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Tuesday, October 6, 2015



A colleague recently suggested that I blog about my history with injuries because, in her words, “it’d be great for others to know that you overcame them so well.”

Well… not so well, if I were to be honest.

Here goes ----

I was about a week into my Masters degree in piano performance at the Conservatory of Music at the University of Missouri – Kansas City when I turned left in front of oncoming traffic that all looked like it was turning left. Sadly, a big pickup truck gunned its way around the turning traffic and ran into my car (luckily no one was sitting in the passenger seat), spun it around 2.5 times and it landed in a heap. Car was totaled, I was shaken, there was broken glass in my hair.

I seemed fine, headache for weeks but I was young and didn’t think anything of it. My body hurt, but people said that it was normal.

At the Conservatory, I had a new piano teacher, Joanne Baker, who was shocked to find out I had never really practiced like a real pianist. She demanded a good six hours a day, and so I set off practicing those hours (three in the morning, two in the afternoon, and one late at night after opera rehearsal.) I was also playing evening rehearsals for the fall opera (double bill of The Medium and Gianni Schicchi). That’s a lot of playing, and for me it was a huge change. (Honestly, never practiced more than a few hours a day, and that was rare.)

My literature wasn’t that demanding, frankly. A Haydn Sonata in C, some Chopin Mazurkas, Copland’s Piano Variations, and reading through some Ravel pieces. But by the time Christmas break rolled around, I was waking up with pain shooting down my right thumb and through the outside of my pinky finger.

Two different specialists said two different things about the same diagnosis: Carpal Tunnel Syndrome of the right wrist. One said 65-75% damage and advised surgery, the other said 75-80% damage and suggested physical therapy, not driving, and not playing. (Years later I discovered I probably had whiplash that went untreated…)

Here's a link about Carpal Tunnel Syndrome:

Dear Mrs. Baker told me “no surgery!” We stopped playing for a semester. I couldn’t fulfill my graduate assistantship playing for the opera either. We worked on my left hand – scales and a short sojourn with the Ravel left hand piano concerto. We also talked about music A LOT, and we talked about listening to music A LOT, and we talked about how to learn music.

She challenged me to learn a piece without playing it, so I did.

I also entered the Conservatory’s Concerto/Aria contest with a concerto I learned without playing it. I’d gone almost three months without playing the piano with both hands. An Eternity! About a week before the contest I tried it all out. My right wrist was not, in anyway, shape, or form, the same. But the pain was gone.  It was weird to play with this foreign right hand. It didn’t move quickly as before. It was stiff and didn’t sing the same way. I was pretty devastated.

But I entered that contest and I won that contest. That summer I also performed another concerto with a chamber orchestra in Kansas City. My fellow students had no notion that anything was different. I did. I still do. I miss those pre-injury days so much.

But life moved forward. It was clear to me that my piano soloist days were pretty much over and I happily graduated with my masters and moved to New York City to begin my opera fellowship at The Juilliard School.  My right hand was obviously good enough for opera!

And life moved forward. I started conducting as well. It was an incredibly fulfilling musical life during the 1990s!

Everything was fine until one night I woke up and my right arm was paralyzed. Not “asleep” mind you, it was DEAD.  I freaked. Once it became alive, there was a lot of pain. The pain wasn’t like before, either. It was also in the neck and in my forearm, and in my hand, my right hand.

This was after the birth of our second son and he was a hearty lad who slept in the same bed as his parents. I was fresh from losing an opera company (see previous blog about my education on treachery), was returning to run the young artist program at Glimmerglass (where I coached everyday from the piano), was running the opera/musical theatre program at Ithaca College (where I conducted the shows as well as coached everyday from the piano), while trying to be a father and husband.  Something had gone wrong.

It wasn’t a regular thing either. I thought that maybe I was sleeping on it wrong. I thought it was my posture. I thought it was stress.

Guess what – it was all of those things, plus that old car wreck injury to my neck back in my masters degree. I saw a great chiropractor and he (along with another PT) diagnosed me with Thoracic Outlet Syndrome. (Sounds like something a T-Rex would get, yes?!)

Here's a link about Thoracic Outlet Syndrome:

Posture was key here. I walked around with a yardstick down the back of my pants to keep my spine upright. I had to learn to drive with a LOT less stress (we drive stick shifts in my family…) I had to sleep on my stomach with my arms in positions to open up my collarbone. I went to the gym for the first time.

But the damage seemed done. Plus when I conducted, it was hard for me to get my right hand any higher than my shoulder. Hard to do when conducting opera singers from the orchestra pit.

I persevered in secret. Only my wife really knew the extent, and she was certainly the only one who knew my inner panic. I told a few close friends, but was so fearful that if anyone in the business found out, I could be out of future jobs. Who needs a conductor with a right arm that sometimes can’t move?

And then the phone call came from Stewart Robertson asking for my advice on finding Florida Grand Opera a new Director of Artistic Administration. We talked and the next thing I knew I was being flown down to Miami for an interview. That was a dozen years ago.

But here I am now in 2015 playing in public with my students (most recently a Sondheim program) and getting set to conduct Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore in January. What happened?

I give credit regarding my healing to 1) Nick, my trainer at Ithaca College; 2) my wife for insisting that I sit up and watch my stress levels; 3) a friendly local chiropractor and 4) South Beach!

1)   Nick – I wish I knew his last name. Nick was great. Nick was a tyrant about me being in the gym as much as possible. He asked me at our first meeting “how big do you want to get?” (Of course, I wanted to lose weight, he wanted to know about my biceps I think!) Getting my body in shape really helped right away.
2)   It’s impossible to thank Elizabeth so I won’t. (Thanks honey.)
3)   Chiropractors aren’t for everyone, but for me it was terrific. He got me walking and sitting up, he made me think about my posture at the piano, and he gave me great exercises that I still do today.
4)   South Beach. The Ocean.  I can’t recommend it enough. Floating in the ocean is incredibly healing and therapeutic. There were days that I’d leave the office and drive fifteen minutes to South Beach. I’d walk onto the beach and take my suit and tie off down to my boxers and get into the ocean and float. Then I’d dry off standing on the beach, put my suit and tie back on, and return to the office. I didn’t tell people I was doing this, either. (Another reason to have super short buzzed hair!)

So that’s it, really.

It’s important to remember that life throws you curves. We all get thrown curves. Injuries are serious, for musicians they can be devastating. But the human being is a remarkable creature and healing does take place. With patience and with determination to change your ways, injuries can be managed. Many come back stronger than ever before. I came back different, with a different skill set.

I’m certainly a stronger musician thanks to my time spent away from my instrument, thinking and listening to music instead of playing it only. I’m certainly a VERY different conductor now. I don’t wave my hands unless I need to. Most find it way too economical and rather not all that inspirational. Showing the sound is important, yes; making sure the singers understand where they are in the measure is important; beating time is important; but I’m not into the massive arm waving anymore.

Most importantly, my decision to leave Ithaca College and Glimmerglass Opera was a decision that truly hurt me – it was a very difficult decision and sometimes I regret making it. However, my time at Florida Grand Opera was absolutely integral to my career path. I would not be at Opera McGill, I’m sure, if I had not had the experiences balancing millions of dollars of artistic budgets, being part of the administrating to open downtown Miami’s half billion dollar performing arts center, and casting, scheduling, contracting, coordinating all those wonderful operatic pieces of the puzzle.  I bet I might still be at Ithaca College if I hadn’t woken up that night with a dead arm.

But then I’d not be typing these words, I’d not be living in Ontario, I'd not have turned to directing operas instead of conducting them (something that is tremendously fulfilling!), I’d not be running the best opera program in Canada, and I’d not have gotten to know so many very wonderful students, colleagues, and neighbors here in Montreal and in Canada.

