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

View my participant page!

When Bad Things Happen to Good Singers

One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain. -Bob Marley

I’m sure you’ve all heard the story of triumph on the operatic stage.  You know the story, (insert opera singer here) had to overcome (insert injury or personal trauma) on the opening night of (famous opera) at (A level opera house).  In this game of operatic mad libs, the music always triumphs over the emotional or physical pain and the audience is none the wiser regarding the drama offstage.  We are taught to persevere, unless, God forbid, we have sinus drainage, acid reflux, or our period.  Then all bets are off.  So here’s the question, as singers, when do we wallow and when do we wail through it?

January is never my favorite month of the year.  The weather is grey and my inbox starts filling up with those lovely rejection letters from December auditions.  So, I’m already as low as east coast temperatures and this January, I received an additional blow.  A member of my family passed away recently and the memorial service was delayed, putting me in a two-week limbo of grieving in the city.  I will go home to California this weekend and find comfort in my family, my hometown, and my German shepherd.  I’ve felt about as strong as tissue paper and equally transparent over the past two weeks.  Little things have been setting me off, an angry client at my day job, a rude commuter on the subway, disappointment in my dating life.  I knew I wasn’t really crying about the guy who wouldn’t move to the center of the train, but I was afraid if I tapped into what was really bothering me, the flood gates would open and I would not be able to get through each day.   But how could I open my mouth without opening my soul?

I had an audition last week in the midst of my distress and I was very worried either my singing would be tight in order to keep my emotions under control or I wouldn’t be able to present myself with poise or composure because I was on the verge of tears.  Luckily, I got though it and, for better or for worse, I felt like I gave a much more genuine and vulnerable performance than in past auditions.  Before the day of the auditions, I was going back and forth questioning: you can cancel if you’re coughing, but should you cancel if you’re crazy? 

I have an even greater challenge next week, singing at my uncle’s funeral.  I hate singing family funerals because I have to remain stoic in order to get through each piece.  I can’t sing and grieve simultaneously, so I repress everything until after the performance is over.  It’s very hard on me, and I feel isolated from my family throughout the service.  However, if I have a gift I can offer my family during a time of need, I need to put my issues aside and try to bring comfort in whatever way is in my power.

As hard as it feels some days, I’ve decided to just keep singing through this difficult time.   My vibrato may shake, my eyes may well up, but my cords will stay strong and, hopefully, my spirit will as well.    Because, unfortunately, people will come in and out of my life, but music will always be with me on this journey.  

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.

Improv to Improve

Seven years ago, I found myself in a required operatic improv class while I was attending the OperaWorks summer program in Northridge. The teacher and head of the program, Ann Baltz, told me after class, "You have a peculiar mind, and if you can market that, you will be golden." Wait, it’s OKAY to be weird? I’m useful for something other than high notes? Since then, Ann and I have worked together many times performing improv opera, or as I lovingly call it, impropera, and those performances have been some of the most rewarding in my experience.

I find the combination of opera and improv particularly fascinating and rewarding because it is merging of art an that is often seen by the public as old and outdated with the most contemporary art possible, that which is being created in front of an audience. It’s like a fireworks show in the Arena di Verona. However, I spend much more time developing as a musician than I do developing my skills as a spontaneous actress. To hone those skills, I decided to take an improv intensive at Second City, focusing on developing improvisational skills without the aid of a musical net. The class was a series of eight-hour days of non-stop participation, taking in incredible amounts of information with hardly any time to truly process it and let it sink in. I am now recalling old lessons from Ann, my operatic inspiration, and combining them with the new lessons I learned from Kevin McGeehan, my Second City Miyagi.

One of the principles that I love about improv is that the performer has everything he needs just by having a mind and a body. Kevin compared it to Green Lantern, who could create anything with the power of his mind (and his ring, of course). Guess what? That’s all a singer needs, too!  Sure, we add accompaniment, costumes, sets, props, etc., but our instrument is in us- IT IS US!- as well as our command of it. So, we’re practically superheroes…and I like that. I have the ability to create any effect without fussing, manipulating, or micromanaging my voice when I trust my magic mantra and metaphorical ring.

The most important rule of improv is acceptance above all else. Every suggestion is to be met with a "yes, and" attitude, accepting the offer, then building on it. (For a more complete description, as well as some reading pleasure, I highly recommend Tina Fey’s Bossypants.) As a singer (and as a human being), I find my main obstacle is getting in my own way, but saying "yes, and" to daunting passages is much more empowering than "I hope I can do this." Verdi has offered up a beautiful aria, "Caro nome;" I’m going to raise the stakes to make an aria from the page Gilda’s outpouring of emotion on the stage. Here is a half note. YES, I will sing the half note, AND I will use it to crescendo into the next phrase because I am yearning for Gualtier Malde! Here is a cadenza. YES, AND every black dot is simply a shorthand of Gilda’s specific subtext. YES, AND This high note is really an orgasm (sorry, kids, that’s what opera is about)!

One game played in improv class is a scene performed with a moderator freezing the actors and requesting a new choice for the most recent line or action. I found this game especially helpful when working on my Baroque and bel canto arias with limited text being repeated for several minutes. "Si, Lindoro mio sará" first sung elated, now-new choice!- paranoid, "Si, Lindoro"- new choice!- smug, "Si, Lindoro" –new choice!- drunk, "Si" – new choice!- standing on one foot, holding a banana. I have found since I started incorporating this game into my practice sessions, I have stopped judging the characters, especially the ingénues whom I used to deem "weak" or "whiny." The possibilities are endless, and who is to say what is wrong or right, especially if it’s fun?! As Tina Fey said, as well as my teachers, Ann and Kevin, "There are no mistakes, only opportunities."

