Among the many reasons I gave up singing at age 30, along with that it was too expensive for a hobby and I needed to go to college at night so I could get a decent job, and that it was considered a "politically incorrect" choice for Lesbians in 1980, was that I simply could not manage the amount of self care required. It was too much fun to be skinny, sleep-deprived, and hoarse after a night of clubbing (even if I myself was no longer smoking).
When I went back to singing I was 54, and took good care of myself anyhow so it was no longer as big an issue.
But despite no longer crash dieting or clubbing, well, there's life. And most of life is not lived with the buoyantly lifted ribcage, the serene breath, and the open pharyngeal space.
Even if one eats properly and sleeps adequately, sadness deflates the ribs, annoyance constricts the back of the throat, minor depression makes it oh, so hard to give that extra lower abdominal "push" needed for those high notes to sail out.
When I was growing up, my mother, who loved classical music but had little respect for classical musicians, referred to singers as "bovine". One of her friends (whom I didn't really know) taught voice at one of the big conservatories and when she went to his house she met several singers (and there was an up and coming young male opera singer who lived next door to us). According to my mother, most of these people were placid, very few if any came from New York, and none of them could carry on a particularly intelligent or animated conversation about the issues of the day.
In the "olden days", I think singers led very sheltered lives (remember all the jokes about female singers and their mothers?). They were not exposed to much that would make them want to scream, cry, or sink into the sort of angst that is best fed with cigarettes, alcohol, or if not those, lots of coffee and interminable talking.
If anyone is wondering why I am thinking about this now, it's that for so much of last three years, I have been stressed to the breaking point by eldercare. Not just the sadness of seeing someone you love in decline, but dealing with the logistics of another person's life as well as your own, worrying, being deprived of sleep, arguing to get a point across with a service provider. It's draining, it makes you hoarse, it's sad, and it's extremely difficult to then go (if I can even find the time) and joyfully or pseudojoyfully muster up the superhuman, tension-free, golden throated energy balance to sing my opera repertoire.
I mean I have enough basic technique to enable me to go on autopilot and sing through a church solo that doesn't go above a G. But nothing more strenuous.
I mean there seem to be singers who can keep the back of their throats open and speak musically no matter how angry or sad they are (is that what my mother meant by "bovine"?) but I am certainly not one of them. (That also may be why it seems that there are not a lot of singers who were born in New York City - the way we speak is absolutely the worst thing a singer can do.) Or maybe some people have been blessed with so much natural energy balance and stamina that they can get all that infrastructure to hold up an evening of Amneris or Azucena even if they are depressed, angry, nervous, or tired. I don't know. I am not one of them, certainly not now.
Some days now I so just want to wallow in all the things that are bad for singing (I think that's what 12 step programs call "feeling your feelings") like talking, eating and sleeping too little, letting my body crumple up and my ribcage collapse, and enjoying the pain of exhaustion as it mirrors the pain in my heart.
(I say pain in my heart because even if the immediate danger has passed, this is probably a downhill slope from which there is no scrambling back to wellness and happiness for my loved one.)
But I have fought too hard for what I have.
So I am going to my lesson tomorrow.
And I will see if I can squeeze in a practice some time this week.
No comments:
Post a Comment