Healing happens!

Thursday, September 17, 2015

The Secret To (My) Success

Recently, an article made the rounds on Facebook about how creative types succeed (or don't succeed) based on their abilities to network. I agree with much of the article, particularly the sentence about Luck playing an important part of success.

Here's a link to the article:

He references a terrific writer, Mihaly Csikszentmihaly, who wrote a book that was pretty influential back in the 90s. I heartily recommend it: "Flow".

Here's the wiki link about Mihaly:

Go ahead, click on those links and read away!

Now that you've read some bits from the above links, we can move forward.

According to Jeff Goins, the author of "The Unfair Truth…", there is a systematic approach for creative types who achieve "success" (let's not even discuss what that word means!)
These steps are:
  1. Individual
  2. Field
  3. Domain
"First, an individual must master her craft in a given domain (art, science, mathematics). Then, this person must offer the creative work to a field of influencers in that domain who are trusted experts. Finally, the gatekeepers decide if the work is worth being accepted as authoritative into the domain."

I see this very clearly when I look back at my "path". Of course there's no PATH out there (I've blogged about that one a few years ago) it just seems like there's a path when one turns around and sees where they've been and how they got to where they are now.

But this Systems Approach is an interesting way of looking at How To Succeed In Creative Fields By Trying. There's some great stuff about needing a network, moving to find a better field, and talking about the idea of 'gatekeepers'. 

Let me explain by using my life as an example. Then, at the end of this blog, I promise to reveal the Secret To My Success!

PJH's "Systems Approach" history -- in an extremely truncated version!

Yes, I mastered my craft pretty early on. I was playing Beethoven sonatas in Jr. High and playing them well (Op. 2 No. 2 is not a sonata that most 13 year olds start out on, considering the leaping left hand 10ths.) I got noticed and found myself playing Chopin Ballades and the big Romantic concertos before I was even in high school. I discovered musical theatre and used my talents for faking dancing and my bass to tenor range (none of it all that great) to get me into school shows as well as community theatre. Because I could tap dance (sort of), I found myself in a community theatre show where I met a guy who was putting together a show in Omaha and they needed a pianist/music director. So at the ripe old age of 17, I got my first pro job as an MD for the "musical" Trouble in Tahiti. It was the perfect operatic start -- Bernstein courtesy of my musical theatre network (and my tap shoes!)

I offered my "artistry" to many trusted experts, from local stage directors wanting to take me out to bars with names like "Neon Goose" in Omaha's Old Market when I was barely 16 (welcome to the world of theatre…), to  Drake University piano professors who thought I was too distracted by musical theatre to be a "serious" pianist, to my teacher at Simpson College, Robert Larsen who opened up a literal whole new world for me at Des Moines Metro Opera during my first years as a wannabe opera coach. One person in this new operatic field was the DMMO apprentice program director, Stewart Robertson (who later became my boss at Glimmerglass and Florida Grand Opera.) My "Field" opened up considerably when I moved to NYC to accept a fellowship at the Juilliard School's Opera Center. All of a sudden I was playing for Marlena Malas' best students (including Troyanos on occasion), and playing repertoire I'd never gotten my hands on in Indianola, Iowa or Kansas City, Missouri. Seemingly overnight, I found myself playing on the Met stage (Levine in the house) for a soprano whose audition repertoire that day included arias from Lulu and Die Walküre. WHAT?! SERIOUSLY?! And on an upright piano, no less!

My Field had become the Opera World.

There were many mini-gatekeepers along the way who helped me move forward and opened doors. (Actually, I ran into many who thought they were THE Operatic Gate Keepers but I quickly was able to steer clear of their egos for the most part.) But there were three exceedingly important Gatekeepers in my life, two who intersected one day in line for coffee and the third I met because of the second Gatekeeper.

Yes, my success was really about standing in line for coffee in NYC with one Gatekeeper as he ran into an old friend, the other Gatekeeper. It is called LUCK. Here's the story (I wish I could animate it like the story of the three brothers in "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows"!):

It happened in my second semester at Juilliard -- Luckily, I was assigned to play rehearsals for a 20th century scenes program that was being presented by The Juilliard Opera Center during my first year as an Opera Fellow. The director was the legendary Frank Corsaro and the conductor was a rising young American, Hal France. Hal was, at the time, the husband of the amazing soprano Sylvia McNair and he'd later go on to be the artistic director for Opera Omaha. But for me, back then, he was what I wanted to be: an opera conductor. Yet I really had no idea how to go about becoming one. I had practiced the literature for the program and it was HARD SHIT. Berg, Stravinsky, Floyd, Walton, Bernstein, and some others. Maestro France seemed impressed, but he was there to coach the singers before stagings began and that was his focus. We were up in his Julliard apartment waiting for a singer to show and, as LUCK would have it, the singer didn't show. Hal finally said, "Do you want to go get a coffee or something?" I said, "Sure, would you like me to bring back something for you?" (I didn't even think he would go with little old me) and he retorted with "No, let's both go and we can talk about you."

Really? Talk about me? What was going on here?

You see, back in 1992 we didn't have "mentors", nor did we even describe our mentors as "mentors". That just wasn't in the vocabulary really. I was hoping to just not get fired, let alone find a "mentor" who could offer advice.

So off we went. We walked into some place across from Juilliard (no Starbucks in NYC then) and waited in a long line. 

Lady Luck smiled that day…

The guy in front of us heard Hal and I talking and he turned around and said "Hal?" and Hal said "Donald? What are you doing here?" and then Donald said "I'm auditioning pianists" and Hal said "You should hire this kid." Yes, that's a true story!

Long story short, Donald did hire me. He hired me based on Hal France's recommendation that happened in line in a coffee shop because a singer had forgotten to come to a coaching that I was playing because I was pretty good (frankly, fucking brilliant) at playing 20th century scores because I had no fear of opera because I had gone to Simpson where a great man, Dr. Larsen, had taught me that opera was something to never be afraid of, and that I met Dr. Larsen because a friend of mine in High School had gone to the Simpson College summer music camp and recommended it to me because she and I had studied with the same wonderful piano teacher in the 70s and 80s in Council Bluffs, Iowa (Berneil Hanson) because I had lost my first teacher when she and her husband moved out of the state.

If that first piano teacher hadn't moved out of town, I would not be typing these words now.

So Hal France was the first Gate Keeper.

The 2nd was the freaking god of all opera gods: Donald Palumbo!

You see, I had no idea who "Donald" was at the time I was standing in line waiting for coffee with Hal. In fact, while he asked me questions, I kept thinking "who is this guy, and what job am I up for, and how embarrassing it was for me that I had NO CLUE!"

In case you might not know who I'm talking about, here's a great NYTimes article:
NYTimes on Donald Palumbo

So my first big gig after leaving the midwest and getting to The Juilliard School (one has to capitalize the "T" in "The" when one speaks of The Juilliard School, fyi) was at the Lyric Opera of Chicago.

Lucky Dog!

I played 15 operas under Donald Palumbo, who at the time was the chorus master for the Lyric Opera of Chicago (now he's working his magic at the Met.) Cosi, Wozzeck, Trovatore, Traviata, Boheme, Le Cid, Susannah, Don Quichotte, Tosca and others.  From Maestro Palumbo I learned that it was possible to be the pickiest musician alive and still get astounding results. I learned that if my ass wasn't on the piano bench 15 minutes before rehearsals began, I'd be fired. I learned that I would have to start at "Rehearsal 1" a thousand billion times in one night because the men couldn't get their first entrance in act one of Traviata to an acceptable level. I learned that there was no such thing as good enough. I learned that you had to insist on perfection in order to gain access to perfection's universe. I learned how the Boheme chorus goes, every last syllable of it. I learned how to redistribute choral lines in Tosca the way Toscanini did because that's the way Palumbo's mentor, the La Scala chorus master Roberto Benaglio, did things. I learned that the art of being a great operatic chorus master was a rare art and that Palumbo was the Michelangelo of opera chorus masters.  

