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.
Monday, July 23, 2018
Sunday, July 15, 2018
Ditch the Sports Car
I haven't written in a while, despite having had a satisfyingly successful time singing my Bach cantata aria last Sunday. I sang well, and had the delightful surprise of a viola da gamba accompaniment as well as the organ. And people applauded which they never to after a church solo unless it's something bouncy.
But this article caught my eye. It even mentions The Artist's Way, a program that my therapist recommended, which helped me more than anything I became involved in after AA and The Well Spouse.
Yes, I suppose I do fit the profile featured in this article, down to producing several charity concerts (although my takings were in the $100s not $1000s) and my current specialization of singing in nursing homes.
The one thing this article does not mention, however, is what happens when you discover a passion in midlife that you're obviously good at but not as good as the people who are really good at it, who, even if they don't do it for a living, do it as well as the people who are doing it for a living, all went to the same schools, and all know each other?
The exhilaration that I found at first realizing that I could not only sing Dalila but be Dalila at a tiny church "talent show" was quickly followed by years of rage, envy, and despair as a result of not only being rejected at auditions, but also being attacked on all sides by sharks and snarks when I tried to "join the club". I was rejected by all ten or so "amateur" opera companies here because I was too old, too inexperienced, and not polished enough, and was alternately laughed at and ignored by what I call the "Forum Crowd" (a group of lower level professional and semi professional singers who have in common that they all seem to have music performance degrees and hate wannabees, amateurs who are too big for their britches, and anyone without their credentials who thinks she can converse with her betters like a peer.) (And as I wrote this, looking for a link, I saw that their new message board is closed and requires a log in.)
I suppose a Saturday night painter can paint alone, but you can't really sing alone. There's only so far you can go singing arias in your living room, particularly considering that appreciation is pretty thin on the ground if you live, like I do, around the corner from Lincoln Center and have neighbors who go to the Met every week.
So I sing in a church choir, and am a church soloist. The irony of course is that both my parents were atheists (my mother defined herself as a secular Jew) and I am not Baptised. But it is a nice niche. There are real professional singers who cycle in and out of there but they move on to greener pastures or have limited time for solo opportunities. The older retired professionals (I'm thinking of one) are very "been there, done that". Who is going to sing a solo in the summer if they can go away?
And I produce concerts in nursing homes. I have done two since May and will be doing a third next week. And my teacher, who is now back to singing bass-baritone again, is already thinking of a concert of duets (some old some new) that we can do in the Fall or next Spring.
And of course I'm still waiting to be the subject of an op-ed or other newspaper story, like the singer featured today.
But this article caught my eye. It even mentions The Artist's Way, a program that my therapist recommended, which helped me more than anything I became involved in after AA and The Well Spouse.
Yes, I suppose I do fit the profile featured in this article, down to producing several charity concerts (although my takings were in the $100s not $1000s) and my current specialization of singing in nursing homes.
The one thing this article does not mention, however, is what happens when you discover a passion in midlife that you're obviously good at but not as good as the people who are really good at it, who, even if they don't do it for a living, do it as well as the people who are doing it for a living, all went to the same schools, and all know each other?
The exhilaration that I found at first realizing that I could not only sing Dalila but be Dalila at a tiny church "talent show" was quickly followed by years of rage, envy, and despair as a result of not only being rejected at auditions, but also being attacked on all sides by sharks and snarks when I tried to "join the club". I was rejected by all ten or so "amateur" opera companies here because I was too old, too inexperienced, and not polished enough, and was alternately laughed at and ignored by what I call the "Forum Crowd" (a group of lower level professional and semi professional singers who have in common that they all seem to have music performance degrees and hate wannabees, amateurs who are too big for their britches, and anyone without their credentials who thinks she can converse with her betters like a peer.) (And as I wrote this, looking for a link, I saw that their new message board is closed and requires a log in.)
I suppose a Saturday night painter can paint alone, but you can't really sing alone. There's only so far you can go singing arias in your living room, particularly considering that appreciation is pretty thin on the ground if you live, like I do, around the corner from Lincoln Center and have neighbors who go to the Met every week.
