Easterners always hear about the different kinds of energy found on the West Coast. And it's true, it's an ineffable energy you pick up within minutes of setting foot on the sun-bleached soil and feeling the eye-contact from a well-tanned inhabitant. The fact that I even mentioned the word 'energy' indicates that I am on the West Coast. Back East, we generally talk about our lack of energy instead.
As far as I can tell, life in California is similar to life on Mars. That is to say, it is bloody hot, and you never forget the volatility of the ground you're walking on. These factors explain why Californians build their buildings to expand outwards instead of upwards, turning the endless mountains and valleys into endless sprawl and mansions. That's why Los Angeles County is the size of Connecticut. And why literally nothing is in walking distance. And why you see many more cars than people on the multi-lane streets.
What brings me out here? (Where it's 109 degrees today.) Why, a cult, of course, as my mother fears. And that's our impression of this place back home- you'd have to be a bit mad to live here, and once you do, if you're not fried by the sun you're shaken by an earthquake.
But my membership in this particular cult is independent of geography, as the home locations of the other participants attest. I'm part of the international cult of singers. In LA, I'm with a flock of singers attending a workshop that claims to be "an incomparable experience that redefines the artist and the person." Sounds pretty cultish so far. And we spend our days doing quite disturbing things: movement improv, conversations in gibberish, yoga, visualization, and the mysterious experience of Alexander technique, to name a few. All in the name of trying to improve our singing, to feel like we really own our craft and are more comfortable onstage.
There actually are 3 parallel programs in one: Emerging Artists for college kids, Voice Teacher Training for grownups, and the Advanced Accelerated program (also known as AA) for the rest of us. As shorthand on the schedule, symbols stand in for acronyms. So the AAs are hearts, the teachers - who tend to be longer in the tooth - are diamonds, and the kids, adorably, are stars. There are 47 participants. Four are male. Living and working together, largely in isolation from the real world, I feel like part of a very large polygamous family. Feigning affection for our sister wives (my competitors, after all), each of us hoping that the opera industry will choose to get in bed with us over all the others.
Each morning, after a 1.5 mile walk in the heat from our dorms to the music building, we begin our day with yoga. The teacher moves at an achingly slow pace, which caused me to be impatient during the first few sessions. But as it's become routine, I've enjoyed starting my day with some stretches to open myself up, rather than a real workout that leaves me knocked out. It's one of the habits I've begun here that I hope to continue when I return.
With yoga every day, you can't help but feel calm. Usually with such a high concentration of singers, I flip out. I did that a bit initially, as usual, but I soon found myself breathing deeply. Besides, we're all just here to hone our craft. And likely, we weren't accepted to better young artist programs.
So for two weeks we take out our audition arias and try new things with them to make them more appealing. In general, this means going WAY outside the realm of reality. For example, during the first performance techniques class, I sang Voi che sapete as a strip tease. (Don't worry, my name tag was the most revealing thing to go.) What's the point? This is one way to stop listening to the inhibiting voices that pipe up when you nervously sing in front of strangers. Eventually, you do different things to bring the piece back to a presentable work. We've been issued sets of flashcards with different physical cues or attitudes to assume (surprised, angry, miserable, etc.), to spark some ideas for dramatic choices and to give you something to focus on. The second time I sang Voi che, a week after the first, the director assumed Cherubino's inner dialogue by whispering in my ear, a welcome alternative to my own self-conscious voices (what gesture would they like here? Am I locking my knees? Damn, I forgot the double n.) After I sang it on my own, able to focus on communicating with an imaginary Countess and Susanna in front of me, the director raised a fist, and shouted, 'Yes! Yes! Yes!' If I can get Voi che to work, I can do anything.
The same person also runs the improv classes. Yes, vocal improv. It's not as terrible as it sounds. Some was free-from in small groups, each of us responding to the tones of the other. Then, we improvised arias, duets, and entire scenes over an improvised accompaniment. It was challenging, and maybe not ready for the public, but I learned something valuable: when I stop worrying about my voice and just focus on committing to the scene, the right notes, technique, and musicianship all fall into place. And just think what I can do when I actually know the words and the notes beforehand!
Other classes are interesting, but not as successful. When we've moved around in free-form 'dance' during movement class, I've had a lot of fun. (Someone even asked if I used to be a dancer!) But the same teacher gave a lecture about how the brain works that, if you'll pardon the expression, went over our heads. And now we're putting together a show -performing tonight, in fact- that I would have gladly skipped in favor of more classes.
But I'm hoping I'll remember what it's like to trust that I probably do know how to sing by now, and that my body and brain will figure it out on their own when I go to perform, and that my only conscious task must be to commit to the scene at hand, and replace my insecure voices with fun, joyful chatter about the message I'm conveying. And that the result will be better than anything I could have done if I had tried too hard.
