Lost Time

This is how I spent my morning today.

(Thanks Felice!)

Op-Ed

A colleague from the tour with the University of Michigan Symphony in February, the poet, Thomas Lynch, wrote an op-ed in the New York Times last Sunday. Read his insightful commentary here. How often, as we strive to make a living and careers, we musicians forget that music actually brings us all together to create beauty and the lesson that provides.

Trying Out

I woke up blessedly before the alarm this morning. I hate alarms - waking up to their blare so jarring. It is the closest experience I can imagine to the trauma of being forced out of the warmth of the womb into the cold bite of reality when we are born.

After the purge of morning pages, I flushed my sinuses and did some yoga, my neck, shoulders, calves, and hips screaming in agony as I tried to stretch them out and get blood flowing through them. I vowed to get a massage by the end of the day. I fried an egg , toasted an english muffin, and, annoyed that we were out of fruit, checked email while I ate. After ironing my shirt and making sure my suit wasn't too wrinkled after being neglected in a suitcase, I began to warm up as I got dressed and then rushed off to my audition.

Hopping out of my taxi, I saw that the sun was struggling to win it's battle with the clouds and ducked into the building where my audition was. A soprano was warming up, the Queen of the Night's high notes bouncing off the marble walls of the women's bathroom. I sat with my manager's assistant, and we discussed how the recital went on Sunday. Jeremy arrived from playing another audition elsewhere, and then the appointed hour arrived. We climbed the stairs up to the ballroom, introduced ourselves and began to sing. Two arias later, a couple of questions were asked, some compliments given, we said our goodbyes, and the waiting game began.

Onward

The shrill, piercing bleat of the alarm shockingly announced that it was time to wake up. I saw that it was still dark outside, and rolled over back to my dream, choosing to believe that the alarm was lying.

Five minutes later, the second alarm exploded, imploring us to get out of bed and catch our plane home.

We made ourselves presentable for travel and staggered to the airport shuttle, which whisked us to the airport in a timely fashion. Security was surprisingly not much of a headache, and we breezed to our gate where we boarded the homeward-bound plane. Ensconced in our seats, I envied Jeremy as he proceeded to fall back into a peaceful sleep, as if his slumber had never even been disturbed. I decided to cleanse my conscience by doing my morning pages, and then reached down and pulled out the green notebook that contains the music for New York Festival of Song's concerts next week. The Oklahoma airport shrinking to a series of dots as we ascended, I proceeded to continue my efforts to wrap my mind in the Russian and French songs that are Steve's gifts for me to enjoy discovering over the coming days.

We landed a couple minutes early, Jeremy ran off to play an audition for someone, and I took our suitcases home. I pulled out the yoga mat and made an effort to get my body warmed up, nibbled on a sandwich, sat at the piano to review the songs one more time, and then traipsed off to Steve's to rehearse our musical journey through Russia and France and all that connects them.

Jumping in

After breakfast, we scrambled to get ready to leave for our rehearsal and our recital that was to happen immediately after. We met Jeremy's page turner, and then dove right in, trying out various parts of the program, feeling out the acoustic of the hall. We debated about whether the piano lid should be at at full or half stick, we ran through the portions of the program that caused us stress, we warmed up the appropriate parts of our bodies needed for performance, and then we waited. While I waiting, I wrote out some song texts, trying to make sure I had them in my memory. I exercised that silly singer habit of testing my voice to make sure that it hadn't left me even though it felt fine thirty seconds ago. Jeremy sat and calmly read. We tied our ties, and then headed out to the hall, and without ever having run the program start to finish, plunged into Purcell.
Suddenly, it was over, our encore finished, Jeremy and I taking our final bows. It felt like a good performance. For a first run, it felt miraculously incredible. Our focus was intense, our hearts expressive. There were some things that we would like to fix, but that is the magic of live performance. It is perfectly human in it's imperfection and must be left behind. Until the next time.

Study in the Air

The puddle-jumper door closed and the flight attendant informed us in a tired, canned monotone that it was time for us to shut off our cell phones. The moisture was immediately sucked out of my nostrils now that we had been sealed into the tiny cylindrical body of the plane. I noticed that I was in an infinitely better mood than I often am when I have to fly, and then I looked over and realized how much more pleasant it is to travel with Jeremy in tow, as opposed to leaving him behind in our haven on the Upper West Side.

