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Usher was a smashing success. The show went off without a hitch, and I think we're all proud of what we presented. There's something really nice about doing smaller-scale projects. We were able to go much deeper than what's usually possible in the typical six week rehearsal block. Usually you have many more moving parts, involving more complicated set changes, the addition of a chorus, many more roles, etc. In Usher we had three main roles and two smaller ones, which just through pure arithmetic meant each person had more time to dig deeper throughout rehearsals.
And it paid off. I've explained to my colleagues how I so rarely feel I can stop worrying about what comes next in a show. In this one, it's just one moment flows into the next, and I'm staying present the whole time. The intensity of the staging requires it. There's something to be said for doing something so psychologically intense. It's actually freeing, in a weird way. Freeing from my own inner thoughts and demons, which we all have. (Sometimes on stage I've found myself thinking about what I'm going to eat after the show, or what things I need to get done.) After the premiere, I've enjoyed a little bit of downtime. But not much. Because this coming week it's back to Humanoid, a revival (Wiederaufnahme) from last season by Leonard Evers. It's kind of an opera version of the movie Her, where Joaquin Phoenix falls in love with his AI voice assistant. In the opera, my character Jonas has created his own pet robots, including one as a recreation of his dead girlfriend. Weird stuff.
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When I talk to people who have nothing to do with the classical music world and tell them I'm an opera singer, the response is often something along the lines of "sounds glamorous" or "what an exciting life that must be!" There's sort of an exotic appeal to it from the outside, as if we all live the life of a diva and get to do extravagant travel to far-off locales.
It's really nothing like that. Yes, it's an exciting life, and I've pursued it because of a passion for theater, singing, and classical music. But sometimes it's a real grind. Last night was a performance of Die schöne Helena at my theater, Staatstheater Mainz. I found a way to enjoy it, but sometimes it really feels like, "Okay, got to go into the office now." I think every singer knows this feeling. We work so hard to get here, but after doing it day in and day out, eventually it begins to feel like a job. What helps in these situations is my colleagues. I find energy from them. When my attention is wandering, I bring myself back to the people on stage who are giving everything they have in that moment. I come back to the present, and I try to give back what they've given me. It's a self-reinforcing circle. And last night's Helena turned out to be a good one! But now, it's back to focusing on this week's premiere, The Fall of the House of Usher. In Germany, I have a "fixed" contract (a Festvertrag) at the house in Mainz. That means I have full-time employment in the theater here, and it usually means that I have to jump around from one opera role to the next.
I often get asked how it is we do this. I am by no means the expert -- I find it difficult too -- but I really think the answer rests in the preparation. When you've learned a role to the fullest extent (if such a thing is possible), it lives in you. There will always be bits of dialogue you'll need to freshen up, especially if months have passed since the last performance, which does sometimes happen. But mostly, the role is there, and yes, switching between them has different physical and mental demands, but here's the thing: you always find a way. I never thought I could do four performances of three performances, all on consecutive days, but I've done that a few times now. And the approach is always the same: to take it one moment at a time. (Note to self: I have to do that again in March, with an Usher-Helena-Humanoid-Humanoid.) I'm sure anyone who's done any kind of theatrical production, no matter the level, can tell you that it can be all-consuming during the rehearsal process, especially towards the end (what we call Endproben in Germany). Sometimes that's a really beautiful thing.
It feels apt to say that each production is its own universe. I try not to forget this. There is a unique quality to each one, and every little thing that each person does contributes to that universe in its own little way. There are a million different permutations of the people involved, the performance space, the set and costume design, the musical interpretation, the dramatic choices, the diction, etc. There is a myriad of variables, all jumbled together to form a particular constellation that makes up the fabric of a production. This is what I mean when I say each production exists in its own universe. And sometimes it really does feel that those involved are living wholly and completely in that universe. Taking a step back on a day off today, I'm reminded there are so many other aspects to my life that are momentarily neglected. That's not necessarily a bad thing. I'll get to them, and I'll tend to them as needed in due time. It seems to me to be the nature of artistic work. To be fully engaged in a universe means we can release our creative energy into it, which is, I think, the job of an artist. To be absolutely present with a piece for a period of time, learning its many quirks. It requires so much of us, but that's also where the real beauty begins. We begin to see how the piece interacts with us on a deeper level. We dig into the true nature of its messaging, and perhaps come closer to the true nature of ourselves as human beings. And then, inevitably, when the production comes to an end, there is a kind of whiplash as we are violently torn from that universe. Sometimes it's a relief, other times it's depression, often a combination of both. And then we go to seek out that next universe. One of the hardest things to do as an artist is to maintain a level of openness. We spend lots of time invested in one singular moment on the stage, only for this moment to be rewritten during later rehearsals. That can bring all kinds of feelings to the surface.