But boy did he scare the shit out of me every single rehearsal that first summer. During the first month of rehearsal, I would wander home at night and my wife (we'd been married 6 months by that time) would ask "how'd it go" and I'd say something like "I missed a few notes in the Tosca and Maestro gave me the look of death but the Verdi went better, only a dozen or so notes missed". Later, I started to focus on what he was hearing, how he'd react, how he was fixing things or drilling certain sections, and I'd think to myself "he's going to stop for this". And guess what, slowly and surely, I was there. I was understanding his process and his expectations. His ears were simply the best in the business!

I learned so very much from Maestro Palumbo, and I'm certainly indebted to him for not firing me, and for rehiring me for the next season of rehearsals because that's how I met my 3rd Gate Keeper.

In the middle of June I think, Maestro Palumbo turned to me at the end of a rehearsal and spoke to me. I was stunned. He didn't really speak all that much to me, in a direct way, about anything other than "2 before rehearsal 45" or the occasional "don't drag". Come to find out, he'd recommended me for an assistant chorus master position at Pittsburgh Opera. Really? I practically cried on the L going home that night. I was elated. I had been recommended by my operatic god! For a job!

SO --- I prepared my audition (Storm scene from Otello, Komponist from Ariadne -- no problem there, it was my party piece as I sang it up the octave in my best dramatic counter tenor voice, "Salut!" aria from Faust, and the opening of Rigoletto and probably Carmen quintet) and was flown to Pittsburgh one fateful July 4th weekend. The audition was an awful experience. A dour chorus master who did not appreciate my fabulous high Bflat at the end of Komponist said "please play it again and sing down the octave" with a face that said "please die and leave my space".  I had knocked that Strauss outa the park, thank you very much.

I didn't get the job, but I had met Tito Capobianco and a few others there, and somehow I'd made an impression (in my youth, I was rather charming.) Side note: Three years later I was hired by Pittsburgh, probably because of that impression. Anyway, I was back at Chicago and my contract was coming to an end. It was August and it was hot in the city. My time at Juilliard was at an end and so I was looking at trying to struggle through being a freelance pianist in Chicago. Not. An. Easy. Thing. To. Do. In 1993…

Just as I was contemplating looking for a real job selling watches, I got a phone call from the third Gate Keeper. It was Michael Ching.

Michael had been up at Pittsburgh Opera doing an onsite evaluation and so had known that Pittsburgh had just pulled in a few young guns to audition for their assistant chorus master position. Michael called up Tito at Pittsburgh because he was looking for a rehearsal pianist in Memphis and asked him who his second choice was. They gave him my name.

Michael is the third Gate Keeper because he opened up a whole new section of the operatic world for me. Michael gave me my professional conducting debut (a matinee of Gretry's Zemire et Azor,) He got me my job as Resident Conductor for Ash Lawn Summer Festival, where I conducted 36 performances of 4 operas and 2 musicals in just six weeks during my two seasons. Later -- years later -- he would hire me back to direct an Orpheo in Memphis and then yet later -- a few more years later -- recommend me to David Hamilton (Fargo Opera) who was looking for a stage director for Fidelio (FIDELIO! I GOT TO DIRECT FIDELIO!) But more importantly, vastly, he reconnected my operatic DNA to my musical theatre DNA and allowed me to realize how I had ignored my musical theatre background while pursuing classical music. This ultimately led me to Ithaca College, btw.

Oh -- Michael's second in command was the operatic prodigy Karen Tiller. We were put together as the artistic team for Opera Memphis' The Turn of the Screw and loved working together. Later Karen would hire me to be the Music Director for the Opera Festival of New Jersey for which she was the general director at the ripe old age of 16. Okay, maybe not 16, she was in her 20s I bet. 

In New Jersey I got to conduct Bartok's Bluebeard's Castle. BLUEBEARD'S FREAKING CASTLE!! My favourite one act of all time! In Hungarian! With the players of the Chamber Orchestra of Philadelphia! And did I get a good review? I got a freaking awesome review from a Pulitzer prize-winning critic that used the phrase "pyschosexual angst" in a sentence talking about my conducting! 

And, in New Jersey I learned about treachery first hand; but that's not part of this blog, that'll be part of my book.

BUT back to the present day -- Here we are now in 2015, I'm living in Ontario, Canada, still teaching at McGill and still freelancing down in the states. After years at Ithaca College and lots of summers at Brevard and a few daring, daunting years at Florida Grand Opera, I'm returning to conducting this January. It'll happen at the end of January, 2016 -- Opera McGill's production of L'elisir d'amore in Pollack Hall. I'll be sure to blog about that process, and it's being webcast in HD so anyone reading this blog can watch it.

So, as promised -- the Secret To My Success!

We have to go way back to the summer of 1984. There I was, pouring a gin and tonic for the director of the DMMO apprentice program, Stewart Robertson. I was at DMMO because of LUCK. I got the job this way -- I was playing a voice lesson for a student of Doug Duncan, DMMO's general director, and he said something like "you wear nice clothes, how would you like to work at my opera company?" "Um… sure… I guess…"

So I was a house staff member for DMMO that summer (hearing my first Nozze, Dialogues des Caremlites, and AIDA!) answering phones, sharpening pencils for bitchy NY coaches, taking notes at Dr Larsen's feet during orchestra rehearsals, moving xerox machines and pianos on and off trucks, and tending the bar in the lobby of the theatre. But I also tended bar for private receptions and I found myself speaking with the wondrous Stewart Robertson.

Back to Stewart and his Gin and Tonic -- Stewart, in his very dashing Scottish brogue asked me if I was a student at Simpson. I said "yes." He asked if I was a singer. I said "no, not really, although I do sing, I'm a pianist." Then we talked a bit, I don't remember anything specific. I do remember saying to him something about how I loved playing Trouble in Tahiti in high school and how I loved playing Hansel and Gretel my Freshmen year but that there were too many notes and how frustrating piano reductions were. I was desperately trying to say something that was impressive.

Stewart's a nice guy, but he had people to see. So he ended our little talk with this nugget: He leaned in and said "Next time, don't try to play all the notes; just be careful to choose which notes to leave out." And he turned and walked away. There should have been mist. He disappeared into the mist. I sort of remember the moment with mist...

That's the secret. Don't try to play all the notes.

I've left out hundreds of thousands, if not millions of notes over the years. There's simply no way to play them all. That's been my secret.

But I'm not just talking about notes on the piano, or notes in an operatic score. There are other notes.

These notes are all around you. They are distractions to learning your craft. They are ugly people in your face saying ugly things to you or about you. They are your inner demons keeping you from focusing on your dreams. They are also your family, the people who love you, the people you love. They are the wonder of the world and its beauty. These notes connect us all to the past and give life to the present. They speak to the future as well - where we might go, what we might become. It is so important to remember that they are not all equal, these notes. 

Let some of them go. Forget about them, just as your right hand forgets about playing all of the octaves in a Verdi cabaletta. Let the bad notes go, for sure, because they don't belong in your opera anyway. Embrace the notes that give you purpose, that give you strength, harmony, and a backbone of rhythmic drive to get things done. 

Learn as many notes as you can, but know that you will not learn all of the notes. It is impossible. Even our operatic idols dropped a few, or more likely a million. Absolutely.

So go out and work on your CRAFT as an INDIVIDUAL. Then go out and share that art with others in your FIELD. Gravitate to those who are positive influences and those who help others become successful, or at least help them along the way. When you get to a Gate, say YES and know that you are ready to move forward.

And most importantly, don't forget to help as many others as you can. 