It sounds very campy writing this down. But then again, I'm in a campy part of the world. Where we talk about chakras and sufis and Tasmanian actors and Italian opera. Maybe when the sun shines on your mind year round, your abilities grow as tall as cypresses.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Memento
Lost among the many shipwrecks along the whale-bitten shores of the Channel Islands, California's ferocious answer to the Galapagos, lie the remains of the great expedition of Scott Faulkner Robert. Recently, in a journey nearly as perilous as that of Robert's, the tattered remains of a diary were found, still clasped lovingly in the dessicated hands of a skeleton. Below are the legible excerpts from that work.
Day 3
We have made good time, launching ourselves across the ice caps that litter the channel between the island of California and the islands of the channel, which have yet to be named. Simon has become adept at catching our dinner (usually flamingos) and Walter has designed attractive headdresses with their feathers. We'll use them in the talent show next Friday. I have chosen to head our expedition due west, as our attempts during the first few days to head east only left us in the sand of the main island. I have great expectations of our discoveries ahead.
Day 4
Sooner than expected, we have struck land! The cliffs of this tres petite island are most imposing, and I do not expect to make a landing unless we can scale the steep, ashen walls. Surely this monolith was formed by a volcano, or else placed by God's hand himself. Surrounding the isle are the most unusual dogs: they are friendly, they bark, and catch frisbees, but appear to be largely water-bound. Walter has expanded his practice to construct magnificent coats out of their pelts, though none of us believe dog-fur coats will have any following. No matter. A few more dinners of flamingoes (or pelicans, or whatever they are) and we will push off to explore the other nearby islands.
Day 6
Ah yes! This is what I expected all along! Dappled inlets of kelp forests and pebbly bays, purple sea urchins, and a quacking, tasty sea-ducks. (Cedric has elided the name to 'sucks.') We discovered a type of fish that is so bright orange, it resembles your typical greasy-skinned Italian mechanic. We shall call it: Garibaldi.
Onshore, tall trees give gracious shade, the sand gives way to tender earth, and a certain herb makes the whole place smell of roasted rosemary potatoes. I have high hopes forthis place. I can picture a razed plane, demolishing the mountains to turn them into fertile farm land, habitable living spaces, and ample parking.
Here, sheep may safely graze. (We're planning on swimming them over the 18-mile channel, surely enough will arrive.) Here, we can found a chapel, to glorify God and save the inhabitants: the island skunk, the scrub jay, and those swarthy aborigines underfoot. Here we can make a home. I am bold to say, but I will name this land for myself. I claim this land: Scottland!
Day 9
On further exploration, our immediate plans for colonization may yet be thwarted. Numerous difficulties loom, not the least of which is turning this mountain into a mole hill. The boys have been chipping away for days, yet it still resembles a mountain. But more seriously is our recent misadventure at sea, during which we attempted to circumcise the island with a mere 6-foot clipper.
Cedric, Walter, and I were in the dinghy. We set out at low tide, admiring the sealife in the tidal pools and weighing more varied dinner options among the fishies. We discoveried a series of caves, some of which connected deeper in the rock formations. We set about exploring, even as the tide grew higher and the waves grew rough. Suddenly, a rogue wave knocked the boat over, spilling out dear Walter, gentle Cedric, and my own tender self into the roiling sea. The wild kelp lashed our bare skin, the delicious fishes nibbled at our ankles, the seabirds licked their lips at our plight. As I stood there in the 3-foot deep water, I thought all was lost. Then, Roger came in from the dryland and gave us a tow back to port. It actually wasn't all that bad.
Day 13
Haven't been able to blog as much recently as times have been tough. Discontent reigns at base camp, as my men wonder how long we must stay, and cannot seem to fathom my need to catalog every pelican inhabitant of the island. (Or are they flamingos?) We must push on, even as food runs short, and tempers run high.
Day 19
An excruciating hike today. We became trapped in a canyon with a man-eating fennel, and had to amputate our own fingers after a case of rapid onset frostbite. It still stings a bit. I am writing with my nose. We returned to camp at dusk. After a brief supper of the remains of one of our companions (poor Cedric), we entered the tent where we recently had huddled for safety from the wild, cat-size foxes that rove the island at night. It was there that I knew the true struggle would begin.
Hear me, posterity. Night after night I have endured the most cruel torments at the hands of my compatriot. When darkness falls and we beg for sleep to accept us, I alone am left awake to contend with the most fearsome beast of all. Walter! Walter! That purported fop, that milksop pansy boy. Oh the terrors he wreaks at night with his loathsome noise, his thunderous ululations, his cavernous snore! In my mind, I wrestle with it, I fight it, I am bigger than the snoring, dammit! But, alas, I fail, and stagger sleeplessly each blinding dawn out of the little tent portal. I fear I will go mad. I have already lost track of all those pigeons I was cataloging, and now must start anew.