So I sing in a church choir, and am a church soloist. The irony of course is that both my parents were atheists (my mother defined herself as a secular Jew) and I am not Baptised. But it is a nice niche. There are real professional singers who cycle in and out of there but they move on to greener pastures or have limited time for solo opportunities. The older retired professionals (I'm thinking of one) are very "been there, done that". Who is going to sing a solo in the summer if they can go away?
And I produce concerts in nursing homes. I have done two since May and will be doing a third next week. And my teacher, who is now back to singing bass-baritone again, is already thinking of a concert of duets (some old some new) that we can do in the Fall or next Spring.
And of course I'm still waiting to be the subject of an op-ed or other newspaper story, like the singer featured today.
Monday, July 2, 2018
Why the Fallout from the Falling Out Described in My Last Post is So Relevant Right Now
I, who usually post and blog mindlessly (often saying things that I later regret or would be embarrassed to say out loud to people in person) have been uncharacteristically silent for the past few weeks.
The reason is that there is a whole litany of nightmarish things that have been going on, about which I simply have nothing to say. This does not mean that I don't care about them or don't have feelings about them; it simply means that I am not articulate about issues involving the larger world. I am articulate about myself, other people I know, social dynamics, psychological dynamics, and maybe issues that really hit close to home, like class, but what can I possibly say about children in cages, the danger posed by a vacant Supreme Court seat, or the monstrousness of shooting journalists?
It seems that since joining Facebook, I find myself surrounded not only with superachievers with graduate degrees, but also with people who can adroitly opine about everything in the news, and who regularly post and share articles, photos, and clever justapositions of truths. I am just not good at that. I never was. If I was "present" in school at all, I was the literary one, not the girl most likely to be voted class President. In my senior year in high school (which I mostly binge-dieted, necked and petted, and played hookey through) I took an extra foreign language, not journalism or Problems of American Democracy.
I was comfortable in AA and some of the women's discussion groups I belonged to because I could be good with words describing my feelings and asking about other people's. In fact, talking about politics or anything ideological that did not involve making an "I" statement was forbidden in those groups.
Probably part of my addiction to complaining is that I write well when I have a personal complaint (or a triumph to share); less so when I am talking about an "issue". Other people do that better.
But because of the ugly way that I was dumped into the garbage by LC, I now feel very gun shy about talking about my own life when so many things are going on the world. I am also not that good at doing much about them. I live in a state where my two senators and my congressional representative will vote the way I want them to in almost every instance.
I don't go on demonstrations and I don't feel guilty. The most important thing I can do on a Saturday is be with my partner because that is what I have promised her. If it weren't the height of hubris to paraphrase Jesus, I would say "demonstrations will always be with us, but she [my partner] is only here for a short while."
In other news: singing is going well. My solo for July 8 is an aria from a Bach cantata, which I rehearsed this past Sunday. I love it, and am flattered that the Director of Music Ministries picked it out for me. I also bought a book of art songs and spirituals by Florence Price. I am very excited about learning some of these. The Director of Music says he will look over some of the selections, to see if there are any I could sing some time.
And I asked the man from church who made several videos before to make one of my July 8 solo.
The reason is that there is a whole litany of nightmarish things that have been going on, about which I simply have nothing to say. This does not mean that I don't care about them or don't have feelings about them; it simply means that I am not articulate about issues involving the larger world. I am articulate about myself, other people I know, social dynamics, psychological dynamics, and maybe issues that really hit close to home, like class, but what can I possibly say about children in cages, the danger posed by a vacant Supreme Court seat, or the monstrousness of shooting journalists?
It seems that since joining Facebook, I find myself surrounded not only with superachievers with graduate degrees, but also with people who can adroitly opine about everything in the news, and who regularly post and share articles, photos, and clever justapositions of truths. I am just not good at that. I never was. If I was "present" in school at all, I was the literary one, not the girl most likely to be voted class President. In my senior year in high school (which I mostly binge-dieted, necked and petted, and played hookey through) I took an extra foreign language, not journalism or Problems of American Democracy.
I was comfortable in AA and some of the women's discussion groups I belonged to because I could be good with words describing my feelings and asking about other people's. In fact, talking about politics or anything ideological that did not involve making an "I" statement was forbidden in those groups.