But most of all, learn to pour a really good Gin and Tonic. Be generous with the Gin, make sure the tonic is fresh, not too much ice, and the lime: juicy. 

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Auditions Auditions Auditions Auditions !!!!


It's that time of year, a time that ramps up the anxiety and stress levels for many young singers:

Audition application season coupled with beginning of school year auditions!

All around North America, singers in undergraduate and graduate programs are gearing up to audition for their schools' opera programs, hoping to get cast in a production or scenes program or training program. In addition, those singers who want to move beyond the pay-to-sing programs are feeling the avalanche of deadlines fast approaching for Glimmerglass, Merola, Chautauqua, Central City, etc. with their requisite YAP tracker accounts spouting reminders and checklists. As for the singers fresh out of school, the desperation factor starts to creep into place -- will this be my last audition season? What happens if I don't get any auditions? How am I going to pay for all the application fees, travel and hotel expenses?

Life was simpler ten to fifteen years ago. Really.

Time was when deadlines for summer programs were mid to late October (imagine!), not end of August. There's a huge difference between the two, especially for singers just starting a new grad program and/or starting in studying with a new teacher in a new city.

And yet, every year I get requests for recommendation letters as well as requests for "what should I put for my 5" from students I hardly know.

I've often thought that first year masters students shouldn't try to do summer program auditions during their initial semester at a new school with new coaches and teachers. Maybe a better idea would be to FOCUS ON THAT FIRST SEMESTER. Work on technical issues, get the hard courses out of the way, get to know the city in a casual fashion, make friends, hear symphony concerts, etc.  These are things one can't really do while preparing an audition packet (especially if there are new arias in it) and flying in and out to take summer program auditions in November.  I know everyone feels rushed to be a success, but there are lots and lots of singers who make it without pushing themselves onto such a fast track.

Perhaps an even better idea might be to either take the summer "off" from singing, get a job or an internship, or focus on reading literature, visiting museums, taking in plays, visiting the Glimmerglasses of North America to see what the level actually is out there. Travel and explore.

But I don't think anyone will listen to my sage advice, so I'll put down my thoughts on AUDITIONS that I post most every fall, albeit with some modifications for 2015.


1) A successful audition is a complicated thing. It has more to do with the day, who/what the panel is looking for and why, the needs of a given season, if the panel's blood sugar is normal, if their attention span is fixed or waning, their personal taste in practically everything; in short: little to do with the singer's talent. The sooner one accepts this, the better. It helps to remove the JUDGEMENT happening constantly in those little heads of ours.

2) Attitude counts for a lot. How a singer walks in the door, how they communicate with the panel and the pianist, the body language signals before singing, between arias, and at the close of the audition. It is vital that a singer present themselves in a heightened (I don't want to say exaggerated) version of whoever they want to "be" at an audition. You can't just quietly enter a room, whisper your aria to the panel, sing like Tebaldi, exit like a mouse and expect that your Tebaldi tones will win the day.  Most auditions nowadays take into account personalities and how a singer might fit in to a group of other singers. If there is a worry about confidence in how a singer presents themselves (and I mean their "self" as opposed to presenting a character from an opera), then there can easily be a worry about how that singer might function in a group of extroverted, aggressive, opera singers all living and eating together for 6 to 12 weeks.

3) The panel has no imagination. Okay, maybe they have a little. But mostly, not much. This means the singer's imagination needs to come into play in a big, big way. You need to know who you are singing to, or about. You need to know if it's day or night, inside or outside, in a furnished room or a courtyard. Are there other people in the scene that the aria takes place in? You simply can not just stand there and make pretty tones. Not any more, my friends. There must be a strong connection to the text, a huge musical mind at work making decisions and taking stands in multiple areas (ornamentation is just one example.) And if someone is telling you that it's the voice, and only the voice, that'll get you into a young artist program, then they are telling you what we all want to believe is true, but actually isn't true. An opera singer has always been, and will always be, a human being who acts with their voice. So work on the human being part, the acting part, as well as the singing part. Work on it before the audition. You can't think for a moment that your gestures will just appear and make sense, or that fixating on the wall behind the panel, staring at it incessantly, will make anyone in the room think you're an operatic Meryl Streep or Russell Crowe. They work on their characters before the camera shoots, and so should you. They live in a broad, imaginative world, and so should you.

4) What you wear is less important nowadays. Pants on a woman? Fine. Jeans on a man? Fine. Black dresses with pearls? Think that one over... Think about how you'll define yourself as a human being to a trio of strangers not really looking at you carefully. Define yourself boldly in order to make an impression -- do everything you can to not look like all those other people in the lobby waiting to sing. Color is important, absolutely. So is bling. Remember, the panel is made up of human beings who have been looking at hundreds of singers. It's impossible to remember everyone, particularly if twelve men all singing Malatesta's aria show up in a dark navy suit, with polished shoes, a blue shirt and variable ties to match. If your repertoire doesn't separate you from the pack, then your acting and singing skills need to come into play along with the rest of your "package" - which includes what you look like when you walk in the door.

5) This is YOUR time slot. Use it, invest in the moment and enjoy sharing your talents. A ten-minute audition slot is not the time to fix your technique, make dramatic discoveries, or improvise some ornaments for your Rameau aria. The audition is about YOU. Share yourself, how you are at the PRESENT moment - not how you might be five years from now. If you have someone telling you you'll be the next great Tosca, well how lovely, but don't go taking "Vissi d'arte" around to auditions if you're some young 20ish soprano who really should be singing "V'adoro pupile". Sing the lightest literature possible. Take a step back, fach-wise; especially if you're being cast in school productions in heavier, or even, dramatic roles. This happens a lot -- getting confused over "what" you are because at your school you have the biggest voice, so you get cast as the Countess or Fiordiligi, but you really are a Susanna or Despina out there in the real world. For mezzo's, it's even worse. Of course you're not a character mezzo, you're a high lyric soprano who just hasn't figured out her top, but you get cast as Miss Pinkerton instead of Laetitia... And then there are the tenors masquerading around as lyric baritones... Just be who you are. Every audition is only a snapshot of the singer you are at that moment, and this changes so quickly and dramatically. Be flexible in your early 20s. You don't have to present your future-illustrious-international career's best five arias during the fall of your senior year at college to an AGMA apprenticeship program. But you do have to present some version of YOURSELF, and be confident about it regardless of the fact that the arias might just be stepping stones to other arias in later years.

6) Prepare 5 to 15 arias for the audition season. Come on. Learn more than 5 arias. People who are pursuing other careers in the arts (just think about the hundreds of songs your musical theatre singer counter-parts have in their current rep!) make it a vital part of their training to learn AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE about their chosen fields. Walk into an audition and present 10 arias. Have "the 5" listed and then add more below as "Additional Arias". It is a terrible, terrible thing that young singers - and the people who teach, train, and hire them - think that learning an aria should take months and months OR that having more than five arias running around your head is somehow difficult or confusing to both singer and panel. My thoughts on these arias? 1) Two contrasting baroque arias (one fast, one slow) 2) Two contrasting Mozart arias (either tempo or dramatic situation) 3) One aria by Rossini, Bellini, or Donizetti (or a composer like them) 3) A German aria of some sort 4) A Slavic aria of some sort 5) An aria from a verismo opera 6) An aria in French 7) Two contrasting 20th century arias 8) Two contrasting musical theatre arias 9) An aria from G&S or Offenbach 10) An aria from an opera written since 2000.  For those who were counting, that's 15 musical pieces. If most are about 3 minutes long, then we're talking 45 minutes of literature. Pianists carry more than that with just two concertos. Make a commitment to learn literature. The above 15 categories can easily fill the needed "5" for any young artist program and then you'll have another 10 arias to have wiggle room with if you need to vary one or two, or offer a piece of musical theatre, or add a couple extra arias in that represent a coming season. But if you walk around with barely 5, you are limiting your opportunities. I know singers who can learn an aria in a day, and rather well. How long does it really take to learn an aria? If you don't learn quickly, figure out how to. Then use every coaching, every masterclass opportunity, every studio class opportunity (heck, sing for friends!) to role out these pieces and get feedback.

