The rest of that evening last year was the verbal equivalent of snorting cocaine: one of us would say something (express our feelings, relate a story, reminisce), the other would react as if deeply inhaling a drug, and then come down before the next hit. I learned that he had cried on New Year's Day as well, and that I had unconsciously let a furtive "I love you" slip as we were getting off the phone weeks before. The next day, singing love songs at my recital, I finally understood what the words meant.
I am thinking of this because (I really wanted to get that awesome drug simile on paper!) and it's not unlike how I'm thinking of my singing right now. Although it's hard to pin down lessons with my new teacher, her ideas are moving my technique to another level, and proving applicable to other things too.
The idea is that you create volume and richness of tone by turning your focus extremely inward, creating resonance, compression and strength deep within your body, in order for the sound to be focused and concentrated enough to project outwards. So after years of worrying about what my throat was doing, and my mouth and tongue, she has gotten me to think more about my sinuses- where the sound is resonating before being released by my mouth -and the center of my abdomen, where the muscles support the placement of the air. It's a beautiful idea, that by going inward as much as you possibly can, you can project an expression that travels far and is understandable to everyone who hears it.
And that idea can work for your emotional interpretation as well. Singing a song about love and expressing general happiness about it doesn't carry at all. No one will believe you when you sing. But if you make it personal, if you sing that song because there is nothing else in the world you could possibly sing in that moment, because you must tell your story and because the audience must listen, then it is the most truthful moment in the world.
Just like being in love. Yes, I'm saying that singing is like being in love- is that obsessive or what! It wouldn't work if you tried to emulate what you think love/singing should look/sound like. It only works when you go as deep into yourself as you can, trust your gut, fill yourself with focused, beautiful intentions, and allow that to project.
Am I deep or what? ;-)
Friday, February 29, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Cutting to the Chase
Ardent fans of this website - both of you - have noticed that I have been back-dating my posts to correspond with my trip last month. I did this for historical reasons, to inscribe those events here for all time on the right dates. But I was also trying to do an artistic and creative lead-up to some quite personal news. Because, you see, I'm in love.
And you thought you were bored with my travelogues! Let me regale you with the most tired story of all time! Let me get snagged in that quicksand that has caught many finer poets and let me tell you all about love. Let me fail with the best of them, and what of it? It's Valentine's Day, and I just have to tell the world. (Well actually, in true fashion, I'm finally posting this more than a week later, but we're all still in V-day afterglow, right?)
It's quite a boast, to claim Love's good graces. Most music and art from any period of time decries the vicariousness of the winged boy, begging for mercy or for the sweet release of death. To declare that you love and are loved in return is a vanity equal to boasting of your great beauty or wealth, or of deep intelligence. Finding love is like receiving a gift. But like all adult experiences, being in love is different than one imagines as a child. Being in love is more like being in good health: a condition that take cannot be imagined when you don't have it, takes some effort to maintain, and once you have it you don't know how you lived without it.
But the metaphor of a gift is more apt, as my love arrived over a year ago, on my birthday. Jumping out of a cake. Wrapped in one red ribbon. (Kidding! Kidding!!!!)
I was turning 30. I spent the weeks leading up to the date in late October in a sort of grim advent, the way one both dreads yet guiltily looks forward to the death of a terminally ill loved one. And it was a death that awaited me on that birthday (and really, on every birthday). Another year was dead and gone, and so was my youth.
My life was certainly not bad, but, as often happens to me, every disappointment or unrealized expectation hit me close to the bone: Not quite the right teacher at school. Not quite the best experience overall at school. Disenchantment with life (and men) in Mass. Job turmoil, difficulty making friends, no family nearby. Was my life in New York so bad that I had to give it up for this?
In late September, I had arranged to get my first professional headshot. It's something of a milestone as a singer, and I also looked at it as a photo to preserve an image of my youth. The last shot of me in my 20s! But days before the shoot, I had my hair cut at a salon, where they chopped my hair off shorter than it had ever been. A friend commented that while my headshots looked fine, that haircut did make me look older than I was.....
So I did not arrive at my birthday party with joy. Then an acquaintance walked in, who I barely recognized, and whom I barely remembered inviting. She had brought someone with her. He was wearing a blazer and carrying a bottle of wine. A barolo.
