Masking the Truth

Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth. -Oscar Wilde

I’m always being told that in any situation as a performer, the most appealing and engaging thing I can to is “just be myself.”  I was also told that throughout my childhood, battling a shy phase that lasted from age six to sixteen.  Sure, it’s great advice, but under extreme stress, I tend to lose a sense of my true self.  Recently, I discovered the best way to tap into inner truth is by acknowledging one’s outer masks.

This past Tuesday, I attended the “dance-theatre, non-linear Macbeth mash-up horror show,” Sleep No More. Audience members donned Venetian Carnival masks as they wandered through the McKittrick Hotel, viewing pyscho-sexual dance/theatre sequences that leave one in complete shock and awe.  The anonymity of the masks not only made everything look creepier in the dark space, but I found mine freed me to feel and express any emotion or reaction without fear of judgment from those around me.  Suddenly, feelings started bubbling up, aroused by scenery, performances, and internal baggage I thought I had left with the coat check.  Roaming in a dark and foggy setting felt all too familiar, like those days when I questioned myself and a career path that could not be any less clear.  Seeing others getting lost and panicked didn’t feel very different from the way I’d felt waiting to sing at Nola a few hours earlier.  We all looked the same, we were all trying to find our way on the same journey, and we were all suppressing our doubts and fears.  The main differences between Nola and Sleep No More were that the opera singers had much more clothing than the dancers at the McKittrick and wouldn’t be dawn into murder…no matter how many times a room full of sopranos may suggest such an outcome.

While being an anonymous observer brought out some intense emotions and truths in me, I’ve also had some similar experiences as a spontaneous performer.  I am currently studying improvisation at the Magnet Theater and I’ve noticed a day spent in my head as a vocalist leads to an evening struggling to get out of my head as an improviser.  My reaction times feel slow and my deliveries feel forced because they are passing through a judgmental filter before coming out of my mouth.  Then I have to spent more time masking my “That was stupid” face, taking me even further from the scene being created.  Just like Sleep No More, though, no outside judgment is involved.  Fellow performers cheer on peers in every choice and genuinely want everyone to succeed.  As a singer, I need to remember the audition panel wants me to succeed as well.  As adversarial as this business may feel, my only real nemesis is myself.    And if I say “yes, and” to a moment of happiness in a scene and wear that particular mask, I will eventually feel it, just as I have the power to say “yes, and” to an energetic and exciting aria.  Even if I don’t feel the emotion I’m wearing, in the end, I will feel a more truthful commitment to any real emotion simply by committing to express one.

So, underneath the mask of a strong, independent New Yorker, the questions, “Am I enough” and “Where am I going” are constantly running through my head.  Instead of ignoring them or compartmentalizing my life, as I am want to do, I can accept these inner voices, embrace the inner macabre, and find my way through this foggy maze.  During audition season we will have our dark moments and we will have our days when we need to fake it til we make it.  However, no matter what we choose, committing to any emotion and breathing into it will not only bring authenticity to what we do, but perhaps ignite something in those watching us, and illuminate their own masks that shape their views.  When we face our masks, we face ourselves.

Hurricanes, recordings, and other inevitable disasters…

 This weekend, New York City residents were forced inside by Hurricane Irene, and most experienced minor hardship aside from the drawbacks of being forced to stay in one’s apartment: indigestion from eating the contents of one’s entire refrigerator and pantry, eye strain from watching every TV episode saved on DVR, and mild psychosis from obsessing over the state of one’s operatic career.  Maybe that last one was just me.

Perhaps it was Irene, perhaps it was the looming date of my annual recording, but either way, a dark cloud was overhead.   I spend about one month of the year dreading my annual recording session, and eleven months out of the year critiquing the tracks uploaded to my website and exported to various opera companies.  What can I say? I’m an optimist.   I never feel recordings represent my work as a singer.  For instance, I don’t have my bag of tricks to distract the audience from any flaws that may pour out of my mouth.  I find great comfort in my distracting devices of gestures, jewel tones, and assorted illusions. I do not feel like myself when I can’t move around or mask myself in make-up.  Also, many people think recording for classical singers involves lots of pitch correction, auto-tune, etc., but for this purpose, it’s just the instrument with minimal effects.  I can cut and splice a section that may have tanked during the run of the aria, but other than that, it’s pretty raw and exposed.  And I can only run through those arias so many times before my cords wear out and I start sounding like a bass with bronchitis, so my type-A “we do it till it’s done” mentality is hardly productive.  If I had my way, I wouldn’t stop recording until I magically morphed into Diana Damrau and she polished off those cadenzas for me.  Alas, I have yet to develop that mutant superpower.