7) Don't wear an all black anything to an audition.

8) Keep an audition journal. Go crazy -- keep a journal everyday.

9) Figure out how to breathe in stressful situations. One of the first things that seems to go in an audition is the BREATH. Getting it past your collarbone, for instance, can sometimes be a challenge during an important audition. Work on breathing outside of an audition. Ask your voice teacher about the breath. Their answers might surprise you. Seek out places to practice breathing: swimming pools, yoga, mediation, hiking up steep inclines, walking... Before your audition, have a breathing plan. Get centered outside of the room with your breath. Breathe in the audition room, too! Breathe between arias. Consciously, really, breathe!

10) Try, as best as you can, to not place too much importance on any audition. Even at the Met finals, if you listen to what the winners say, they talk about how they tried to make it "just" another opportunity to sing. If you walk into a room thinking that your whole future career (and therefore life) depends on the outcome, you are setting yourself up for failure. How about a "I don't care what you think" attitude? If you're walking into an audition feeling that what the panel thinks of you is more important than what you think of yourself, then you should turn around and walk away.

A bonus thought: Remember that what you do -- singing opera -- is something quite special. It's something that billions of other human beings on this planet can not do. It's a crazy, joyous thing to put yourself into the head-space of an 18th century peasant or a Greek God or a gypsy or a famous character from Shakepeare. Who gets to do that and try to make a living at it? It's a transcendental experience to channel the genius of a Mozart or a Rossini or a Stravinsky. While you sing their music, they live again. Their genius comes alive once more from beyond the grave through your vocal cords, face, body, and mind. Most people can't even imagine what that must be like!  So live it! Do it!

And learn an aria or two...

Best of luck to all of you out there!

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Battling Depression Mindfully

NOTE: This blog first appeared in August of 2014, after Robin Williams' suicide. I've reposted it below.

I wrote this specific blog months ago and have been wrestling about whether to publish it or not for weeks and weeks.  Then Robin Williams died yesterday. According to news reports, he took his own life after a long struggle with depression.

[Deep breath...]

Suffering from depression happens too often in silence. Please keep in mind that, from what I can gather, each story of depression is unique -- this is my journey.

[Another deep breath...]

Depression is a silent storm raging deep inside millions. I've kept silent for decades, from the fear that if others knew my problem they'd think less of me or think I was weak. It's simply embarrassing and, I hate to say it, depressing to admit you're depressed, let alone a long-time sufferer.

But I've discussed a number of personal things on this blog, from my beard to my dyslexia. This one's the biggie. Much more epic than any beard could possibly be.

And so I type.

What do I mean by depression?

For me, once depression sets in, it triggers terrible thoughts and emotions - like marbles spilled from a box on a table, scattering into uncontrollable areas, falling off into corners, hiding under furniture, while others sit spinning in the light. Some you never find again, some you scoop up easily, others sit hidden and, years later, make their presence known by a barefoot walk through a darkened room.

But I bet that might seem an unlikely, perhaps too quicksilver a metaphor, for depression; especially for many who might be lucky enough to not have suffered regular bouts. Often I read accounts of depression that make it seem like it's a slow motion event. Maybe it is for others or for scientists studying it. For me, though, it happens in the blink of an eye; an exceptionally fast setting-in period (this latest state felt like it happened over lunch), and that's a scary thing still to this day. It's much different than my anxiety - which rears its ugly head with noticeable warning bells. Anxiety leaves me just as quickly as my depression seems to arrive but it arrives a bit more slowly, unlike my depression. Once my anxiety decides to leave, though, it races away (after burying me alive in fear and shivering sweat.) Just writing about anxiety gets me jittery... 

Back to my old friend depression. 

My latest struggle arrived during lunch, right after I'd ordered some Indian curry at the food court in the underground mall in downtown Montreal. Unbeknownst to me as I looked around at the others sitting and eating, I went from normal to sad. Thoughts flickered into my mind like gnats around my head walking through a park in the summer months. And there I was, sitting alone in a court full of hundreds of people wondering if anybody else felt as awful as I did. Walking away, without finishing my curry, I meandered back to my studio and sat, unable to work or think because what was present in my mind was a clenching fist squeezing hope out of my soul. Finally, recognition: this was a deeper than normal depression.

Depression scatters my mind. It's as if my mind is getting cut up into pieces by some hooded character lurking in the shadows leaving me unable to think clearly. In a day or so, my mind is no longer recognizable to me, which leaves my heart really, really empty and folded in a dark, dark gravity sinkhole in the middle of nowhere. 

I can sometimes see it coming, though. Just like in some horror picture, the sound track of my mind changes, the lighting shifts angles, my voice quivers, coloring itself with trepidation, the temperature of my body drops, and there is a filter that creeps over my lens when looking out into the world, especially looking into the mirror of other people's faces as they gaze my way. I look at others wondering: Do they know?

Knowing that my depression eventually leaves keeps me steady, keeps me going. I've had years getting to understand this state.  But I've not really embraced it until recently.  Depression is completely unlike anxiety. The panic, the shakes, the racing mind that knows it's the end come for sure. Anxiety washing through you is like facing an uncaged tiger, hungry from the hunt, smelling the fear, seeing the darting eyes. It knows I'm here - naked and defenceless. Then it attacks and I hope I'm somewhere private, so that no one sees me in hell.

Hell. Depression can sometimes feel like a slow walk into hell. It's a road I've been on and explored for many years. One that I have walked, to my undying gratitude, with my wife who takes my hand and loves me and smiles and shines a light back on Earth for me to head towards. How terrible it must be to live with depression without someone standing with you, being your lighthouse. I know I am a lucky man, but it is a hard thing to acknowledge weakness with your partner in life. Luckily I'm strong in many other ways and during other times. I know that we are there for each other, no matter what. Knowing that, in the deepest way possible, is an extremely comforting thing.

But I am alone during the first few moments when depression settles in, before it's recognized. It has become less scary for me in the last five years or so. I know the pattern: massive levels of activity, 24/7 events scheduled in the ical, unending to-do lists that grow even while being dealt with systematically and successfully. All culminating into yet another big weekend of performances (I'm in opera, so these weekends are literally operatic in proportion.) There's always a "let down" afterward. That's normal, right? Everybody feels those, for sure... right?

My letdown comes and goes pretty quickly though. It is almost always replaced by the Full Monty Depressive State. Sometimes it's even entertaining at first -- it can certainly hit as a strong feeling; the opposite of numbness, at least for awhile. The numbness comes later when the life and vitality get sucked out of you. There's the tightness that arises in my chest and throat as I hold back, day after day, the internal sobs that sit just underneath each breath. Some days the clouds settle in and rain softly, some times all light disappears, other nights my mind is so numb it can't even sleep to get rest. The fatigue can feel monumental.

A few years ago, I realized I'd been like this since my childhood. I wrote a poem about my depression in high school that I remember to this day over 30 years later. (One wonders why my teacher didn't take me aside and ask if I was alright.) Instead, I got an "A+" and was praised in class as it was read, to my horror, out loud. Here's an excerpt:

I am alone. 
The clover in the fields within me I have not found.
Droplets of dew are my moonlit worlds
Swirling through mists of my own creation.
Frightened of evaporation, I hide my soul;
The sun knows my mind 
But can not pierce the fog.

Sad, eh?