Looking over at this sweet, generous, loving man that I share my life with, I felt our impending first recital together looming in the back of my head like a child screaming for attention. Ignore the recital-child, and he will create problems when they are least expected. Devote a little thought to him, and there is a greater chance that a crisis will be averted. I dutifully and a little grudgingly pulled out a sheet of paper and a pencil to write out the texts of the songs that comprise our program. My immediate thought as I began writing was to admonish myself for not having done this simple exercise sooner. Somehow, a gentle and forgiving voice managed to find its way to the forefront of my mind, reminding me that I had been planning on having another month before putting this program up in public. As the plane took off, I regurgitated each poem onto the page through my pencil, and my anxiety about remembering each word and entrance slowly transformed itself into excitement for this unexpected opportunity to perform tomorrow.

The Unexpected

A short entry today, as Jeremy and I have found ourselves needing to pack for an unexpected, last-minute trip to Oklahoma where we will fill in for two ailing colleagues' recital on short notice this Sunday. Very exciting stuff for us, although we hope our colleagues recover quickly and are feeling better soon.

Spiritual Sweep

Immersed in Bach last weekend in Chicago, I began to notice how much my ego has come to play a role in my music making as of late. Part of it is the nature of singing oratorio pieces as opposed to opera. We show up to rehearse, rehearsals are short and to the point, and then we perform. The focus is on the music, and on the group as a whole and less on people’s voices and how high or fast they can sing (Carmina Burana excepted). The operatic world can be very focused on things like fach (a vocal niche in terms of repertoire), the size of a given role, how well you sing the high note in the aria, etc. Part of this is because opera is a form of theater, while oratorio work is a more musically focused event. I feel blessed to be able to do a healthy mix of both.

On top of this more musical focus, there is the incredible music of Bach. I found the energy of performing this masterwork to be different from other performances. Part of this is the story, of course, but I was also keenly aware of how great the music is. It is pristine, clear, meditative and yet passionate and expressive – so human and so divine. I wanted to perform well not to feel good about myself and my work, but because I felt that Bach’s music demanded it of me. I felt that it was a privilege to sing, and I ended up coming to the stage from a place of humility. It was a great relief, and I felt like it was a form of spiritual spring cleaning in a way. I certainly feel fresher and more ready to work now that I am back at home.

Dating my Artist

Why am I so bad about going on Artist Dates? I never do them. I'm devout about doing my morning pages - I have been for years. But the dates? I either forget to do them or try my damnedest to avoid them. I even tried to invite someone to go along with me on my artist date tonight. The first artist date I've gone on in months.

I'm not sure what my deal is - a lot of the time I never even think to go on one. But today, I reluctantly did it. I went to a movie all by myself at the Tribeca Cinemas (Shelter, in case you are curious). Even as I approached the box office to buy my ticket, I nearly turned around and went home. I felt a little giddy, like I was going on a first date with someone. I was even almost late for the movie - I almost showed up late for a date with myself. What kind of way is that to treat anyone, let alone yourself?

I really enjoyed the movie, and I was surprised how good I felt as I made my way home. I felt lighter, skipping to the station to catch the subway, my head in a dreamy state. It felt good to treat myself to a movie that I had been wanting to see. Going to movies by myself is one of my favorite solitary activities to do, actually, and I found myself wondering why I don't do it more often. Perhaps I will now. Perhaps this relationship with my artist is going somewhere wonderful.

Home Sweet Home

Another drainful experience on United today - my flight was canceled again, and what should have been a straightforward, easy trip home became a long sojourn at the airport. A friend pointed out to me that perhaps my "touched" relationship with United is brought on by my own negative thinking every time I need to fly them. Perhaps she's right...I'm sure The Secret would tell me so.

Happily, the sun was shining when I landed back in NYC, which brightened my spirits considerably.

Either way, I am happy to be back in my own bed, thinking about what a great experience I had this weekend.

Another Short Post

The St. Matthew Passion lasts about 3 and half hours. Today was also my last day in Chicago. Thus, a short post.

I had an even better time tonight, having one performance under my belt. I love singing Bach, and I want to sing more. Thankfully, I get to sing more in a few weeks in LA. Still, this experience is leaving me hungry for more and more Bach. So, here I am sending that energy out into the cosmos.

Off to pack and try to get a few hours of sleep so I'm not too much of a disaster tomorrow.

Loving

I love Bach. I can't wait to do another one tomorrow!

Meditating on Passion

Today’s dress rehearsal was my first experience ever hearing the St. Matthew Passion live, start to finish.

