brother’s beautiful tenor voice singing Pippin and tried to find my own soprano lilt and corner of the sky.   Even through high school, Jeff and I spent hours singing tirelessly around the house.  Why?  Because it felt good.   It was that simple.  We did it because we could and we did it wherever anyone would listen.  It was ice cream for the soul.  I never thought, “Ugh, I HAVE to sing today…” a phrase I’ve uttered more times than I care to admit over the past two months. 

I will never forget the first live musical I saw.  I can’t remember my exact age, probably around seven, but it was Big River at the Starlight Theater in San Diego.  The experience was transformative, despite the cast pausing for planes overhead and the fact that I got so excited I spilled my Kool-Aid Squeeze-It on a woman’s pantsuit, leading to yelling on her part and tears on mine.  I was hooked, though, and grew up adoring musical theater the way I can only imagine normal people grow up loving sports.

Almost ten years later, I saw my first opera.  I saw La Boheme the night before my junior prom, and it just as romantic as going to prom with my gorgeous high school crush.  I cried all the way through Puccini’s masterpiece, and this time, Squeeze-Its had nothing to do with it.  When I heard Musetta’s “Quando me’n vo” for the first time, I clearly remember saying, “I want to do that.”  I knew my friends wouldn’t understand.  I told them I saw Rent.  I almost forgot about that monumental Musetta moment but it came rushing back to me Wednesday night before musical improv class, when pianist Frank Spitznagel was playing the aria at the piano.  Sure, it’s not quite my ‘fach,’ so to speak, but I jumped in and blasted the Magnet Training Center with my own rendition.  Because no one in the room was terribly familiar with Boheme, I didn’t worry about singing the right words or paying attention to performance practices, I just embraced the opportunity to have my first opera jam in years, and even had a Marcello had in mind.   I can’t remember the last time I turned my judgmental brain off while singing, but I know will remember the newfound freedom I felt Wednesday night.

Freedom in performance was what brought me back to improv after so many years of admiring the art, but vowing to avoid participating in it.  My brother and I first started improvising when we were elementary school students attending Arts Between the Tracks theater day camp.  When we weren’t rehearsing for the big show, teachers Randy and Doug taught us improv games, and no game of capture the flag or arts and crafts activity could compare.  Jeff and I would come home from camp and study comedy like it was our job, and write and film sketches that, looking back, were both terrible and offensive!  Jeff and I lived the Kids and the Hall answering machine sketch before it was ever aired and still leave each other unusual messages after the “Eek.”  Somewhere in my life after Arts camp, I remembered I was a naturally introverted person, and lost any desire to improvise in front of an audience.  I still loved the art and went to shows constantly, but whenever performers asked if I would participate as an audience member, the fear of failure came over me and I forgot how to speak.  A ferocious shake of the head got them to move on to a more willing audience member.  It was the combination of improvisation and opera that brought back my desire to perform spontaneously and I am so grateful for the wonderful people and opportunities improv has brought into my life.  However, as opera has given me numerous struggles, I’m finding my confidence in improvising struggling as well.  My desire to hide in the audience is creeping in and I’m finding myself returning to the question, why?  Why am I nervous again?  Why can’t I just play like I did at Arts Between the Tracks?

I want to explore my motivation for all of my regular activities in my New York life. I know why I work; my monthly rent keeps that fresh in my brain.  However, I want to rediscover why I practice yoga.  There was a time when I did it because I loved it, not because I was afraid I would gain weight if I didn’t.  My operatic and yogi inspiration, Priti Gandhi, was the reason yoga became an art form for me, and I need more of her ohm in my home.  Even with the things that have ended, like friendships or relationships, I am looking back at why that person was brought into my life, not why they exited it.  I have enough factors contributing to a life of spinsterhood, I don’t need any extra bitterness contributing to it.

So, until the universe plops a timely fortune cookie or magic eight ball into my hand, I’ll have to continue asking my questions and searching for my own answers.  And each new lesson will be brought to me by the letter Y.

No question is so difficult to answer as that to which the answer is obvious.

George Bernard Shaw

Saturn and the City

After a whirlwind April, May came and brought bronchitis, leaving me with a lot of time in bed, contemplating the universe and my purpose in it.   Free time and cold medicine are never a good combination for me; my mind tends to run even more than my nose.  Monotony + Mucinex = Existential Crisis.

To put all of this in perspective, a brief synopsis of the past month: first, I covered Zemire in Zemire und Azor at Liederkranz Opera.  In the cover “performance,” I realized just how elated I become every time I perform an operatic role.  This role was a big one to learn, but the payoff came at the end of the onerous aria before the finale of the opera.  It was thrilling to bring my own ideas and opinions to the role and make some really exciting musical and dramatic choices.  It was difficult to return to my small speaking role for the remaining performances, almost like a postpartum letdown.   Since the opera closed, I’ve been dwelling on the painful question, “Will I ever get to sing a role again, or am I doomed to be an understudy (at best)?”  Watching friends leave for their prestigious summer apprenticeships feels like extra salt in the wound. 