Irene and cabin fever forced me to spend more time than usual delving into my fear of the demo.   I think one reason I love live performance as an art form is that it comes and goes without time to think, analyze, or self-destruct (though Lord knows sometimes we try).  I know that is why improv is my chicken soup for the soul.  I want to leave an audience with an impression, a feeling, not a tangible record of any flaws in my technique or diction.  I can safely say I’ve never given a perfect performance, but that doesn’t mean I’m comfortable displaying my imperfections.  I wouldn’t seek out photographers if I knew I had a giant blemish on my face!  Plus, this record of where I am vocally by September 2011 will help determine how many auditions I get for October, November, December of 2011, and 2012 as well.  The recording not only determines my activity in the upcoming months, but it is also a constant reminder that audition season is ahead and things are about to really intense.  Practice sessions will start alternating between singing my arias and whining “I Hope I Get It” from A Chorus Line.  Recording is just the slow uphill climb on the roller coaster that will soon accelerate, making my pulse pound, my stomach drop to my feet, and making me scream at the top of my lungs as my life turns temporarily upside down.

Now is the time to start facing my fear.  I studied improv at Second City this summer so I could say, “Yes, and” to any situation, and my skills are being put to the test.  Can you stand perfectly still and give your best performance of these arias?  Yes, and I will enjoy the process and embrace my imperfections.  Maybe others will find them as refreshing as I find cellulite on celebs in the tabloids! 

Irene may have lost her steam in Manhattan, but I plan to be at full force here.   She may not have broken my windows, but I’ll attempt some glass-shattering pitches, and more importantly, I’ll open those floodgates to my soul in song.  And if I’m lucky, maybe I’ll come out of it with my own little rainbow.

E-I-E-I-Do-Mi-Sol-Do!

 Eleven years ago, I had my first taste of classical music as a baby soprano at the Boston University Tanglewood Institute.  This summer, I am savoring that flavor at the Castleton Festival, and if you have ever been to this festival you know, it tastes like cake.

I am here as a member of the Castleton Artists Training Seminar, understudying Le Feu and Rossignol in L’Enfant et les Sortilèges and singing in numerous choruses, as well as opera scenes and the usual young artists’ classes.   I haven’t had the luxury of being away from my day job in years, and it is very liberating to spend my day thinking only about “la voce” and not about how I will pay “la rent.”  (Thank God for la sublet.)

I am one of the older artists in this training program, and it has thrown a few curves my way.  I find myself somewhat jealous of the college and grad school-age singers who not only are used to singing full-time without balancing the demands of living independently, but also the fact that they have not yet experienced the reality of harsh audition seasons and the nagging question that keeps me up at night, “Will this ever happen for me?”  They talk about how they’re going to be stars by the time they’re twenty-five and how it must be terrifying to be twenty-seven (gasp!) and not yet singing at the Met.  As a twenty-seven-year-old coloratura, I do not need to be reminded of my vintage status and of some invisible deadline imposed on those with lighter voices.  Did I miss my chance? I already lost sixty pounds to accommodate my fach, do I need to discover a way turn back time as well? 

(Not pictured: Laura Diane Parker)

The program is seven weeks long, but I am confident that I experienced the highlight of the summer over the past two days.  One of the great blessings is the opportunity to work with Maestro Lorin Maazel, who has more energy for each performance than I have after an entire case of Diet Cokes.  The female singers and the orchestra had the great pleasure of performing under his baton with two Academy Award-winning icons, Jeremy Irons and Helen Mirren, in two performances of Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  I have always been a fan of Mendelssohn, due to my affinity for Swedish nightingale, Jenny Lind, but now the piece will be forever etched in my heart.  I worry I may walk down the streets of New York singing the wedding march to myself, which will only make my chances of looking normal to a single man that much more doubtful.   Mirren and Irons’ performances were beyond inspirational, they were transcendent.  They raised the stakes for the musicians and in turn, we did our best to support them with our talents.  The combination of exquisite actors and a superb conductor created an energy that was palpable.  Oh, and yes, the actors were very attractive in person.  Their beauty in their sixties makes me almost ashamed of whining about being in my late twenties.

Castleton is also a memorable experience because it requires a dramatic change in lifestyle.  I knew I would have to make the adjustment from living alone in a big city to living with many roommates on a farm. I lucked out, they are wonderful girls, so crisis averted there.   How many houses hold six sopranos that peacefully coexist?  I thought it was pure urban legend.   I did not know I would be spending the summer without cell phone service and very limited internet.  I’d call Castleton a monastery, but there’s far too much wine flowing for that to be the case.  I’ve learned here that many singers are able to party like rock stars while still singing like angels.  Where’s THAT class in the young artists’ curriculum?  We also sin through our stomachs, with an endless amount of decadent desserts that are almost, ALMOST as velvety as our Boheme Mimi’s luscious voice.   I must put my title of “starving artist” on hold for the remainder of the summer.

I have just under a month left of this program, and aside from taking in copious amounts of baked goods, I hope to continue to take in inspiration.  I am surrounded not only by food and farm animals, but also by incredible musicians of all disciplines.  I look to the mainstage singers to see what I can learn from their performances and career paths and the conductors and coaches to refine my own.   I listen to beautiful music, instead of subway sounds and cell phone ringtones.   I sing scales instead of advising those stepping upon them.  I miss the paycheck, but I’m loving the payoff.  It’s the icing on the cake, perhaps.