Back in the Fall, when I had an unusually large amount of solitary time to think during my sojourn in France, one of the thoughts that meandered through my mind was wondering how would I feel about performing this deeply religious piece of music for the first time. Musicians are often called upon to perform music that is religious in subject matter, and musicians’ beliefs span a wide spectrum from deeply religious to atheistic. Thinking about this upcoming Bach project got me pondering about how people relate to this music and subject matter. The most common thing I hear to this subject is, “it is such great music.”

Growing up, my mother took us each Sunday to Church, and faith has always been important part of my life. As I grow older and traverse the path my life continues to reveal for me, my feelings and beliefs about religion and the nature of God have changed, and as they evolve the less clear they become. I have always believed in a God, but I have come to question the impact of religion on society, and its reliance on the Bible as a historical document as I have gotten older. I have no answers, some opinions, and a set of beliefs that continues to evolve as time goes on. Coming from this perspective, I wondered, how will I relate to this music that tells the story of the Passion of Christ, the story that is the base of Christianity?

At a previous rehearsal, one of our organists and Jane, our conductor, were discussing the meditative nature of the piece. Today was surely a meditative experience. I found myself finding a fresh perspective on story of the Passion as each soloist breathed an emotional life into the narrative that I had never been able to appreciate before. I realized today that between the structure he created, the texts he chose, and the music he wrote, Bach infused the story with a drama I had never considered. By the time we were half way through the piece, I was surprised to find myself profoundly moved and inspired. I began to realize that in some senses, what is true is not what is important, but it is the lessons that we can draw from the story that are key. What does it mean to be selfless? What does it mean to truly love? In a way, more questions were raised, yet, somehow, I was left with a feeling of peace and the sense that I had taken a journey that had somehow changed me. This is more than just “great music”. It is a great experience.

Obbligato

We braved yesterday’s gloomy weather to rehearse the St. Matthew Passion obbligato arias, which abound in this masterpiece. It was like creating our own musical sunshine, and the grey energy of the day was kept at bay. Together, we channeled our inner chamber musicians, weaving the musical threads that Bach left for us, and I was reminded of sunny days from last summer in Marlboro. Part way through our rehearsal, as we listened to yet another stunning aria being rehearsed, I turned to one of my colleagues and said, “There is no shortage of beautiful music in this piece, is there?” She chuckled as she said, “Indeed, no truer words have been spoken.”

Indian Winter?

A lovely spring day in Chicago…so much for the nice, warmer weather holding out.

The dreary "wintry mix", as the weather channel refers to it, doesn’t lessen my love for this city by any means, though. As I walked down Michigan Avenue last night, searching for some dinner, a sense of homecoming settled in. While I have never lived in this city, I have spent a decent amount of time here over the years, and something about it’s combination of Midwestern-ness and big city scale strike the right chord in my heart. It has the right mix of sophistication and simplicity.

Off to see how it feels to sing after a couple of days of battling the flow of my runny nose (which has seemingly stopped today).

Airport Zen

So far, today has been unusually calm for a departure day. Normally, departure days are fraught with bickering and tension between me and Jeremy, a panicked, frenzied packing session during which at least one item is usually forgotten, and then a mad dash to the airport. Today, Jeremy and I simply acknowledged to each other that we were sad to be apart until Tuesday and then had a lazy, loving morning and a sweet goodbye as he left for work. After he left, I packed calmly and efficiently (hopefully not leaving anything behind this time) and then arrived at the airport in an unusually timely fashion. Then I remembered that I was flying a United Airlines flight to Chicago.

For some reason, every single time I fly United there is some sort of travel hiccup. Luggage lost, flights delayed, always something. Today, I arrived at the airport to discover that my flight was cancelled. As I try to channel my inner zen so that I don’t make myself any sicker and can continue on my path to recovery, I am looking for the silver lining. The positives? Well, I now have enough time to enjoy some airport chicken noodle soup – the best remedy for a cold, they say. I was able to buy some cheap, airport sunglasses. I have time to reflect on my last airport experience with ACB. I also now have enough time to post my blog entry for the day.

Searching for Spring

Every time Jeremy walks by a tree lately, he asks me if I think it looks like it might be sprouting buds, desperately hopeful that Spring is awakening. Thankfully, it looks like it is so here in New York. The weather has begun to change and warm a little, and the sun is shining. Unfortunately, with the beautiful weather last weekend, a little cold/sinus infection has come my way, as winter makes a last ditch effort to make its mark on me before it recedes for another nine-ish months. I should be fine for this weekend’s performances in Chicago, but it is a nuisance and adds some unnecessary stress to my weekend away nonetheless.

