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.

night

Alright. Maybe the heroic act of signing up for a blog isn’t enough to get the fires of motivation burning. It’s been weeks (okay, months) since my last post. Hmm. The work, however, has been quite active within my skull. It bounces and moves, like swaying bodies in a dance hall. The first sentence for that story I’m going to start, the perfect description of her hands. Of that feeling that comes over you at dusk, when your off-duty life can either blossom or wither. The sun is slipping away, bringing calm. I can make my noise now, the sounds I’m denied during the day. The measured, practiced, focused screams and flutters that somehow add up to music. The average toddler laughs 300 times a day; the average adult, 35. This is what I do instead of laughing. I bring sound to poetry that otherwise stays silent on the page. I have a treasure, a discipline, and a belief. It takes me above my colleagues, the other young people who spend their days in silence like me, clicking and thinking, and waiting. I shop, haunt new restaurants, fill my weekends with culture, just like they all do. But it’s my sound that makes me different, brings me closer to the Divine. I shouldn’t call it sound. The music is really a byproduct of the sensations. Expansion, pressure, movement, balance, breath, focus. This is what fills my nights, and my waking thoughts as I walk down the stairs for more water, as I allow conversation to sweep around me. It’s all sub rosa during the day. It’s only afterwards that my energy really comes to, and I carry out my work to the audience of my kitchen cockroaches, and my suffering neighbors.

Suffering? That’s not what they say. They recognize me instantly in the elevator, neighbors I’ve never seen, who live nowhere near my floor. “Are you that opera singer?” Hey, I look the part. I can’t help but think that they loathe every minute they’re forced to hear me. It’s only an hour or so – I justify – I’m not as loud as a trombone. But what’s really going on is this: I’m yet another mouth in a crowded slew of mouths, all barking towards the same goal. You have to be a visionary to sing well, to communicate. That doesn’t count the details, the tone, the weight, the........ pitch. It’s all got to be there, and every time I fail in some way, I fell farther and farther from my goal. My treasure brings me closer to the Divine, which is where I must believe I belong.

So this is the struggle that keeps me from writing this blog, that keeps me on page four of the teach-yourself fiction writing book. But sometimes even my music discipline fades, and I slip into the pages of a magazine, swim through some red wine, or marvel at how fast the hours can career by, as if it didn’t matter if I accomplished something or not.....

I’m working towards a concert right now. It will soon be evident to me and everyone else listening if my hours were used wisely or not. I have exactly two weeks to get more comfortable with the 23 songs I have planned for a recital. There is no one making me do this, no college credit or big career step. I decided to put myself through this all by myself, so I can only blame me if I forget the words, miss a beat, sing way off pitch, or stumble (and there are so many ways I can). But it’s a project I’ve wanted to do for a long time, and only now do I feel I have some of the tools to do it. I’ll be working at it every day, and doing the very best I can on September 18.

The Beginning

Good evening. After reading about the blog explosion - and how boring they are, and that no one reads them - I decided it was the right time for me to put me thoughts out there for no one to look at. Actually, I want a place and reason to write for pleasure, which I haven't spent enough time doing. Hopefully knowing that I might, just might, have an audience looking for posts will inspire me to sit down and write something, right? I'm also trying to discipline myself to have more discipline.

Why a singer's journal? Well, that's where the discipline comes in. For several years now I've been studying voice with the intent of eventually earning part of my living from music, classical music. I can't tell you how many people I've met who consider this to be a colossal waste of time and money. I can see it that way too, and many times I wish I had fallen in love with investment banking, or law, or anything more practical. But here I am. Working to pay for rent and voice lessons, eking out a decent hour of practice after work and weekends, and slowly beginning to perform. But I wouldn't trade this first hand experience of music for the world. The problems that arise include traits I feel I've inherited: a proclivity to laziness, reckless feelings of self-doubt, and a lack of ambition. I'm just at the start of this journey, and I've yet to even imagine where it will take me.

In this blog I plan to discuss my vocal progress and experiences, as well as share some fiction, which I'll hopefully be motivated to produce.

So that's enough for tonight. I should be off to bed and up early for a productive day, musically and otherwise.