Yet, all is not lost this time! I have found that clover (after years of looking, I might add.) I've walked those fields mindfully for almost two years now, breathing in and breathing out; experiencing the present moment as vividly as possible. 

How? I've been meditating in the mindful (Vipassana) tradition since a desperate, anxious moment a few years ago led me to try it out. Luckily, I found a weekly sitting group with an amazingly patient and earthy teacher (Daryl Lynn Ross of True North Insight), and knew within a few weeks that I had struck gold. At least, I knew there was a possibility that I could learn something about myself by sitting with myself without judgement.

I have even moved toward understanding my latent Buddhist beliefs that I believe have sat in my heart and mind ever since writing an 8th grade term paper on Siddhartha's life (I don't know why I chose that topic, but it took more than 30 years for me to return to studying Buddha's teachings.)

Sitting and breathing, allowing my mind to become calm and quiet down, has allowed me to see clearly the rising and falling away of my crazed, scattered, reactive, and depressed mind. I've also gotten to breathe through and investigate the emotions connected to many of those thoughts and the feelings connected to them. 

And so when the old pattern of depression shows itself, I have begun to recognize it even before it has begun to really manifest itself. And even though it resides in me (now, as I type these words), I know that it will - always - fall away. Impermanent just as the feet of snow that sat on my front lawn in Montreal during the first week of April; one week later and flowers burst forth from the soil, just waiting to join the world.  The sun will rise, it will shine down, and it will melt the snow, evaporate the fog, and warm my face as I lift it upwards to take in yet another Spring. The clover in the fields within me can smile remembering previous sunny Spring days and look forward to ones that will come soon. As they always do and always will, since everything flows from one state to the next. I can be content and happy, then I can be sad, and then smiling again. I know this now because of meditation.

For even though I may sometimes, all alone, beweep my outcast, depressed state, mindfulness meditation practice allows me to know that I don't need to change my state with kings. (I'm paraphrasing/quoting a Shakespeare sonnet here, bear with me!) Kings and I have no commonality except our humanity. I have no need to change my state, at all. It changes moment to moment without me.

Our state changes constantly, with every breath. Though my body may occasionally betray me with panic, though my mind fogs in and all I want to do is lay in bed unthinking my way through the day, I have a way through. A path lies open for me to trod. A path is there for all to walk upon, actually. 

A path that opens with each breath.

For even though meditation can't "cure" me, even though meditation isn't going to prevent these storms from hitting my mind and heart, meditation practice has illuminated for me a number of insights into my experience thus far:

1) Thoughts and Emotions can be like storms. All storms pass. Some are big ones, some are brief, some are just wind, others are wonderful and needed. But they pass. Daryl taught me this, and the more I read about Buddha's teachings, the more I understand this.

2) I can see the storms on the horizon now, almost smell them. And knowing they're coming I can breathe and calm my mind, which calms my body, and then I can continue to enjoy the present moment. Some storms do dissipate before arriving, this I know as well.

3) The breath is always there. It never leaves.

4) I have courage, a deep deep courage. I've always had this strength. Courage lies in all of us.

5) Being depressed isn't who I am. Being brilliant isn't who I am. Being talented isn't who I am.  Missing notes isn't who I am. Disappointing others isn't my purpose. Inspiring others isn't my purpose. My purpose is a mystery to me, but I'm happy to continue to investigate what it might be.

And I am just me - and that's okay.

If any of you reading this also suffer from depression, I urge you to talk about it - with loved ones, with friends, or with medical professionals. 

I'd also suggest trying meditation. Meditation is simple, there are so many online resources about it, so many guided talks. I like to browse a website on dharmaseed: they have hundreds of talks, and offer many links and resources. There are apps for your phone. Even the U.S. military is teaching mindfulness meditation - and it's really helping soldiers both on and off the field of battle.

I have never medicated myself for my depression, but have considered it. I hope that those out there suffering with more severe mental health problems than me get the help they might need. 

It is suffering in silence, thinking you're the only one like this, that really can get to you. It takes courage to seek help, to admit it's time to talk to someone. Courage is in us all. Please trust in that and know that you are not alone.

- Patrick

Thursday, July 16, 2015


REGRETs I’ve had a few…

Actually, I have no real regrets, only a few half regrets; more on those later.

I’ve wanted to write this blog for quite some time now, but regretfully have been hyper busy doing nothing. Well, almost nothing. The months of May and June were filled with looking for a new home outside of Quebec, looking for a new colleague to become the head coach for Opera McGill, and planning for the next season, which includes five operas at McGill: Adamo’s Little Women, Ching’s Buoso’s Ghost / Speed Dating Tonight!, Donizetti’s L’elisir d’amore (which I’m conducting instead of directing) and Handel’s Rodelinda. Plus we are doing a special performance in September “Sondheim on Sherbrooke” and I’m cooking up a special extra project for May, 2016. I’m also looking forward to a return to Fargo for my 4th opera production there: Suor Angelica / Gianni Schicchi (conducted by Michael Ching). Hopefully there will be one or two more outside gigs down in the states and/or here in Canada as well. At least 7 operas between late September and next June!

So back to regrets…

Each year around May or June, I receive letters of thanks, emails of thanks, or messages of thanks from students about their experiences with Opera McGill. These are always wonderful to read, and make all of the hard work and effort seem like it has meaning to many individuals. There are themes that run through most of these messages of thanks – how holding them to high standards helped them realize their potential, how the program’s professional bent helped them on their career path, and how giving them opportunities to grow artistically meant so much. But there is another theme that runs through these messages of gratitude, one of regret.

The main regrets seem to be that they wish they’d taken advantage of all the opportunities provided by Opera McGill, that they wish they’d not worried so much about what their colleagues or teachers thought about them, and that they wish they’d not judged their experiences so harshly because now that they look back on them, they see just how extraordinary those experiences were.

I have to say that I especially agree with that last bit. So many young singers today really over judge and over think their experiences instead of just experiencing them, fully committing to them, and bringing into their rehearsals and coachings a sense of joyous discovery.  Too often I see young singers sit back and quietly remove themselves from the moment in order to judge it. From time to time, I receive a few complaints that there isn’t enough this or that, or too much of this or that.  Some even comment that there is too much rehearsal (how can there ever possibly be too much rehearsal?!) In what operatic world – outside of the German system of 6 years of rehearsing one recitative – can a singer ever be bored in a rehearsal? There is so, so, so, so, so much to learn and listen to and watch. If you find yourself thinking that rehearsal is the thing to “get through” so that you can get your costume on and sing in front of an audience, then I think you should rethink pursuing a career in opera. The life is rehearsal. The life is endless learning – new roles, new stagings, new ways of collaborating with new/old colleagues. The amount of time one spends in front of audiences is extremely small. It’s like the vast expanse of space in between the planets in our solar systems – it takes years to travel to Pluto, but then BANG WOW: Pictures of Pluto crowd Facebook and Twitter for a few days; then people move on… 

That’s what it’s like to work in opera.

So my advice is to jump in with both feet, go to every rehearsal you possibly can! See every single recital, get to every masterclass and ask as many questions as you can! Take your professors and mentors for coffee and grill them for answers about the questions that are on your mind. Work with new pianists, read through your aria books and those musical theatre anthologies. Get out to hear concerts – classical and popular. Do as much as possible to avoid surfing on the internet or watching YouTube videos or posting on Facebook. You can do that later, after school ends.

Sounds simple, but sadly it is truly hard to do.  One could start with putting away the smart phone for hours at a time. Maybe just check FB every other day. Maybe save YouTubing until a Saturday morning. These are just thoughts. There is tons of expert advice on that subject available on the interweb… Oh…

My “half” regrets?
1) Not learning enough piano concertos back when I had the chops. Oh well.
2) Not spending enough time learning certain opera scores back when I was younger and had more time. By “learning” I mean being able to play the scores and storing their texts in memory. Scores by Wagner (Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, and Meistersinger) and Verdi (Ernani, Otello, and Luisa Miller), learning the big Strauss works (Ariadne, Arabella, and Rosenkavalier are the only three I basically know), and some of my favorite 20th century operas: Pelleas, Grimes, and Lulu – love them, but I only can play certain sections now; the sections I learned back during my Juilliard days.

