This afternoon I sang my 2018 recital program for the third time. It was at a new senior residence, with a room that was too small for me to invite guests, although the piano was good. I didn't feel that I sang as well as the first two times (my highest notes didn't sound as good) but my teacher said that the problem was that the room had a low ceiling which muffled the sound, so that my voice didn't "spin".
But the audience was appreciative, except for one woman who glared and only applauded selectively (she did not applaud for "Tanti Affetti" but did for "Cruda Sorte" and "Mon Coeur"), and then left.
I certainly would be happy to sing there again.
I think this is the last time for this particular program, and I may retire "Tanti Affetti" for quite some time now.
My teacher and I are discussing reviving our 2015 concert of duets. We may replace the Gioconda material with a duet from Favorita, which means that I will sing the aria from Favorita as well. Actually, I should call it Favorite, because my teacher is singing one of the bass roles in French, so he will give me a copy of the music for the duet and my aria in French.
And if we do that particular concert we will do the Enrico/Giovanna duet from Anna Bolena, which I love.
Something I realized yesterday is that I am probably happier now than I have been in close to 15 years. I was very happy for the most part in my 30s and 40s (I was not singing then, but did a lot of traveling and socializing and had one "fun" job, which, although mainly about paper pushing, had all sorts of meetings, lunches, and business trips interspersed between the dull work, which was how things were back before the Internet. I mean I love the Internet, but it definitely drained all the "social" out of a lot of boring jobs.) In my 50s I was happy somewhat, but my relationship with my partner definitely had begun to deterioriate. I was working very hard at a senior management job, and coming home and making dinner because - what - she had arthritis??? And she was becoming more and more disagreeable. Then I discovered singing, and The Mentor, and all bets were off. I became someone else. I don't want to rehash all that here; I have done it enough. During that period I was often euphoric, so I suppose that was a form of happiness, but then everything came crashing down. My relationship with him became abusive, I found the minister to be unsympathetic, and she decided to do away with all the classical music. So I was pretty much vocally homeless. I discovered (over a period of 10 years at least) that no matter how well I thought I sang, I would never be competitive on the Upper West Side of Manhattan where as soon as one group of "emerging professionals" moved on, another took their place. No "amateur" opera group wanted me; they could get professionals. And I felt beset on all sides. If I wanted to produce something myself it was hard to get people to come (who would want to come to a homemade concert of opera scenes if they could hear real music - aka someone's senior recital at one of the three conservatories here?)
And on top of all that I had taken early retirement from my job (which I had come to hate) only to replace it with working at home, alone, at my laptop hour after hour, taking breaks by reading blogs of real singers who were never in the same city for more than a few weeks and endlessly posted pictures of themselves in costume or solicited feedback on their latest head shots. And I felt totally misunderstood. If I posted or blogged things about how unhappy my colorless life was making me, I was told to just "pull up my socks" because of all the people who had suffered major tragedies who nonetheless always had a full social calendar (I am thinking of one woman in particular who trashed me in a comment to a personal blog - not this one - when she hardly knew me).
Things began to improve when I turned 66 and could collect Social Security. I decided that I would never have a "dream career" (musical or not) so I just had to hold my nose, spend 20 hours a week at home copyediting, and then fill my life with nonremunerative activities that I found fulfilling. Then my partner got on Medicaid. In some ways, my life as a caregiver looks harder, because I am responsible for coordinating her round the clock care and managing her business affairs, but it really isn't. I'm an unpaid Geriatric Care Manager, which is certainly a much more interesting "job" than being a full-time freelance copyeditor (being a part-time one I can stomach) and more importantly, I feel that what I do matters. I am making the end of someone's life more comfortable and sweeter than it would be otherwise.
As for singing, ironically, despite the fact that I keep singing better and better, that singing is easier and easier, my range is wider, and I have more stamina, I have made my peace with the fact that there is no place for me in the "world" of singing as singers (I mean the "Forum Crowd") experience it. That's OK. I have made a specialty now of singing in nursing homes. The audiences are appreciative and I don't have to worry if my friends do or don't come. Some of the facilities are large enough to accommodate guests, others are not, but for the ones that are, if five of my friends come, that's enough. And I even got some nice videos. I don't go to the opera, even though it's around the corner. And while I would go to something at Lincoln Center if someone bought me a ticket (or someone wanted to go and we made it a social thing), I will never go to any performances by all those opera companies that rejected me. And except for a handful of people who have gone out of their way to be supportive and nice, I have unfriended all the singers I once friended because I envied and admired them. My mornings with Facebook are much happier now that most of my interactions (usually with people from church or former coworkers) involve more parity and less of a feeling that I am an unwanted tagalong, only suffered if I know my place.
For now, anyhow, I am contented being a small town girl who just happened to be born in a big city and never moved.
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