Since the course ended, I’ve been breathing new life into once-static pieces, and feeling like I’m creating music that hasn’t been sung before because I’ve never sung it THIS WAY before. And I won’t sing it that way the next time. Or the next time. My mind and my body will be different every day, and if the core resources are constantly changing, the product they create will be as well. And isn’t that the beauty of live performance?

Special thanks to Ann Baltz, Kevin McGeehan (and Tina Fey) for their guidance and improvisational inspiration. If you are a singer interested in improvisation, I highly recommend OperaWorks, Second City, and Bossypants!

Final Fortnight on the Farm

Less than two weeks remain of the Castleton Festival, and it is a very interesting time in the process.  After five weeks of living on this surreal farm of llamas, zebras, zonkeys, sows, and singers, it has become home.  I never thought I would call a town that is thirty minutes from civilization-- and by “civilization,” I mean Starbucks and Target-- home.  However, when thinking about returning to the urban jungle that is New York City, where I am surrounded by neighbors and noise, it feels unfamiliar and slightly overwhelming.  I am going to miss my lunchtime salad bar and the entitlement it gives me to gorge on my three vices: cake, cookies, and caffeine.  I’m going to be astounded when people communicate with me via text message instead of a Facebook post or a wild goose chase to find me in person.  I will miss warming up first thing in the morning, just in case someone needs a high D on command or a new opera chorus is being thrown at the CATS.  And most of all, it will be hard to let go of the new family that has been created in this petri dish we call Castleton.  A family that eats, sleeps, sings, breathes, and binges together, creating a loving bond and the kind of rivalry/dysfunction that can only be achieved with true intimacy.  We are at the point of the festival of “I love you, but I don’t have to like you right now” moments and hook-ups that seem almost incestuous.  Trying to respect who called dibs on whom and who’s mad at whom and who we’re not liking because our ‘bro’ doesn’t like whom is getting so complicated, we need some sort of social roadmap.   Plus, there’s a kind of final dash mentality that sends those who have been more reserved throughout the festival into hormonal hyper drive.  I thought this was something that only happened to younger people, since it reminded me so much of college, but it turns out, this can happen to anyone who has been cooped up in one place too long without outside stimulation like internet or television to provide an escape from reality. 

In my final fortnight, I try to reflect on the process to see if I can avoid having any regrets when I leave.  They are my least favorite souvenirs.   One looming doubt I have about the way I’ve conducted myself during the festival is the amount of interaction I’ve had with my peers outside of the dressing room and rehearsal hall.  I have always considered myself a good colleague, trying to abide by the same standards that I have observed in those who have more experience than me.  But perhaps part of being a good colleague involves a certain amount of commitment to one another when offstage, which is where I’m concerned I may be lacking.  I have not partied as much as my peers, who have an amazing ability to function on very little sleep and levels of very high decibels.  My allergic reaction to alcohol doesn’t help, since it seems to be a prerequisite to a good party.  However, sitting up on my high horse about being healthy and well rested for morning rehearsals means I’m separating myself from the people with whom I should be bonding.  I already feel uneasy when looking at Facebook pictures of my peers at parties and wonder, if they party, but aren’t capable of remembering it, is it the same as never being there at all?  In this sweltering heat, I do not want to be remembered as the one cold part of Castleton.  After all, Virginia is for lovers!

This penultimate week is also an important time because we’ve reached the point where  “So what happens now?”  enters the picture.  To finish my Evita reference, I do find myself getting lost in “Where am I going to…” and luckily, my pianist and dear friend has found a way to lovingly tell me, “Don’t ask anymore.”  Physically, I know I’m going back to California for a short stay, where I will cuddle with my German shepherd (with whom I sing many duets) and study/perform with Second City Improv of Hollywood.  After that, a return to NY, and then the questions arise.  I have a strong desire to change the way I’m living my day to day life, more coachings, more practicing, more yoga, etc., and not a clue as to how that could be financially or physically possible.  I’ve started pondering going back to school someday, somewhere, and wondering if it should be for singing or something else entirely.  I haven’t thought such thoughts in a very long time and they are scary, but perhaps necessary.  I am facing the terrifying questions of “Am I making enough progress?”  “Am I on the right track?”  “Am I wasting my time?” ”Am I too old?”  “Will I end up one of those scary spinsters with too many cats and embroidered pillows saying OPERA IS PURRRRFECT?”  This is when I need a slap in the face and a “Don’t ask anymore.”  This is when I decide to just live out each moment of these next two weeks and cross that terrifying bridge when I come to it.

So a few more operas, a few more concerts, a few more coachings, and a few more cookies remain.  I officially give myself permission to go big or go home in every endeavor, because the latter is bound to happen in the blink of an eye anyway.  I can focus all of my energy on my resonance and my relationships, and refuse to worry about my life plan until I’m so far away from Castleton that I start to get cell phone service again.  I’m going to lick the icing off of my fingers and count my rhythms, not calories.  And by golly, I will embrace all things Southern: overly friendly locals, catcalls from tractors, and a Monday-Saturday love affair with Chick-Fil-A.   This coloratura will go out on a high note!