Day 21
Situation desperate. Food scarce. Mutiny afoot. Send help.
Day 22
PS, And if you happen to be a network producer, won't you please consider our story for a possible reality show? History will thank you. Thank you.
Day 3
We have made good time, launching ourselves across the ice caps that litter the channel between the island of California and the islands of the channel, which have yet to be named. Simon has become adept at catching our dinner (usually flamingos) and Walter has designed attractive headdresses with their feathers. We'll use them in the talent show next Friday. I have chosen to head our expedition due west, as our attempts during the first few days to head east only left us in the sand of the main island. I have great expectations of our discoveries ahead.
Day 4
Sooner than expected, we have struck land! The cliffs of this tres petite island are most imposing, and I do not expect to make a landing unless we can scale the steep, ashen walls. Surely this monolith was formed by a volcano, or else placed by God's hand himself. Surrounding the isle are the most unusual dogs: they are friendly, they bark, and catch frisbees, but appear to be largely water-bound. Walter has expanded his practice to construct magnificent coats out of their pelts, though none of us believe dog-fur coats will have any following. No matter. A few more dinners of flamingoes (or pelicans, or whatever they are) and we will push off to explore the other nearby islands.
Day 6
Ah yes! This is what I expected all along! Dappled inlets of kelp forests and pebbly bays, purple sea urchins, and a quacking, tasty sea-ducks. (Cedric has elided the name to 'sucks.') We discovered a type of fish that is so bright orange, it resembles your typical greasy-skinned Italian mechanic. We shall call it: Garibaldi.
Onshore, tall trees give gracious shade, the sand gives way to tender earth, and a certain herb makes the whole place smell of roasted rosemary potatoes. I have high hopes forthis place. I can picture a razed plane, demolishing the mountains to turn them into fertile farm land, habitable living spaces, and ample parking.
Here, sheep may safely graze. (We're planning on swimming them over the 18-mile channel, surely enough will arrive.) Here, we can found a chapel, to glorify God and save the inhabitants: the island skunk, the scrub jay, and those swarthy aborigines underfoot. Here we can make a home. I am bold to say, but I will name this land for myself. I claim this land: Scottland!
Day 9
On further exploration, our immediate plans for colonization may yet be thwarted. Numerous difficulties loom, not the least of which is turning this mountain into a mole hill. The boys have been chipping away for days, yet it still resembles a mountain. But more seriously is our recent misadventure at sea, during which we attempted to circumcise the island with a mere 6-foot clipper.
Cedric, Walter, and I were in the dinghy. We set out at low tide, admiring the sealife in the tidal pools and weighing more varied dinner options among the fishies. We discoveried a series of caves, some of which connected deeper in the rock formations. We set about exploring, even as the tide grew higher and the waves grew rough. Suddenly, a rogue wave knocked the boat over, spilling out dear Walter, gentle Cedric, and my own tender self into the roiling sea. The wild kelp lashed our bare skin, the delicious fishes nibbled at our ankles, the seabirds licked their lips at our plight. As I stood there in the 3-foot deep water, I thought all was lost. Then, Roger came in from the dryland and gave us a tow back to port. It actually wasn't all that bad.
Day 13
Haven't been able to blog as much recently as times have been tough. Discontent reigns at base camp, as my men wonder how long we must stay, and cannot seem to fathom my need to catalog every pelican inhabitant of the island. (Or are they flamingos?) We must push on, even as food runs short, and tempers run high.
Day 19
An excruciating hike today. We became trapped in a canyon with a man-eating fennel, and had to amputate our own fingers after a case of rapid onset frostbite. It still stings a bit. I am writing with my nose. We returned to camp at dusk. After a brief supper of the remains of one of our companions (poor Cedric), we entered the tent where we recently had huddled for safety from the wild, cat-size foxes that rove the island at night. It was there that I knew the true struggle would begin.
Hear me, posterity. Night after night I have endured the most cruel torments at the hands of my compatriot. When darkness falls and we beg for sleep to accept us, I alone am left awake to contend with the most fearsome beast of all. Walter! Walter! That purported fop, that milksop pansy boy. Oh the terrors he wreaks at night with his loathsome noise, his thunderous ululations, his cavernous snore! In my mind, I wrestle with it, I fight it, I am bigger than the snoring, dammit! But, alas, I fail, and stagger sleeplessly each blinding dawn out of the little tent portal. I fear I will go mad. I have already lost track of all those pigeons I was cataloging, and now must start anew.
Day 21
Situation desperate. Food scarce. Mutiny afoot. Send help.
Day 22
PS, And if you happen to be a network producer, won't you please consider our story for a possible reality show? History will thank you. Thank you.
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