I really had the time back during those summers when I was playing at the Lyric Opera of Chicago, plus I was playing for the god of opera choruses Donald Palumbo. What was I thinking not working on these scores and then talking to Mo. Palumbo about them, or asking to maybe work on one or two with him? Imagine what I could have learned! I had oodles of time during my masters degree now that I look back and think about it. I had tons of time while an apprentice coach at DMMO when Stewart Robertson was running that program. He’d have been fantastic to work on Grimes or Ariadne, for instance. I could have conquered the big Donizetti works all at once when I was at Juilliard instead of waiting to learn them as the jobs came along.

Those sorts of regrets. Otherwise, my life’s journey has been charmed and wondrous! I hope everyone out there gets as exciting a journey for themselves!

Wednesday, May 20, 2015

And I know things now...

The great Stephen Sondheim wrote:

"And I know things now, many valu'ble things that I hadn't known before.
Do not put your faith in a cape and a hood, they will not protect you the way that they should.
And take extra care with strangers, even flowers have their dangers, and though scary is exciting,
nice is diff'rent than good." - Little Red from Into the Woods

I've repeated those last 5 words to many groups of people -- young artists gathering for the first time, students in a rehearsal for the first time, also privately to many young singers or pianists, and at many dinner parties. Some, not all, understand the sentiment.

Nice is indeed diff'rent than Good! These words came to mind recently again when a person who I'm sure thinks of themselves as a good person was causing another person to suffer greatly. They did it nicely and that's why I think they thought they were still doing good. Nope, not good at all. So I sang the song to myself, yet again. This time though, I started to think about the words at the start of the verse...

Those other lines are as interesting to ponder as well.

So I'd like to write about faith and singing. Yes, truly!

Putting one's "faith in a cape and a hood" is a lot like putting faith in a person or a process. It's important to know if you are putting faith in the process itself, or in the person responsible for said process.

Too general and vague?  I should get more specific...

Shamar Rinpoche once described the "4 Ways of the Wise":

1) Depend on the teaching, not on the teacher.
2) Depend on the meaning and not on the words.
3) Depend on the depth and not on the surface.
4) Depend on wisdom and not concepts.

These are four ideas perfect for talking about singing and the process involved in learning to sing.

1) Depend on the teaching, not on the teacher.
So true -- how many singers head to a specific studio to study with a certain teacher only knowing their name and reputation, but nothing about their technique or pedagogical philosophy? Too many think something like "Well, so-and-so won a huge voice competition so that means their teacher MUST know what they're doing!" Yes?!

Well, sometimes yes; sometimes no. Learning to sing is about many things, it is certainly not about studying with someone famous, or someone a singer might think will be politically the better choice. Those ideas are about furthering one's career either at a school or out in the big professional world. If you are still in need of technique, then make sure you are focusing on the teaching, not the teacher. If your teacher's teaching isn't making a positive impact in your singing, or if your teacher's teaching is too long a process ("stay with me and I will get you onto the Met stage with 6 hard years of work"), or overshadowed by other issues, like personality conflicts or too much psychological mumbo-jumbo they're not qualified to give, take your money elsewhere.

The same could be said of institutions. Depend on the teaching happening within those walls, not just on the reputation of those walls.

2) Depend on the meaning and not on the words.
This one is harder to understand. You have to access your instincts here. You have to listen between the lines and watch things you can only hear. It's about digging deeper. Into yourself, your score, your voice, your imagination. It's about trusting your own curiosity to ponder intent.

What are the intentions of your coach? Your teacher? The composer? The librettist? What are they trying to say that perhaps they can't articulate with words. Or notes. Or pitches. There's meaning all around us, yet we latch on to words only, all too often. "Your vowels are too dark." "It's marked piano." "I think you're not right for Edgardo." "Your high notes will come when you're ready." "Think blue."

Don't trust those words. Look for the meaning behind them. Trust your instincts.

3) Depend on the depth and not on the surface.
This one's easy. Ponder an iceberg. It's surface is not at all what its full structure is. The superficiality of all of us is simply not what we are. Mozart is not all "I, IV, V chord progressions" as a colleague once described his music, nor is Menotti a bad composer (over-rated maybe...)

Diving deep into a score, into a libretto, into a character, into a design or concept -- this is what makes me happy to be living in this sea of opera. There's just SO MUCH DEPTH in opera! It never ceases to amaze me when someone says they "know" Mozart's Cosi fan tutte. Really? How is that possible? I've been living with that opera in my head since the 1980s and I wouldn't ever think I knew it! I'm still pondering the depths of Act 2. It'll keep my head spinning until I die, and that's just one part of one opera by one master composer. If you don't like uncertainty, if you want to know the answers, if not knowing something leaves you anxious or upset or feeling stupid, or if you think there are answers to be found by looking at those black dots on those millions of white pages, then please think about doing something else with your short life. Become a critic perhaps.

4) Depend on wisdom, not concepts.
Lots of concepts out there. Many are quite helpful. "Nice is different than good" is a concept. When I sing Little Red's aria from time to time, it reminds me to open my mind about situations not always being as they seem. Wisdom is, again, instinctual. What makes something wise as opposed to smart, witty, or a revelation? Wisdom is something you find, I think. It is all around us, but forgotten or temporarily invisible until our mind's eye ponders an idea and passes through the surface of the idea into a deeper understanding.

It's through a focused, and concerted effort to delve the depths of discovery that one can find wisdom. It is through understanding meaning and intention that one can begin to dive down below these surfaces all around us. These efforts teach us as much as any teacher could or can.

It's a palindromic effort, really. By going inward, one discovers an "undiscovered country" all around us.

Monday, April 27, 2015

Judging a Book by its Cover

A few personal stories about book covers:

Back in 2001, about a week or so after conducting Bartok's Bluebeard's Castle and Dallapiccola's  Il Prigioniero in Princeton, I found myself in Galesburg, Illinois working with my father-in-law who was ripping up a high school gym floor in preparation for laying a new basketball court.  It was an un-airconditioned gym and it was August. Hot and humid doesn't really even begin to describe the air.

Dressed in work boots, jeans, an "Opera Festival of New Jersey" baseball cap, and a white tee shirt now dirtied from sweat and the remnants of the floor I was sweeping up with not much success (the piles just seemed to reform every time I moved into a new section...) I was pretty miserable. I remember thinking at the time that even though I had just received some of the best reviews of my conducting career from the New York Times, the Financial Times, and the Philadelphia Inquirer, here I was getting callouses on my hands, smelling pretty rank, yet looking forward to downing at least a couple of ice cold beers once I got home.

I wasn't working for the money, I was really there to assist my father-in-law. During his work years he was one of just a few guys who knew how to "cut in" a basketball court by hand. If you know what that means, then you'll be impressed. If you don't, just know that you should be impressed.  He was also one of the hardest working people I'd ever met, the opposite of lazy.  Certainly when we talk about opera and how we "work" hard at it, there isn't really a comparison when someone like my father-in-law talks about "work".  My wife and I had left New Jersey and driven to Burlington, Iowa to spend time with family. It was her idea for me to offer to help out, so I reluctantly did thinking it'd be a good change from all that Hungarian opera swirling around my head.

My wife was happily back at her parent's home with our first son, who was barely two years old. We were trying for another, to be honest, and there is something to be said for manual labor making you feel like a potential progenitor, especially after downing an ice cold beer on a hot summer's afternoon. Perhaps that's just too much information...