My new party guest proved to be a balancing element to my assembly of laconic musician friends. He was eager to chat about music, which countered nicely with musicians' inclination to whine about the competitive life. He amiably drove some people home, and he laughed at my jokes, though we didn't talk one-on-one much at all at the party. Although I do remember meeting his eyes when I volunteered that I enjoy sleeping in bed diagonally. I can't recall what the topic could have been. He gave me a ride home, and on parting we exchanged cards (which we both still carry in our wallets today), as we both seemed interested in making new friends. I had not thought of him as someone I would date.
A polite week went by. I received an email invitation to attend the symphony, which was performing Schoenberg. I can't say anyone else had ever suggested that as a fun thing to do! I had other plans, but we go together and ended up seeing each frequently over about a month. Neither of us called them dates. At first I found it a little odd that this new person in my life seemed so intent on hanging out with me, especially since we weren't officially dating. (HA! Amanda, get a clue!) But over time, I realized I was more relaxed because of my new companion, and that spending time together was the most natural feeling I had had in a long time.
On December 8th, my mom's birthday, my new friend gamely offered to drive me out to the wretched suburban city of Lynn, where I was singing and dancing (don't laugh) in Amahl and the Night Visitors. Afterwards, when he drove me home, we had a conversation that I hadn't expected to have when I woke up that morning. "Are we dating?" I finally asked. "Well, I would like to be," came the reply. The subsequent kiss was not just our first kiss. I felt as if I were a young girl, and had just had my very first kiss.
The following weeks proceeded as they were destined to. By Christmas my fate was sealed, and by New Year's I had entered fully-fledged into the Gaga Phase. All the things that you think never really happen any more were there: the world looking rosy, butterflies, excitement to be together, missing each when we're apart. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying. On New Year's Day, after we spent a long brunch together sharing family stories and more about ourselves, I went home, hung up my coat, and had a little cry. I was so happy, and yet frightened at the newness of it and at the risk.
Valentine's Day 2007 in Boston was like hell frozen over. Hail, frozen rain, sleet, snow, wind- you name it. I'd never felt particular emotional attachment to the holiday, which I found commercial, meaningless, and an excuse for restaurants to overcharge. I hadn't wanted to dine out, but once the storm subsided we ended up going to a neighborhood Mexican place decorated with balloons and chocolate where they gave all the ladies carnations. Though I probably looked like a drowned rat, having trooped around in the snow all day, the restaurant was cozy and canoodle-friendly.
Afterwards, we returned to his apartment to do some work. He had papers to grade, and I had a recital the next day and I still had to write the translations! We sat down at respective computers. When I got up to retrieve something from my bag, he said "Wow." I thought he was commenting on my curves, but was only reacting to emails from his students. I expressed mock dismay. "Haven't I objectified you enough today?" He said jokingly as he walked with me back to my computer.
He told me a story. At Carnegie Hall the month before, where he was singing with the BSO, (yeah, that's the kind of person I date) he nearly swooned. The piece was Berlioz's Faust, which, although the love story is doomed and overshadowed by Satan's charismatic presence, contains a beautiful moment when Marguerite is singing to herself the story of the faithful King of Thule. "I thought about you," he said. "And I thought about love." I was seated, looking up at him, conscious of my smeared makeup and matted hair. He gave me a hug. "Because you know I love you, right?"
And there it was. Not a gift, nor a challenge, nor an arrow through the heart. Just a rhetorical question, which only had one answer.
And you thought you were bored with my travelogues! Let me regale you with the most tired story of all time! Let me get snagged in that quicksand that has caught many finer poets and let me tell you all about love. Let me fail with the best of them, and what of it? It's Valentine's Day, and I just have to tell the world. (Well actually, in true fashion, I'm finally posting this more than a week later, but we're all still in V-day afterglow, right?)
It's quite a boast, to claim Love's good graces. Most music and art from any period of time decries the vicariousness of the winged boy, begging for mercy or for the sweet release of death. To declare that you love and are loved in return is a vanity equal to boasting of your great beauty or wealth, or of deep intelligence. Finding love is like receiving a gift. But like all adult experiences, being in love is different than one imagines as a child. Being in love is more like being in good health: a condition that take cannot be imagined when you don't have it, takes some effort to maintain, and once you have it you don't know how you lived without it.
But the metaphor of a gift is more apt, as my love arrived over a year ago, on my birthday. Jumping out of a cake. Wrapped in one red ribbon. (Kidding! Kidding!!!!)
I was turning 30. I spent the weeks leading up to the date in late October in a sort of grim advent, the way one both dreads yet guiltily looks forward to the death of a terminally ill loved one. And it was a death that awaited me on that birthday (and really, on every birthday). Another year was dead and gone, and so was my youth.