Being in my blocked funk and away from the blog, I am now out of the habit. In order to get the flow going again, I’m going to try one of those 30-ish day projects and blog everyday for the next month. Even if it’s just a sentence or just a picture, even if it is terrible and vapid, I will be here attempting to unclog daily until April 25^th. I’ve got a lot going on this month, so hopefully it won’t be too hard. Wish me luck.

The top photo was taken by Jeremy while on his quest for the budding trees.

Independent thinking

It has been almost three weeks since my last confession. I mean, entry.

I’ve been blocked. Not just blocked about my blogging, but blocked about everything – my taxes, my inbox, my laundry, cleaning my house, my grant applications, my singing – everything.

Traipsing through my former stomping grounds as a student and young artist the past couple of months, I have been forced to confront many artistic demons. Just like any person who dreams, I encountered some rather hurtful and harsh criticisms along with the valuable nuggets of wisdom that I gleaned during my studies, and while I had the luxury of revisiting some of what inspired me, I also revisited some of those the moments that dampened my artistic hopes at various times. Those discouraging moments quickly became many of the choice insecurities that are magnified by my inner critic/censor, that oh-so-tiny voice inside one’s head that can manage to ring loud enough to induce a flood of such depression and hopelessness that it can deafen one artistically. Normally, I can drown out that critical voice with a voice of positivity and hope so that it recedes into nothingness for the day, and so I can find the courage to take a few artistic steps forward. It is more difficult to wrestle that oh-so-tiny voice into submission when one is standing in the very rooms where the comments that have become the critic’s fodder originated or when one is standing face-to-face with one of the people who came up with one of those choice pearls of so-called wisdom. Dealing with that kind of internal negativity and hopelessness has been overwhelming despite all of the inspiration and nostalgia that came along with the experiences of being in those places.

About a year ago, I was on a break from rehearsal at Chicago Opera Theater, doing some work on The Artist’s Way, when a colleague peeked over my shoulder and asked what I was reading. I explained how it was a kind of 12-step program for artists with the goal of unblocking creativity, and he asked me if I actually thought that singing was a creative profession and if I believed that singers were actually artists. As we debated, (because, of course, I do believe both of those things to be true) he pointed out that it is really the work of the composers that is creative and that all we do is regurgitate their creations and then bow to the whims of the director or the conductor. I debated that our artform is a collaborative one – the composer, conductor, director all need us to realize their part of a vision, but we also are the ones who bring to it our hearts and minds, therefore infusing it with our own person. That is why performances of the same song or role by various singers vary so much from performer to performer. It is the singer who creates the live moment, the performance. Regardless, this mini-debate pointed out to me how much we are talked at and told what to do as singers.

We go to school and conservatory where we learn (if we are lucky) the beginnings of how to master our voice, how to pronounce and possibly speak various languages, music theory, music history, how to act, how to be on stage among so many other things. Then, as American-trained singers, we battle viciously to get into various young artist programs where we are told what to sing, what to wear, how to behave, how to sing, how to market ourselves, how to format our resumé. There is a tricky aspect to learning through this process, because while so much valuable information can be gleaned, nowhere is it taught how to think for one’s self – that is a lesson that is our responsibility for us to learn on our own, and in many ways, it has to be that way. After all, no one but you can teach you how to think for yourself. I think that those who do figure that lesson out are the ones who bear the mark of a true artist.

As my mind clears and my artist clears the block of negativity and fear that has clogged the flow of my creativity, a slowly widening ray of light is shining into my heart, and it is making me realize that the words of my inner critic are just limiting factors that hold me back from achieving my dreams. Thinking for myself means that I have to be able to truly and completely let go of the comments that don't ring true to me or that spread a wet blanket over my dreams. The more that I allow my inner critic, my mind's chief representative for what other people think, dictate my decisions and restrict the choices I make, the less risk I'll take and the less my work will flourish. The shadow that it casts is even preventing me from seeing all the dreams that have already come to fruition, and what use is it achieving your dreams if you can’t even enjoy them once they are realized?

