If there is a word that has been a theme in my lessons and coachings and rehearsals over the past few months, I think it might be “generosity.”
JD first mentioned it a few months ago during a French coaching. In the days following Pavorotti’s death last summer, when video and audio clips of his singing were everywhere, she was struck by the overwhelming generosity with which he sang. “He never kept his voice from the audience,” she said. It seemed to her that he was always pouring out his entire voice, always giving it, never hiding it, and the audience could tell.
This kind of vocal generosity is two-fold, I think. One element is technical: singing with an open, unrestricted throat, a mouth and jaw that know how to freely and easily form language, and a fully engaged breath that allows the sound to pour out unimpeded. This is the sound that makes you say, “Wow, what a voice…” Moments of vocal disconnect are few and far between with this kind of generous singing.
The other element is, of course, mental. Or maybe even spiritual. It’s the ability to open your heart to your audience, to give freely of your artistic self, without fear of rejection or expectation of reward. That could be the definition of generosity, right? This is the kind of sharing that makes you think, “Wow, what a singer…”
In the greatest singers, like Pavarotti, both elements are present. Generosity of voice, generosity of heart. There are some days when it’s easier than others to be generous of heart, and some days when the voice is more unwieldy than others. But with practice, generosity can become the normal state of things. (This obviously applies to other areas of life, too, right?)
Our director mentioned generosity the other day as we were staging the finale. He encouraged us to “practice being generous with the audience,” even though we currently don’t have one. Things like keeping your eyes bright, or feeling the love and joy and excitement of the music passing through you into the theater, or even just smiling when you sing - these are things that can be practiced. The more you practice them, the more truly they come through once the audience - the recipients of your gifts - are finally present.
Tonight is our piano dress rehearsal. I am a bit heavy of heart today, and my voice feels funny, but I am going to practice generosity tonight. Practice, practice, practice… Who knows, maybe there is someone there who needs what little I have to give.
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, June 04, 2007
Doing vs. Being
Last week, I went to my first couple of Bikram yoga classes, persuaded by YL, one of our pianist-coaches. For those unfamiliar, Bikram-style yoga is practiced in a heated room, usually about 105ยบ F; it is very aerobic, and suffice to say you sweat like crazy. It’s very Westernized yoga, to my way of thinking, in that just about every spiritual element is removed, and it is very goal-oriented. The instructor stands at the front of the room, like an aerobics instructor, urging class members to push and go and do.
It was interesting, and I’m glad I went. If nothing else, it kick-started me back into my own practice – the only way to get over those sore muscles is to stretch them out again!
The classes also gave me an insight into performing, believe it or not, or, at least, into the type of performer I enjoy watching and working with. As I looked around the room in the Bikram class (easy to do, since there is a mirror along the front wall, another thing you’d never see in a more Eastern tradition), I could quickly pick out the people who were eager to show what they can do. They had looks of determination on their faces, striving to achieve the most, the best, the hardest; looking to prove they can do it, and hoping to get a word of praise from the instructor. They were Doing.
Then there were those who were only there for themselves, working with their bodies. Some were struggling, some were not, but all of these people had a more gentle and peaceful air. Calm. Being. I enjoyed being class with them. I had to work harder to keep my focus off of the Doing people, which distracted me from my own attempts at Being (while literally dripping with sweat and willing my low blood pressure not to get any lower!).
When I talked to YL about this on the way home, she knew just what I meant and immediately understood the parallel to performing. Some singers get out there and Do whatever they can to make an impression, whereas others just Be. (I know that’s the wrong conjugation, but bear with me…)
Saturday night we had our first WTOC performance, the Steve Blier-led Berlin Night Life recital. (Pictures and a sound-clip over at Kim’s WTOC blog.) Seeing my colleagues on the stage, as well as observing them in our Volpone rehearsals, I realized joyfully that everyone here falls into the Being category! These singers love their work, and when they walk out onstage you can see them just opening themselves to the audience. They seem to do nothing differently in front of an audience of 400 than they would for an audience of 5. It was as if each one of them said:
“Here I Am. Here is the music, the story; I hope you enjoy yourself, because I sure am…”
It was interesting, and I’m glad I went. If nothing else, it kick-started me back into my own practice – the only way to get over those sore muscles is to stretch them out again!