The scene didn't work because I'm not good enough. Why did we waste all that time and energy staging it the first way? It's in these moments that we have to find a way to take a step back. If we look at the bigger picture, and get our ego out of the way, these changes are usually for a good reason, and they ultimately make the piece better. We can allow our prickly egos to push back, or we can place trust in the director and other artists that the changes we're making are worthwhile. Either way, these moments actually happen fairly often in the world of theater, and we're better off if we can just get used to it. Adapt like a boat on a river. My brain also likes to feel security. I like knowing exactly where I'll be on stage for any given moment. I like having it well rehearsed and in my body and in my voice. And there's absolutely something to that. We should aim to feel good on stage. But in a community of trust (which theater is, ideally), we can allow some of these insecurities to be taken care of by those around us. It's a kind of letting go and trusting in process, in the work already done, and in each other. Last night we had our first Bühnenorchesterprobe, otherwise known as a BO in the German theater world. It's the first rehearsal on the stage with the orchestra. It always gets me excited about the piece. Suddenly you get to see the original intention of the music -- to bring life to a work through the magic of the stage. For me it's really the first time where we hear the work in three dimensions. We've rehearsed the piece with piano on the stage (including with costumes and makeup), and we've rehearsed the piece with orchestra off of the stage, and now it's time to start combining things. BO rehearsals are however without costumes and makeup, giving you the chance to really focus on connecting with the conductor and to discover how to find cues during important moments. It's especially challenging on a rotating stage, I'm discovering!
It's always a challenge for me during the last two weeks of a piece. It's a demanding period, and we have to find ways to dig deep. Energy is flagging, nerves are sometimes aggravated, and the household chores pile up. Taking care of oneself becomes crucial during this period! Trying something new here. I'm not sure if I'll ever make this blog live again, but I've been missing reflecting on my life and career.
Right now we're deep into rehearsals for Philip Glass' "Fall of the House of Usher." It's a fascinating piece, a mostly faithful adaptation of the short story by Edgar Allan Poe. It's my first Glass opera and really my first exposure into Glass' music at all, and I've found that I really do love it. With so many repeating phrases, you begin to feel in a kind of a trance, which is perfect for the content of this piece. My character, Roderick Usher, invites an old childhood friend back to his house, where things are not going well. He explains that an illness has come over him. He's sensitive to everything. Lights, clothing, sounds. His sister Madeline is doing even worse. She walks around the house in a near-catatonic state. In the opera she is able to communicate only by singing "ah." We're doing the piece on a rotating stage, which lends itself perfectly to heightening psychological confusion and sometimes terror. Our director, Kade Schmidt, works in a very acting-oriented way, and the work we've done has been super intense, but all the same rewarding. Two weeks to go! I've done a woefully poor job of posting blog updates. Sorry about that! Here are a few quick rambling thoughts from my head to yours.
It's already been quite a few months here in Passau. If I had to describe it in just a few words, I would say that it's been a time of learning, self-reflection, and discovery. I am learning what this career requires and what it gives back in return. Through it all, my mantra has been stay open. Staying open is not easy. It's a nearly constant struggle for me, as I know it is for everyone, whether we admit it or not. Newness is by definition uncertain, unknown. It's a much easier choice to stay in the territory of the known. Shutting myself off from the world is comfortable, but I find that it too brings its own kind of struggle. It doesn't satisfy the deeper tugging of the heart which says to grow, to branch out, to jump in to the unknown. Where is up and where is down and that is suddenly this and this is suddenly that and English is suddenly German and what I thought I knew is suddenly useless... As Kurt Vonnegut put it: "We have to continually be jumping off cliffs and developing our wings on the way down." Perhaps this is one of the bigger realizations I've had in the last few months. Music and art (and really all creative endeavors) push us off these cliffs. They force us to consider new ideas and to see things from different angles. And we find that our perceptions change over time. This is such a wonderful realization: when we are fully present, every moment is alive and perfect. When we experience a piece of music, either as a performer or a spectator, we arrive in that experience only as we are now. And that experience is different than the day before. Of course it is. We are different people than we were the day before. Tonight I'll perform Haydn's Die Welt auf dem Monde (originally in Italian as Il mondo della luna) for the twelfth time this season. And each one of those performances has been different. Sometimes there is raucous laughter, and sometimes after an attempted joke I swear I can hear the crickets chirping. Sometimes I feel great about my performances, and other times I might be disappointed. But I try my best to accept what I'm feeling, to be where I am, and no matter what, there is kind of a peace that comes with doing that. When I know I gave all of myself and I approached the work with honesty and humility, I can be satisfied. I overcame my own resistance for one day. Now, to do it again tomorrow. That, I'm realizing, is a major part of the work of being an artist. So, my friends, I wish you wellness and the mantra: stay open. The last two months or so have been a wild ride. First, an adventure in Boston with the Boston Early Music Festival, performing Le Carnaval de Venise by André Campra. That was a dream for me, getting to learn from such a remarkably talented (and I must say exceptionally friendly and self-effacing) cast. I had a relatively small part in the production, at least on paper, singing in the chorus and portraying an over-eager henchman to the emotionally distraught villain (performed by my friend and fellow Berliner Douglas Williams).  