The Beginning, take II

Okay. Okay. A couple of false starts. I started this journal to keep track of my recital preparations (10 months ago), but found that the preparations themselves kept me from blog maintenance. The same story for my grad school audition prep, which now too, is lost to history. I can no longer write about how I approached these two projects, but I can pick up from where I am now, after the facts, and starting to make some decisions.

I have heard from all but one of the eight schools I applied two. So far, four rejections, three acceptances. Not a bad number (and I expect that last school to come through too, I hope), but in some ways those acceptances themselves are failures. One school admitted me to their pedagogy program, which I did not apply to and expressed outright hostility towards when they asked if I would consider a masters in teaching instead of performing. Another accepted me to their voice program, but not opera. A third school, my first and most auspicious acceptance, comes with many strings attached. But what’s important to consider is the hot-pink, bold-faced writing on the wall: I do not have what it takes to be an opera singer. At least not right now. And even if I someday do have what it takes (i.e., the technique), I will be way too old, as I already am right now. Hmm.

This should not be upsetting. I was Broadway-dazzled as a girl and came to opera only later. Even after I started singing, I chose to pursue studies as an instrumentalist, shunning theater for the more subtle and abstract music of the symphony and the chamber ensemble. I’ll still take a concert anytime over a night at the opera. If I die without setting foot on the Met’s stage, so be it; there are other working singers with interesting careers outside of the grotesque world of PR agencies and fan clubs. But still. Don’t tell me I can’t, when I’ve barely started trying. But maybe these rejections are telling me that I shouldn’t even be trying.

I know, I shouldn’t say that. When 40 singers audition (on one day, mostly girls), 30 people are going to lose. They must make decisions somewhere. Too old, too inexperienced for her age, background in Baroque and not in opera, French horn undergrad and not voice, technique not advanced enough, weak rep, etc. Could be anything. But when own my teacher reinforced all of the above, and added that I’m not musical, it made me wonder why she’d been collecting checks from me all these years. I’m not ready to study nor to be a professional, and even though I am accepted somewhere, musical taste can’t be taught and I can’t compete with the young hotshots who’ve been onstage for years.

In my heart, I can’t believe this. And the optimist in me will fuel me through the next six years, when, once I reach the end of my childbearing age and if I still have no career and no hope of one, I will give it up. That’s the work for an optimist. I must pursue singing now. It’s not all I have in my life (may it never be!) but the joy it brings still outweighs the pain. And the pain, well, the Teutonic romantic in me still finds pleasure in the pain.

And so I wait for my last acceptance. Or rejection.