The classes also gave me an insight into performing, believe it or not, or, at least, into the type of performer I enjoy watching and working with. As I looked around the room in the Bikram class (easy to do, since there is a mirror along the front wall, another thing you’d never see in a more Eastern tradition), I could quickly pick out the people who were eager to show what they can do. They had looks of determination on their faces, striving to achieve the most, the best, the hardest; looking to prove they can do it, and hoping to get a word of praise from the instructor. They were Doing.
Then there were those who were only there for themselves, working with their bodies. Some were struggling, some were not, but all of these people had a more gentle and peaceful air. Calm. Being. I enjoyed being class with them. I had to work harder to keep my focus off of the Doing people, which distracted me from my own attempts at Being (while literally dripping with sweat and willing my low blood pressure not to get any lower!).
When I talked to YL about this on the way home, she knew just what I meant and immediately understood the parallel to performing. Some singers get out there and Do whatever they can to make an impression, whereas others just Be. (I know that’s the wrong conjugation, but bear with me…)
Saturday night we had our first WTOC performance, the Steve Blier-led Berlin Night Life recital. (Pictures and a sound-clip over at Kim’s WTOC blog.) Seeing my colleagues on the stage, as well as observing them in our Volpone rehearsals, I realized joyfully that everyone here falls into the Being category! These singers love their work, and when they walk out onstage you can see them just opening themselves to the audience. They seem to do nothing differently in front of an audience of 400 than they would for an audience of 5. It was as if each one of them said:
“Here I Am. Here is the music, the story; I hope you enjoy yourself, because I sure am…”
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Song of the Lark, quotes
I finally finished this wonderful book, and I can’t begin to collect my thoughts about it, about what it means to me and what it suggests to me of my life. So rather than try, here are some passages from the dozens of pages with turned-down corners.
*****
“Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer. Your mother didn’t bring anything into the world to play piano. That you must bring into the world yourself.”
*****
“…What you want more than anything else in world is to be an artist; is that true?”
She turned her face away from him and looked down at the keyboard. Her answer came in a thickened voice. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“When did you first feel that you wanted to be an artist?”
“I don’t know. There was always--something.”
*****
“You weren’t ready for it eight months ago.” Fred leaned back at last in his chair. “You simply weren’t ready for it. You were too tired. You were too timid. Your whole tone was too low. … You were fumbling and awkward. Since then, you’ve come into your personality. You were always locking horns with it before. You were a sullen little drudge eight months ago, afraid of being caught at either looking or moving like yourself. Nobody could tell anything about you. A voice is not an instrument that’s found ready-made. A voice is personality.”
*****
“…To go back to your question, Dr. Archie, you can believe I keep my mind on it! That’s the whole trick, in so far as stage experience goes; keeping right there every second. If I think of anything for a flash, I’m done for. but at the same time, you can take things in – with another part of your brain, maybe. It’s different from what you get in study, more practical and conclusive. There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm. You learn the delivery of a part only before an audience.”
“Heaven help us!” gasped Ottenburg. “Aren’t you hungry, though! It’s beautiful to see you eat.”
*****
“What is it, Mr. Harsanyi? You know all about her. What’s her secret?”
Harsanyi rumpled his hair irritably and shrugged his shoulders. “Her secret? It is every artist’s secret” – he waved his hand – “passion. That is all. It is an open secret, and perfectly safe. Like heroism, it is inimitable in cheap materials.”
*****
Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. That afternoon nothing new came to Thea Kronborg, no enlightenment, no inspiration. She merely came into full possession of things she had been refining and perfecting for so long. Her inhibitions chanced to be fewer than usual, and, within herself, she entered into the inheritance that she herself had laid up, into the fullness of the faith she had kept before she knew its name or its meaning.”
*****
“…Then he walked down Broadway with his hands in his overcoat pockets, wearing a smile which embraced all the stream of life passed him and the lighted towers that rose into the limpid blue of the evening sky. If the singer, going home exhausted in her car, was wondering what was the good of it all, that smile, could she have seen it, would have answered her. It is the only commensurate answer.”
I think this is a book, like Salinger’s Franny and Zooey, to which I will return again and again. (I picked that book up again this fall after about ten years, and felt like I was reading a letter from my 18-year-old self, what with all the underlining and notes in the margins.) They both have so much to say about being an artist/singer/actor, and about how tough and painful and lonely but ultimately rewarding this life can be, if one really gives ones’ self over to it, although the rewards may be impossible to quantify.
I feel very heavy. Not down, not sad, just heavy. As if I just – finally, fully – accepted the weight of my life. It’s a good heaviness, but heavy, nonetheless.
*****
“Every artist makes himself born. It is very much harder than the other time, and longer. Your mother didn’t bring anything into the world to play piano. That you must bring into the world yourself.”