Meanwhile, as I fear my operatic career has stalled, my day job has ascended to a position with more responsibility and commitment.  I enjoy working in the field of health and weight loss, but it sometimes tempts me to lose sight of my musical aspirations and settle for something less fulfilling, but also less heartbreaking.  I know if I throw in the towel now, I’ll lose the pain of the operatic rejection, but in time, I’ll gain long-term resentment. 

The more these big life issues weigh on my and circle around my ailing head, the more I start to ponder the return of Saturn.  Until recently, I thought Saturn Returns was just an Adam Guettel composition, but it is also said to be an event in a person’s life that takes place around age twenty-eight, when Saturn returns to its original degree in orbit as when the person was born.  This occurrence can bring sobering, critical realities and lead to momentous life choices.  It explains why my Facebook feed is constantly announcing new relationships, engagements, and new babies from everyone my age.   My brother was twenty-eight when he got married and made a significant career commitment as well.  He was the first to tell me about Saturn’s return.  The celebrity deaths that fall into the category “27 Club” are often attributed to this cosmic occurrence as well.  I don’t have any strong opinions regarding the cause of death of Amy Winehouse, but I know I’m feeling a strong pull to make changes in my own life.  Maybe it’s something in the galaxy, maybe it’s something in the pile of bills that keeps growing, but something in me is stirring.

Since I’m often convinced the universe revolves around me, this orbital occurrence is very distressing.  I’m spending a lot of time contemplating my values, priorities, and dreams.  I am not going to blame the galaxy (entirely) on my shortcomings; instead I am going to dedicate myself to mastering my own trajectory.   I’ve probably spent far too much time obsessing over each moment of my previous auditions, but I’m trying to get at the root of what is keeping me from reaching my goal of working as an artist on a more regular basis.  I feel like I’m hitting an invisible wall while singing. Is one of those planetary rings obstructing my path?  I need to play Space Invaders on my own impediments.   While I continue my attempts at bettering myself in front of a casting panel, I also want to cast myself in a completely new project, something that will be tailored to my passions and peculiarities.  I plan to develop this artistic project just as I plan to develop myself as an artist.  Since I am in the planning stages still, I have little more to divulge, but I’m announcing this project to you because telling you and the universe will keep me committed.  After all, once you say something on the internet, it must be true! 

I also plan to use this summer to explore other craters on my little planet.  I am attending retreats to increase my focus on Alexander Technique and improv.  I will refine my spine and my sense of humor.    I also long for some warmth from a son… as in a young single gentleman (from Mars, perhaps?).   I don’t want to explore the final frontier alone.  Even if a summer romance burns out like a white dwarf (hell, he could even BE a white dwarf), it could guide me to the next constellation in my galaxy.   (I wanted to make an astronaut reference at this point, but I worried word play with Tang would be horribly misconstrued.)

If Leonard Nimoy hadn’t spoken at the Boston University College of Fine Arts commencement this past week, I don’t know if I would have looked to the stars for guidance.   With that, I’ll polish off this Milky Way bar, then put one pointy ear to the ground and the other to the sky in order make the best of this orbit.  May we all find our place in this universe as we do our best to live long and prosper.

It is far better to grasp the universe as it really is than to persist in delusion, however satisfying and reassuring. - Carl Sagan

I'm astounded by people who want to 'know' the universe when it's hard enough to find your way around Chinatown. - Woody Allen

An egg in the hand...

The hunt for happiness can feel like an endless Easter egg hunt.  The thrill of the chase is exciting, as I desperately search for what is hidden, hoping I will walk away with a collection of colorful trinkets to fill my basket.  Sometimes I find something beautiful or colorful.  But sometimes I find something sweet, so sweet it that results in a bellyache later. Sometimes I’m convinced my basket has a hole and whatever I place in it will fall out and leave me empty later.  Sometimes I question whether the notion is real or just a game to keep me running around and peeking in every crevice I encounter.  Sometimes I wonder if I’m too late and someone has already snatched up my hard-boiled bliss. 

Spring has sprung and I’m waiting for my spirits to follow suit.  If you’ve been reading, you’ll know this year has had its trials and as a result, I feel like I’m carrying a little extra baggage with me around the Upper West Side.   I love yaptracker.com, but if I use it to actually look at my track record as a singer, I can’t help but see it as a failing report card.  Every time I click “No offer” or “No audition,” I have to ignore a tiny voice that whispers, “I wasn’t enough,” or “Another one bites the dust.”  Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if every aspect of life had a tracker like the one for young artists.   I’ve had a lot of drama—actually, “drama” makes it sounds more thrilling than it is—in my search for the well-hidden relationship egg and through the disappointments, I chuckle to myself thinking about a date-tracking app.  Date-tracker could have the same options, like “No call back”  “Rejection with encouragement,” or “Not interested this year.”  However, that report card wouldn’t be any better than my yap report card right now, so perhaps a lack of documentation is probably for the best.   