Probably part of my addiction to complaining is that I write well when I have a personal complaint (or a triumph to share); less so when I am talking about an "issue". Other people do that better.
But because of the ugly way that I was dumped into the garbage by LC, I now feel very gun shy about talking about my own life when so many things are going on the world. I am also not that good at doing much about them. I live in a state where my two senators and my congressional representative will vote the way I want them to in almost every instance.
I don't go on demonstrations and I don't feel guilty. The most important thing I can do on a Saturday is be with my partner because that is what I have promised her. If it weren't the height of hubris to paraphrase Jesus, I would say "demonstrations will always be with us, but she [my partner] is only here for a short while."
In other news: singing is going well. My solo for July 8 is an aria from a Bach cantata, which I rehearsed this past Sunday. I love it, and am flattered that the Director of Music Ministries picked it out for me. I also bought a book of art songs and spirituals by Florence Price. I am very excited about learning some of these. The Director of Music says he will look over some of the selections, to see if there are any I could sing some time.
And I asked the man from church who made several videos before to make one of my July 8 solo.
Thursday, June 14, 2018
A (Self-Absorbed) Anniversary and Reflections Two Years On
A Facebook post I saw this morning reminded me that June 12 was the two year anniversary of the shooting in the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. One of many. They are all sad, or horrific.
Which means it is also the two year anniversary of my being summariliy and cruelly dumped by a lifelong friend, whom I will call "LC". I have written extensively about this here, and here, and here, in the immediate aftermath, but now I have had quite some time to reflect.
This "dumping" (my therapist told me that her email to me saying "this is my last note; do not respond in any way" was like the childish dismissive texts that millennials send when they're breaking up with a lover of a few months) was probably just about the cruelest thing that anyone I considered a "friend" has ever done to me. I have had friendships peter out, sometimes because that was what the other person wanted; sometimes because that was what I wanted. I have had quarrels with people (I had one with LC in 2004 or 2005 which ended with my dropping an F bomb on her). But I have never been dumped with no explanation by someone because she thought something I had said (or in this case not said), which was not personal, offended her values. Yes, values can end a friendship, but that's more in the vein of "I can't be friends with Trump voters". Which leaves the door open that maybe, 10 years from now, when Trump is out of office, if the two people see each other again, they might pick up the friendship.
What I considered so ugly about this whole thing was that LC encouraged me to probe deeply into my psyche (it was a two-way street), asking me questions, asking me more questions, until, apparently, I said something that deeply offended her.
Bait and switch. I first heard that phrase from LC, as a matter of fact, several decades ago, when she used it to describe an unfortunate experience buying a car, or a washing machine, I don't remember. I had never heard it before, but then again, as a lifelong New York apartment dweller, I don't do that kind of shopping. But I realize now that that is the most apt definition of what LC did to me. She encouraged me to be a virtual member of her "covenant group", which used "word prompts" to "speak their truth". I have been in groups like that in the past, in person, and one of the ground rules is that people speak their truth and they are not judged. So LC seduced me into that activity and then broke that rule. The word prompt for that month had been "blessings". So I began talking about "counting your blessings." Which prompted her to ask me what I meant when I said that. So I said that I needed to remember things like the fact that I had clean drinking water, a safe place to live, healthy food, and healthcare, because in the context in which I live I consider myself "underprivileged".
As I wrote in yesterday's post, it apparently offended her that I referred to myself as "underprivileged". But that was my truth, which was what this word game (I am deliberately disparaging it because she so grossly and evilly misused it) was about. Then - I guess - my asking her advice about something I considered a snub (something we had each done with each other many times) the day after the shooting in Orlando was probably, for her, the last straw.
Bait and switch. She not only broke the rules of this "covenant" she was so gung-ho about, she also abruptly changed the rules in the middle of our daily correspondence, without telling me, and then made it a deal-breaker. Not a temporary source of irritation as in "we're really not on the same page right now; I just can't listen to some of what you're writing to me about; let's take a break and catch up in the Fall", but never. Don't respond in any way.