*****
“…What you want more than anything else in world is to be an artist; is that true?”
She turned her face away from him and looked down at the keyboard. Her answer came in a thickened voice. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“When did you first feel that you wanted to be an artist?”
“I don’t know. There was always--something.”
*****
“You weren’t ready for it eight months ago.” Fred leaned back at last in his chair. “You simply weren’t ready for it. You were too tired. You were too timid. Your whole tone was too low. … You were fumbling and awkward. Since then, you’ve come into your personality. You were always locking horns with it before. You were a sullen little drudge eight months ago, afraid of being caught at either looking or moving like yourself. Nobody could tell anything about you. A voice is not an instrument that’s found ready-made. A voice is personality.”
*****
“…To go back to your question, Dr. Archie, you can believe I keep my mind on it! That’s the whole trick, in so far as stage experience goes; keeping right there every second. If I think of anything for a flash, I’m done for. but at the same time, you can take things in – with another part of your brain, maybe. It’s different from what you get in study, more practical and conclusive. There are some things you learn best in calm, and some in storm. You learn the delivery of a part only before an audience.”
“Heaven help us!” gasped Ottenburg. “Aren’t you hungry, though! It’s beautiful to see you eat.”
*****
“What is it, Mr. Harsanyi? You know all about her. What’s her secret?”
Harsanyi rumpled his hair irritably and shrugged his shoulders. “Her secret? It is every artist’s secret” – he waved his hand – “passion. That is all. It is an open secret, and perfectly safe. Like heroism, it is inimitable in cheap materials.”
*****
Artistic growth is, more than it is anything else, a refining of the sense of truthfulness. The stupid believe that to be truthful is easy; only the artist, the great artist, knows how difficult it is. That afternoon nothing new came to Thea Kronborg, no enlightenment, no inspiration. She merely came into full possession of things she had been refining and perfecting for so long. Her inhibitions chanced to be fewer than usual, and, within herself, she entered into the inheritance that she herself had laid up, into the fullness of the faith she had kept before she knew its name or its meaning.”
*****
“…Then he walked down Broadway with his hands in his overcoat pockets, wearing a smile which embraced all the stream of life passed him and the lighted towers that rose into the limpid blue of the evening sky. If the singer, going home exhausted in her car, was wondering what was the good of it all, that smile, could she have seen it, would have answered her. It is the only commensurate answer.”
I think this is a book, like Salinger’s Franny and Zooey, to which I will return again and again. (I picked that book up again this fall after about ten years, and felt like I was reading a letter from my 18-year-old self, what with all the underlining and notes in the margins.) They both have so much to say about being an artist/singer/actor, and about how tough and painful and lonely but ultimately rewarding this life can be, if one really gives ones’ self over to it, although the rewards may be impossible to quantify.
I feel very heavy. Not down, not sad, just heavy. As if I just – finally, fully – accepted the weight of my life. It’s a good heaviness, but heavy, nonetheless.
Sunday, December 17, 2006
“Unconditional Gentleness”
A beautiful post from Donna Racik (an assistant conductor) over on the MetBlog. Bringing any opera to life is a challenge, but most especially (is that redundant?) a new one. Her point about the work the librarians have to do is a good one, and one easily missed, even by the performers. At the end of rehearsal, we get to go home, but the librarians, crew, management, and music staff all have hours more work ahead of them.
But I love the idea that, even when everyone is stressed to the max, the permeating attitude is one of “unconditional gentleness.” It’s not really that hard. It’s simply a matter of keeping your eyes open and recognizing the work that others have to do. If we are gentle with each other, the work goes much more easily for all involved.
Sounds like something that should be applied to more areas of our lives…
But I love the idea that, even when everyone is stressed to the max, the permeating attitude is one of “unconditional gentleness.” It’s not really that hard. It’s simply a matter of keeping your eyes open and recognizing the work that others have to do. If we are gentle with each other, the work goes much more easily for all involved.
Sounds like something that should be applied to more areas of our lives…
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Make it so.
Krissa over at le petit hiboux writes today about getting the perfect job. These lines struck me:
It's difficult for me to believe, but it's what I need, exactly when I need it, just when I was worried I was asking too much. For all my pragmatism (WHAT, it's IN there SOMEWHERE) there's a part of me that still firmly believes that if your goal is worthy, if you have a dream that you deserve and have earned, then what you need will come to you when you need it. The universe will conspire to help you, as Paulo Coehlo would put it.