I mainly wish to combine the two searches because I feel having one egg in my basket, either the personal or professional egg, would be a lot less discouraging than looking down into an empty basket.  Perhaps I could be content seeking one if I knew I’d found the other.  I could eat one handful of jellybeans and be patient in the search for the Cadbury egg.  

I’ve been on these hunts for years, and I think the hardest part is that there were times this year when I thought I had found I was looking for.  I thought I was going to have the opportunity I’d hoped for or found someone I could classify as a “good egg.”  But offers fell though and some eggs turned out to be rotten, so I’m back where I started, only feeling a little more worn and exhausted from each setback.

Just when I thought I couldn’t take the search anymore, like I needed to start over with a new basket and lower expectations, I had a moment of inspiration.  I’ve been feeling really down lately about my struggles with the current opera I’m rehearsing.  I’m covering the lead and performing a small acting role and at times, I wished this opportunity (the best to come along in months and months) had not come my way.   However, I arrived at rehearsal today, feeling as frustrated as always with my own lack of progress, when I saw a chair had been set aside especially for me.  On pink paper, my name was on a seat in the row of principal performers.    It was pretty and pastel and it was going in my basket.  The letters said “Laura Parker,” but the label told me I was wanted, I was making progress, and the hunt had only begun. 

This trying time in my life is going to include more cracked eggs and disappointing decoys, but I will continue to put any trinket in my basket along the way to keep from feeling empty.  Friends, family, yoga, improv, and my love for New York City will be the plastic grass providing a colorful foundation for the eggs that have yet to be discovered. 

I wonder if Peter Cottontail is single…

Step in time, Step in time...

On Sunday, March 4^th, I will participate in the Climb to the Top challenge at Rockefeller Center. I will climb sixty-six flights of stairs to benefit the National MS Society.  Selfishly, I hope it will also benefit my derriere.

My training route

I have never considered myself an athlete, so taking on this challenge has ben very daunting.   I have been running the stairs in my building for months now, and lately I have been disappointed that despite my training, running up over 1,200 stairs has yet to become easy for me.  Suddenly, I’m having flashbacks of being the slow, chubby kid in gym class.  Last picked for the team, last to reach the finish line.  It’s amazing how lifelong labels can resurface and hinder reaching one’s full potential. 

I’ve always been a bit of a label-maker. Growing up, I felt I was in the shadow of my talented older brother, and I think I found some sort of comfort in the identity of the overshadowed talent.  Everyone loves to root for the underdog!  This spring, I am taking on yet another job as an understudy (in addition to performing a role of my own), and it feels almost too easy to step into this position again.  I think the line, “It’s okay, I’m next in line for the role” is starting to sound tired, especially since some are starting to regard me as a coloratura of a certain age.  Not a spring chicken in this business anymore, not my first rodeo.  I can’t help but wonder, am I the slow kid in PE and opera?

My late a bloomer label has also extended into my interest in improvisation.  Just like running stairs for a few months and wondering, “Why isn’t this easy yet?” I’ve taken a few improv classes here in New York and have been hard on myself asking, “Why aren’t I brilliant yet?”  My current musical improv class is full of experienced and gifted performers, and while I love the way it motivates me like my “Rockefeller” playlist on my Ipod, some days I feel as discouraged as when I stare up a 5k flight of stairs.   However, just as I started my journey one step at a time and now can tackle two, my peers have been encouraging me and giving me a little extra spring in my step to reach the next level. 

I can think of so many journeys that feel like Rockefeller races, challenges that seem like a boundless boot camp, be it emotionally, physically, or vocally.  My day job can feel like a winding staircase, my relationships like steep platforms, auditions like a broken escalator, anxiety that creaky step that nags me with every move.  But the reason I love climbing stairs is I can’t stay still; I either sweat my way to the top or give up and retreat to the ground floor.  I’m still worried I will stumble or be trampled in the stairwell or worse, be the last one to finish.  Nevertheless, I am inspired to know that no matter what happens Sunday morning, I will finish.   I will see the view from the top, which will last far longer than my sweaty stair sprint.  Though I may not be able to see a definitive finish line in my other pursuits, I will continue to climb, whether the journey takes sixty-six flights or sixty-six years.   My label may be slow, but my medal will read: WINNER!

The vision must be followed by the venture. It is not enough to stare up the steps -we must step up the stairs. -Vance Havner

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