My life was certainly not bad, but, as often happens to me, every disappointment or unrealized expectation hit me close to the bone: Not quite the right teacher at school. Not quite the best experience overall at school. Disenchantment with life (and men) in Mass. Job turmoil, difficulty making friends, no family nearby. Was my life in New York so bad that I had to give it up for this?
In late September, I had arranged to get my first professional headshot. It's something of a milestone as a singer, and I also looked at it as a photo to preserve an image of my youth. The last shot of me in my 20s! But days before the shoot, I had my hair cut at a salon, where they chopped my hair off shorter than it had ever been. A friend commented that while my headshots looked fine, that haircut did make me look older than I was.....
So I did not arrive at my birthday party with joy. Then an acquaintance walked in, who I barely recognized, and whom I barely remembered inviting. She had brought someone with her. He was wearing a blazer and carrying a bottle of wine. A barolo.
My new party guest proved to be a balancing element to my assembly of laconic musician friends. He was eager to chat about music, which countered nicely with musicians' inclination to whine about the competitive life. He amiably drove some people home, and he laughed at my jokes, though we didn't talk one-on-one much at all at the party. Although I do remember meeting his eyes when I volunteered that I enjoy sleeping in bed diagonally. I can't recall what the topic could have been. He gave me a ride home, and on parting we exchanged cards (which we both still carry in our wallets today), as we both seemed interested in making new friends. I had not thought of him as someone I would date.
A polite week went by. I received an email invitation to attend the symphony, which was performing Schoenberg. I can't say anyone else had ever suggested that as a fun thing to do! I had other plans, but we go together and ended up seeing each frequently over about a month. Neither of us called them dates. At first I found it a little odd that this new person in my life seemed so intent on hanging out with me, especially since we weren't officially dating. (HA! Amanda, get a clue!) But over time, I realized I was more relaxed because of my new companion, and that spending time together was the most natural feeling I had had in a long time.
On December 8th, my mom's birthday, my new friend gamely offered to drive me out to the wretched suburban city of Lynn, where I was singing and dancing (don't laugh) in Amahl and the Night Visitors. Afterwards, when he drove me home, we had a conversation that I hadn't expected to have when I woke up that morning. "Are we dating?" I finally asked. "Well, I would like to be," came the reply. The subsequent kiss was not just our first kiss. I felt as if I were a young girl, and had just had my very first kiss.
The following weeks proceeded as they were destined to. By Christmas my fate was sealed, and by New Year's I had entered fully-fledged into the Gaga Phase. All the things that you think never really happen any more were there: the world looking rosy, butterflies, excitement to be together, missing each when we're apart. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying. On New Year's Day, after we spent a long brunch together sharing family stories and more about ourselves, I went home, hung up my coat, and had a little cry. I was so happy, and yet frightened at the newness of it and at the risk.
Valentine's Day 2007 in Boston was like hell frozen over. Hail, frozen rain, sleet, snow, wind- you name it. I'd never felt particular emotional attachment to the holiday, which I found commercial, meaningless, and an excuse for restaurants to overcharge. I hadn't wanted to dine out, but once the storm subsided we ended up going to a neighborhood Mexican place decorated with balloons and chocolate where they gave all the ladies carnations. Though I probably looked like a drowned rat, having trooped around in the snow all day, the restaurant was cozy and canoodle-friendly.
Afterwards, we returned to his apartment to do some work. He had papers to grade, and I had a recital the next day and I still had to write the translations! We sat down at respective computers. When I got up to retrieve something from my bag, he said "Wow." I thought he was commenting on my curves, but was only reacting to emails from his students. I expressed mock dismay. "Haven't I objectified you enough today?" He said jokingly as he walked with me back to my computer.
He told me a story. At Carnegie Hall the month before, where he was singing with the BSO, (yeah, that's the kind of person I date) he nearly swooned. The piece was Berlioz's Faust, which, although the love story is doomed and overshadowed by Satan's charismatic presence, contains a beautiful moment when Marguerite is singing to herself the story of the faithful King of Thule. "I thought about you," he said. "And I thought about love." I was seated, looking up at him, conscious of my smeared makeup and matted hair. He gave me a hug. "Because you know I love you, right?"
And there it was. Not a gift, nor a challenge, nor an arrow through the heart. Just a rhetorical question, which only had one answer.
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