I have one friend who calls it manifesting and another who calls it “sorcery,” in that it’s not the universe or anything else that brings it to you: it is YOU who brings it, makes it happen, manifests it. Whatever you want to call it, I’m all about it these days. Why not expect the perfect job/apartment/pair of black pants to come along? Make it so. Work hard and expect results. I believe a key to being successful in any area of life or in any career is truly believing that you will be. Easier said than done, however.
I know of so many singers who are afraid to say no to a gig, regardless of whether it is a sideways or even a backwards step. Better to be singing than not singing, right?! Even for free or for insulting pay? Even in unorganized, poorly-planned rehearsal processes? Even surrounded by bitter, unhappy colleagues who will drag you down? No. No way. But as long as singers take those jobs, they will be seen as singers on that level, and will be offered only those jobs.
There comes a (very scary) time when you have to say, “No, this isn’t the right job for me right now.” It might mean going without work for a while, but trust that it will come. That you will manifest the perfect next step, resulting in the perfect job/career/life for you. Why not?
And don’t be afraid to ask for a lot. You might actually get it!
It's difficult for me to believe, but it's what I need, exactly when I need it, just when I was worried I was asking too much. For all my pragmatism (WHAT, it's IN there SOMEWHERE) there's a part of me that still firmly believes that if your goal is worthy, if you have a dream that you deserve and have earned, then what you need will come to you when you need it. The universe will conspire to help you, as Paulo Coehlo would put it.
I have one friend who calls it manifesting and another who calls it “sorcery,” in that it’s not the universe or anything else that brings it to you: it is YOU who brings it, makes it happen, manifests it. Whatever you want to call it, I’m all about it these days. Why not expect the perfect job/apartment/pair of black pants to come along? Make it so. Work hard and expect results. I believe a key to being successful in any area of life or in any career is truly believing that you will be. Easier said than done, however.
I know of so many singers who are afraid to say no to a gig, regardless of whether it is a sideways or even a backwards step. Better to be singing than not singing, right?! Even for free or for insulting pay? Even in unorganized, poorly-planned rehearsal processes? Even surrounded by bitter, unhappy colleagues who will drag you down? No. No way. But as long as singers take those jobs, they will be seen as singers on that level, and will be offered only those jobs.
There comes a (very scary) time when you have to say, “No, this isn’t the right job for me right now.” It might mean going without work for a while, but trust that it will come. That you will manifest the perfect next step, resulting in the perfect job/career/life for you. Why not?
And don’t be afraid to ask for a lot. You might actually get it!
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
This isn’t a post about Ainadamar
I haven’t written about Ainadamar rehearsals for many reasons, not the least of which is that when I have free time I’d rather sleep than blog. But it’s a new production of a new opera, so details should be kept, not necessarily secret, but at least under wraps. So, once we open on Saturday, I’ll write a bit about the production side of things. (Look, too, for opinions on the work from Charles at Ionarts, who was able to sit in on our piano dress rehearsal Monday night. I was so pleased to have the time to meet him for coffee and get to know another music blogger. We talked about (among other things) the changes coming to print journalism via blogging, and I think Ionarts will be a real force in the change for music journalism. A change for the better!)
Another reason I’ve been quiet about the rehearsal process is that I don’t quite have the words to describe what it’s like to work with Peter Sellars. I’m in a bit of a rush at the moment (2nd Grimes performance tonight), so I won’t even try right now. Someday, hopefully next week after things have quieted down a bit, I can sit and find the words. Just know that the entire cast agrees that this production will be a highlight of our careers.
I do want to share two concepts/philosophies/ideas that have been presented to me through Ainadamar. The first is a Buddhist idea Peter shared with us at a rehearsal in which we were particularly tired and feeling flat. He told us about “right livelihood,” the idea that your work (how you make your living) causes no harm, either to others or to yourself. The arts, he reminded us, are some of the few occupations which can be considered as such. Not only do we not destroy anything or cause harm, we create things! Beautiful things! And our work can heal rather than destroy. If you have ever felt rejuvenated or at peace after hearing a piece of music or reading a poem, you have been on the receiving end of the artist’s “right livelihood.” Peter reminded us that we are blessed to come to work everyday knowing that we aren’t subtracting from our karmic balance.