This is an opera blog, I promise!

Anyway, I was busy sweeping the floor, getting dust and crap all over me, sweating in the 100+ degrees of heat when a woman walked into the gym to see how we were progressing with the job (I think she was the principal.) Before she got to speak to my father-in-law, she saw my baseball cap and a funny smile came upon her face. "You a fan?" she said to me. I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, so I think an unintelligible "huh?" escaped my lips. Looking at me with some sort of sad pity for my inability to articulate an answer, she spoke to me again - in a very slow tempo: "You. Like. The. Opera?!" And she smiled and pointed to my cap.

"Oh," the maestro confusedly said because his brain was melting in the heat and humidity, "yeah, I..." and then my father-in-law spoke up and said "he conducts opera!"

Silence and Wonder. Her smile faded as I took my baseball cap off (I was raised to take my hat off in the presence of a lady and she seemed like the type who'd appreciate the gesture) and said "Hi there, I'm the son-in-law" and held out my amazingly dirty hand, which she didn't shake because she was very confused.

"Really? Wow!" she literally exclaimed. And then she said something I'll never forget: "Judging by your appearance, I can't imagine that to be true."

Well, I was standing before her not looking like I'd looked when Martin Bernheimer of the Times (Financial, of course) wrote his thoughts about me: "He made much of Dallapiccola’s aching examination of torture by false hope, even more of Bartok’s epic essay in psychosexual angst.” (Truly, how many conductors get such a cool review using the word "psychosexual"?!) There I was the opposite of an artistic, flamboyant, tuxedoed opera maestro. In fact, I had visited the local barber upon arrival in Iowa and gotten my favorite summer haircut, a very severe high and tight flattop. This principal was looking at me with eyes that couldn't imagine me as a classical conductor. She said something about how the gym was progressing, gave me another quizzical look, and turned around. I guess the cover of my book was way too blue collar for her to imagine me in front of an orchestra and opera singers waving a baton.

I thought about this on the ride home, and I've thought about it quite often over the years -- why and how do so many people think there's a "look" to a conductor, or to an artist, or to us classical musicians in general? So often the only time they see us is when we are in gowns and tuxedos; all dressed up in 19th century finery for people who now attend the theatre in jeans, work boots, a tee shirt, and baseball caps. I've seen them. Our audiences' idea of dressing for attending a concert, recital, or opera has completely changed from even my time at The Juilliard School in the early 90s. Why haven't WE changed? Why don't we dress like our audience, for indeed that's why men wore tuxedos to play in the symphony -- because the men in the audience were dressed in tuxedos as well.  I purposefully broke from tradition by not forming a "look" that said Maestro with a capital "M". I found it all way too pretentious, and I was much more comfortable in a, for lack of a better phrase, working man's skin. Sadly, though, I wonder how many people cultivate a look or a persona that turns them into something that they can't own, or something they really can't identify with honestly. I suppose the same is true, to a lesser extent, in academia.

Just a thought.

Here's another:
The cover of the book entitled: "Sweeney Todd" says it's a musical. Yet can we just pause for a moment and think about the Sweeney productions being put on this year alone by opera companies? Here's a short list: Vancouver Opera, Houston Grand Opera, Hawaii Opera Theatre, Virginia Opera, Eugene Opera, and I'm sure I've missed a few! Yet lots of opera lovers won't call it an opera because it's not called an opera. How many of them call Die Zauberflöte an opera by mistake? Or Carmen? Or any of those wonderful operettas that people think are operas? In my book, any story told through music and singing is basically an opera, unless there's tap dancing; then it's a musical. Thinking this way makes the delineation pretty easy: Street Scene is a musical and A Little Night Music is an opera.  I tire of the ceaseless, petty discussions about what is what and which is which, to be honest. If it works in a theatre, sells tickets, and can be sung then I think it doesn't matter in the least. It's a new day kids, better get on this boat cause it's already sailed!

Here's another:
The cover of my face: Celebrating my 50th year of life, I decided to stop shaving and grow a beard from November 21, 2014 to November 21, 2015. This journey is referred to as a "yeard" by pogonophiles (beard lovers). I can not even begin to tell you how this has changed my life. It's not like I've never grown a beard or facial hair before. Just take a look at some of the pics on the right hand side of this blog and you'll see a number of different looks. I've blogged about them, actually. I think in today's world the perception of who you are is much stronger and more "real" than the reality of who you actually are.

When I'm out and about now wearing my sunglasses, jeans, and flannel shirts, I look like a hipster from Brooklyn. I know this, yet I'm in no way trying to emulate them. I actually resent the fact that I've come upon the glory that is bearding at the same time a whole bunch of skinny-jean wearing ironic hipster models have taken to marketing leather briefcases that cost thousands of dollars. I don't look like those models, though, cause I'm fat in comparison and my beard is rather white. I bring this up because strangers really assume things about me because of how I look. I've gotten so many questions about cars, about where to find a good tattoo artist (I have no ink cause I'm scared it'd get infected!), about where to buy drugs (a few have even asked me if I had any on me!), and the list goes on. I get asked if they can touch my beard (um, no), and on the flip side, I get lots and lots of compliments, free coffees, and a few free beers bought for me by total strangers telling me they "loved my stache" or some sort of compliment.

It's really cool to walk around at my age and feel completely new again. My face is very different with this beard and sometimes even I don't recognize myself in the mirror in the morning. I like this evolution to big grey-bearded guy whose age is hard to pin down now, but it's not who I am. I'm also the clean-shaven preppy frat boy, and the handlebar moustache dandy, and the bald by a razor dude who loves the shock value of a shaved head and an all black wardrobe. Come to think of it, how could I ever get a tattoo? It's permanent and that's one thing I'm not.

This playing around with my outward appearance goes hand-in-hand with my ever changing operatic career. Most of you will change careers, I certainly have. From pianist to coach to conductor to administrator to director, my career path makes total sense to me. I hate it when people box me in, or define me as just one or two of those bits. I'm all of those bits, and so are so many of us in the arts! Yet why is it important to define a young singer as this or that type of voice? Why is it important to tell a young musician to specialize in this or that type of music? Who are we to tell others what they are? Simply because you see me now with a big white beard doesn't mean that's who I am. Simply because I direct more operas than conduct them doesn't mean I'm one or the other, or that I should do one over the other.

A final example:
A wise old singer once told a master class gathering to remember that the singing heard that day was "just a snapshot" of the present moment. No matter how they might sing, it was just a snapshot, a representation of who they were right at that moment. If they were incredible, they might not be again, if they cracked on a high note it might not ever happen again. Their future was unwritten and they should take the comments given as something for the present. It was terrific advice! I give the same advice as often as I can when a singer is frustrated or feeling like they are lacking something technically. Imagine if you just decided however you were performing right now was your book? Would you print it and make copies? What would the cover read? I think it's not only important to NOT judge a book by its cover, but not print out our books as if they are fixed in ink on paper. Our lives, our artistry, our craft and technique are always evolving, always moving dynamically in so many directions. Try not to limit yourself by trying to define yourself so that you can fix your "self" in time and space (so that then you can judge yourself!)  The path to happiness and success is in another direction, in my humble opinion.

So this has turned into a longish blog, and a bit personal. I guess what's going through my brain right now is more about the future than the past. Where to go now? What new challenges might be ahead? How will opera's present trends move forward and create a future that my students and colleagues can be celebrated in and be successful in as well?

Too many great books out there, try not to just pick up the ones with covers that make you feel comfortable, or make you feel smart. Pick up the ones that make you crazy, confused, and especially the ones that challenge you to rethink the world you live or work in.

That'll keep you young, and that'll keep you from boxing yourself into a box of your own creation!