Snowstorms in Ithaca

Tuesday, it was as if we all woke up on the wrong side of bed. Strange, grumpy moods prevailed, and there was just a bizarre energy in the air from the get-go. We attributed it to the low-pressure system that was passing through. Grey clouds ruled the sky, and then the snow began to fall. At the microphone-check (we are mic-ed in this piece to balance our voices with the folksinger) the news came that our folksinger, Tim, was on a plane that had been re-routed to Philadelphia and wouldn’t make it to Ithaca in time for the concert. After the sound check, ACB and I headed back to the hotel to grab a late lunch and iron our respective clothes. Being like the good boy scout I never was, I had brought my shirt to the concert hall just in case we didn’t have time to get back to the hotel, and thus brought it back with me in the hotel shuttle, which is where it got left. We managed to chase the shirt down just in time for me to iron it and run back to the concert hall for our pre-concert rehearsal. Our conductor, Ken, was not feeling well, feeling feverish and having an upset stomach. During the dinner-break, Ken got stranded back at the hotel, because the taxis were running very late due to the winter storm. And yet, despite all of these annoyances and distractions, the concert turned out to be an incredibly moving and special experience.

Because Tim was stranded in the city of brotherly love, Evan Chambers, the composer of The Old Burying Ground, stepped in to sing his songs, the first two songs on the concert. We stepped out to take our preliminary bows and then took our seats and watched and listened as Evan transported us out of the horrible day, storms and all, and brought to life his own musical creation. Watching him perform was inspiring – all the trials of the day were left behind, and he magnetically locked us into the present moment, in all its emotional intensity and musical glory. It inspired all of us to follow suit and do the same, Ken and the orchestra pouring focused passion into their playing, and ACB and I giving our all, as well. It made for a very exciting and special moment. The strong start that Evan gave us carried all the way through the concert – the orchestra played an incredibly passionate rendition of Mahler 5 right afterwards.

Most of my musical life, I have worked to serve many dead composers ranging from Monteverdi to Mozart to Stravinsky. Occasionally, I have had the opportunity to serve living composers, which is so wonderful to not only get to go straight to the source, so to speak, with musical questions, but also to get to know them personally. Getting to sing a composer’s music with the composer as a fellow performer is an even rarer treat. Last night was one of those magical moments, made even more special by its unexpectedness. It was moment when everything about the piece became clear in a very special way.

Tomorrow we bring our work to Carnegie Hall, which will be the exciting culmination of our tour. It’s been an incredible week, and I’ve had the best time getting to relive a little bit of my University of Michigan days with Ken, the orchestra, and Evan. All the best to my colleagues for a great performance tonight, and… (I have to say it, proud Wolverine that I am) Go Blue!

* Top photo taken by ACB experimenting with my new camera. Second photo is of the concert hall in Ithaca, and the third is the principal cellist's beautiful cello.

Inpirations, Hopes, Dreams

I should be going to bed now so that I can be somewhat well rested to catch the bus with the orchestra at 6:30am, but I am not sleepy yet.

I’ve been entranced with awards shows this week. Occasionally, while wasting time on youtube, I dare to dream a little dream and watch excerpts from the Kennedy Center Honors from years past. I did so this week, and found myself inspired. I am inspired by the work, dedication, commitment and perseverance that so many of these honorees gave to their art. To think that Beverly Sills had to audition for New York City Opera seven times in order to make her debut there, that Leon Fleisher continued to make music despite not having use of his right hand for so many years, or to think that African-American honorees such as Leontyne Price, Ruby Dee, and Ossie Davis overcame prejudice and segregation in order to become artistic leaders is awe-inspiring. It takes unimaginable tenacity to overcome such obstacles and to have such an impact on the world at large. The sum of their work is greatness, and for some reason, watching these clips this week, it dawned on me for the first time that such greatness takes years and years filled with a commitment to daily, hard work. The tributes to these people are touching, and filled my heart with awe, as they inspire the soul to aspire to greatness. Watching a Kennedy Center Honor tribute to Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn, I discovered this poem attributed to Apollinaire:

"Come to the edge."

"We can't. We're afraid."

"Come to the edge."

"We can't. We will fall!"

"Come to the edge."

And they came.

And he pushed them.

And they flew.

Hearing this for the first time this week, and watching these people be honored for the artistic contributions over the years, I thought to myself, “Why don’t I push myself further? Closer to the edge of my own dreams?”

Tonight’s acceptance speech by Marketa Irglova for the Oscar for Best Original Song was also something I found inspiration in. She said: “I just want to thank you so much. This is such a big deal, not only for us, but for all other independent musicians and artists that spend most of their time struggling, and this, the fact that we're standing here tonight, the fact that we're able to hold this, it's just to prove no matter how far out your dreams are, it's possible. And, you know, fair play to those who dare to dream and don't give up. And this song was written from a perspective of hope, and hope at the end of the day connects us all, no matter how different we are.”

So, it’s ok to dare to hope, and sometimes dreams do come true. And at the end of the day, the choice to do the work each day is what combines that hope and those dreams and brings them to the next level – faith.