The other idea was first presented to me at Tanglewood in 2003, when we gave the first premiere of Ainadamar. Osvaldo talked about duende, an idea about which I only got the vaguest hint of its meaning. I knew it was good, that Lorca liked it, and that it was a fleeting thing that could either be present or not. After a dress rehearsal, Bob Spano, our conductor, said to me (regarding my dance solos in the piece), “You know why that was so good this time? You had duende,!” I said “thank you,” of course, but I was too shy to admit that I really had no idea what he was talking about.
So, when I saw the book "In Search of Duende,” – a selection of Lorca's prose writings and poetry on the subject – in the SFO gift shop, I picked it up, determined to really understand it this time. And I’m so glad I did. I read enough to find this quote from Lorca, which sums up his idea of “the duende:”
The duende is a momentary burst of inspiration, the blush of all that is truly alive, all that the performer is creating at a certain moment. The duende resembles what Goethe called the "demonical." It manifests itself principally among musicians and poets of the spoken word, rather than among painters and architects, for it needs the trembling of the moment and then a long silence. -FGL
An amazing idea, no? I realized a few days later, in the middle of another intense rehearsal to which my cast mates and I were all giving our all, that together in this production, we all find our duende. That is how we are so moved, and how we are able to so move others. Another quote from the book, this from the preface: In Andalusia, people say of certain toreros and flamenco artists that they have duende - an inexplicable power of attraction, the ability, on rare occasions, to send waves of emotion through those watching and listening to them.
How can we not want to have that power all the time?! To put aside our egos and let the duende flow through us. To bring healing and beauty to our audiences – to the world – every time we step onstage. It is my new goal, what I want to strive for in all of my work.
While this isn’t a post about Ainadamar, I think you can start to understand how I feel about the work we’ve done in the past few weeks. I can’t wait to tell you more.
Another reason I’ve been quiet about the rehearsal process is that I don’t quite have the words to describe what it’s like to work with Peter Sellars. I’m in a bit of a rush at the moment (2nd Grimes performance tonight), so I won’t even try right now. Someday, hopefully next week after things have quieted down a bit, I can sit and find the words. Just know that the entire cast agrees that this production will be a highlight of our careers.
I do want to share two concepts/philosophies/ideas that have been presented to me through Ainadamar. The first is a Buddhist idea Peter shared with us at a rehearsal in which we were particularly tired and feeling flat. He told us about “right livelihood,” the idea that your work (how you make your living) causes no harm, either to others or to yourself. The arts, he reminded us, are some of the few occupations which can be considered as such. Not only do we not destroy anything or cause harm, we create things! Beautiful things! And our work can heal rather than destroy. If you have ever felt rejuvenated or at peace after hearing a piece of music or reading a poem, you have been on the receiving end of the artist’s “right livelihood.” Peter reminded us that we are blessed to come to work everyday knowing that we aren’t subtracting from our karmic balance.
The other idea was first presented to me at Tanglewood in 2003, when we gave the first premiere of Ainadamar. Osvaldo talked about duende, an idea about which I only got the vaguest hint of its meaning. I knew it was good, that Lorca liked it, and that it was a fleeting thing that could either be present or not. After a dress rehearsal, Bob Spano, our conductor, said to me (regarding my dance solos in the piece), “You know why that was so good this time? You had duende,!” I said “thank you,” of course, but I was too shy to admit that I really had no idea what he was talking about.
So, when I saw the book "In Search of Duende,” – a selection of Lorca's prose writings and poetry on the subject – in the SFO gift shop, I picked it up, determined to really understand it this time. And I’m so glad I did. I read enough to find this quote from Lorca, which sums up his idea of “the duende:”
The duende is a momentary burst of inspiration, the blush of all that is truly alive, all that the performer is creating at a certain moment. The duende resembles what Goethe called the "demonical." It manifests itself principally among musicians and poets of the spoken word, rather than among painters and architects, for it needs the trembling of the moment and then a long silence. -FGL
An amazing idea, no? I realized a few days later, in the middle of another intense rehearsal to which my cast mates and I were all giving our all, that together in this production, we all find our duende. That is how we are so moved, and how we are able to so move others. Another quote from the book, this from the preface: In Andalusia, people say of certain toreros and flamenco artists that they have duende - an inexplicable power of attraction, the ability, on rare occasions, to send waves of emotion through those watching and listening to them.
How can we not want to have that power all the time?! To put aside our egos and let the duende flow through us. To bring healing and beauty to our audiences – to the world – every time we step onstage. It is my new goal, what I want to strive for in all of my work.
While this isn’t a post about Ainadamar, I think you can start to understand how I feel about the work we’ve done in the past few weeks. I can’t wait to tell you more.
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