Olivier Laquerre (henchman), Douglas Williams (Rodolphe), and me (henchman). Photo by Kathy Wittman. I had fun learning more about the tradition of commedia dell'arte, which is an old Italian tradition of theater based on stock characters representing particular characters in society. Being in Boston and not having too much to sing in this production gave me a perfect opportunity to work on character movement, acting, and comic timing. This experience certainly reaffirmed a phrase I had heard before, but heard time and time again by fellow singer-actors in Boston: comedy is more difficult than tragedy. It's such a difficult thing to do. The goal, of course, is to make people laugh, but if you simply go into a performance with only that in mind, it's likely to flop. It has to be natural, coming from a real place inside you, and yet it also has to be rehearsed to the finest details of movement and timing. Sometimes a specific gesture or body movement just doesn't seem funny if it comes a split-second too soon or too late. It's an amazing art form, when you think about it. It's just like music: ephemeral, entirely based on the passing of time, and yet it must be practiced over and over to reach a level of competency to be able to have fluency in the moment. One idea that resonated continuously in my head throughout our rehearsals in Boston was that live theater is based on trust. It's a trust in yourself, a kind of self-confidence, but it's also ultimately trust in your colleagues on stage. You never actually know what someone else will do on stage. It's a fine line to walk--you don't want it to feel so scripted and so prepared that it loses its feeling of being real. But you still want to be able to trust that your colleagues won't do something so totally unexpected on stage that it throws you off and takes you out of the moment. This also shows the importance of building relationships with your colleagues off the stage. We have to know each other, at least a little bit, for that trust to manifest into confidence on stage. So that was a bit of a diversion, but important life lessons, nonetheless. I jumped on a plane the evening after our last performance in Boston with some persistent stage makeup still left on my face, and immediately started rehearsals for my first production with Landestheater Niederbayern in Passau, a small, charming city in Bavaria. Of course I was nervous to start in my new theater, but I couldn't have asked for a better reception here. Our cast of Die Welt auf dem Monde (Haydn) already has so much fun together. Most of our rehearsals derail at some point into fits of laughter and absurdity. Truly the best kind of rehearsals. There's surely more to come on this production (and life in Passau--I'll be living here for the next year!). A few random shots from the last couple months, for your enjoyment.  Rehearsing in Boston. Photo: Kathy Wittman. Bonus video: HARDCORE PARKOUR over my friend Alexis in the Massachusetts wilderness. Video by Olivier Laquerre. BLOG REVIVAL, GO. I truly wonder what percentage of blogs never make it past the 1-post mark. I'd venture half. But NOT THIS ONE! (Small victories, am I right?) So my big news is that this fall I'll be starting a fest contract in Passau, Germany. That means I'm hired full-time by a theater! This really was my dream in coming to Germany in the first place, so I feel pretty fortunate to have landed something in my first year. It means I'll have some relative stability, both financially and career-wise. (No more anxiety from withdrawing from my ever-dwindling savings! Just kidding—that anxiety probably never ends.) I will have the opportunity to learn about the German theater system and perform multiple nights a week on a regular basis. Not to mention being able to speak German on a regular basis, which is actually kind of difficult in Berlin. Really it feels like a gift has been given to me. A little clarification on the German system of hiring singers. It's vastly different from how it works in the States, which is essentially based on freelancing—contracts are for a single production in a given house. In Germany (and on a smaller scale, Austria and Switzerland) the opera houses hire singers to perform in all the house's productions in an entire season. This is called singing on a fest, or "fixed," basis, presumably because you're fixed in one location for an extended period of time. In the opera world you'll hear singers talk about getting a fest contract, or in German Festvertrag, and that's what this means. This kind of system doesn't exist anywhere outside of the German-speaking countries (Germany, Austria, and Switzerland). Freelancing does still exist in Germany, and not all singers are "fest" singers. In fact, many make careers out of what's called "guesting," which is essentially freelancing. (The term guesting just means "to work as a guest in a theater where a singer is not contracted as a fest singer.") It happens when a house needs to find someone who can perform a particular role that, for whatever reason, the house lacks. Sometimes it's for a specialized "fach," or voice type, that requires unique vocal qualities or abilities, like a Wagnerian singer, for instance. It's good to find your niche! So, my hope is to be able to share some of my experience discovering this new world. I'm painfully aware that I'm a naive fool when it comes to singing in Germany, but I'm trying to embrace the notknowingness of it all. We all begin somewhere, and there's something beautiful about being in that liminal space. So, for now, I look forward to a wonderful new life in Passau, which by the way is a stupid beautiful little Bavarian town. It's called the Dreiflüssige Stadt ("Three River City") because it sits at the confluence of the Inn, Danube, and Ilz Rivers. Postcard-worthy, to say the least.  |