Then she (obviously resentfully) sent me the promised (artificial) flowers for my birthday, then I apologized, saying if I had offended her I was sorry, then she said she was just going to say goodbye because she wanted to be kind (kind??? what planet is she living on?) and hoped we could part "on good terms". Really? Good terms?? (I suppose she meant her terms.)
Then she sent me a thank you note for a picture I had sent her daughter for a memory book and I wrote her the nastiest (but most carefully crafted, with nothing untrue or hyperbolic) letter in all caps, not an email, with no salutation and signature, asking her never to communicate with me again.
But I am still angry. What dawned on me over a year later is that I am so angry because she deprived me of a confidante like no other. So it was like coming home and finding all my furniture on the street with the door locked and no warning. I can't tell you how many times I will start musing (about Myers-Briggs, about people, about politics) and say to myself "Gee I should tell LC that" and then WHOA.
She did me a lot of damage. I guess my takeaway is that relationships based solely on what is politely referred to in therapy circles as "co-ruminating" are destined to end badly. Sure, I still share confidences with friends, but they are usually about things that are concrete (problems with my partner, feeling isolated, artistic yearnings that are unfulfilled, quarrels with other friends) and more importantly, this is not the bulk of our interaction. We usually share interests, eat together, even go on outings. So there's some substance there. And if friends live in the same city (someplace I never leave) even if there's tension, and a quiet backing away, we never know when we'll see each other in person and move closer again.
I hope writing this will help me evict LC from my head. She doesn't deserve to rent space there.
Which means it is also the two year anniversary of my being summariliy and cruelly dumped by a lifelong friend, whom I will call "LC". I have written extensively about this here, and here, and here, in the immediate aftermath, but now I have had quite some time to reflect.
This "dumping" (my therapist told me that her email to me saying "this is my last note; do not respond in any way" was like the childish dismissive texts that millennials send when they're breaking up with a lover of a few months) was probably just about the cruelest thing that anyone I considered a "friend" has ever done to me. I have had friendships peter out, sometimes because that was what the other person wanted; sometimes because that was what I wanted. I have had quarrels with people (I had one with LC in 2004 or 2005 which ended with my dropping an F bomb on her). But I have never been dumped with no explanation by someone because she thought something I had said (or in this case not said), which was not personal, offended her values. Yes, values can end a friendship, but that's more in the vein of "I can't be friends with Trump voters". Which leaves the door open that maybe, 10 years from now, when Trump is out of office, if the two people see each other again, they might pick up the friendship.
What I considered so ugly about this whole thing was that LC encouraged me to probe deeply into my psyche (it was a two-way street), asking me questions, asking me more questions, until, apparently, I said something that deeply offended her.
Bait and switch. I first heard that phrase from LC, as a matter of fact, several decades ago, when she used it to describe an unfortunate experience buying a car, or a washing machine, I don't remember. I had never heard it before, but then again, as a lifelong New York apartment dweller, I don't do that kind of shopping. But I realize now that that is the most apt definition of what LC did to me. She encouraged me to be a virtual member of her "covenant group", which used "word prompts" to "speak their truth". I have been in groups like that in the past, in person, and one of the ground rules is that people speak their truth and they are not judged. So LC seduced me into that activity and then broke that rule. The word prompt for that month had been "blessings". So I began talking about "counting your blessings." Which prompted her to ask me what I meant when I said that. So I said that I needed to remember things like the fact that I had clean drinking water, a safe place to live, healthy food, and healthcare, because in the context in which I live I consider myself "underprivileged".
As I wrote in yesterday's post, it apparently offended her that I referred to myself as "underprivileged". But that was my truth, which was what this word game (I am deliberately disparaging it because she so grossly and evilly misused it) was about. Then - I guess - my asking her advice about something I considered a snub (something we had each done with each other many times) the day after the shooting in Orlando was probably, for her, the last straw.
Bait and switch. She not only broke the rules of this "covenant" she was so gung-ho about, she also abruptly changed the rules in the middle of our daily correspondence, without telling me, and then made it a deal-breaker. Not a temporary source of irritation as in "we're really not on the same page right now; I just can't listen to some of what you're writing to me about; let's take a break and catch up in the Fall", but never. Don't respond in any way.
Then she (obviously resentfully) sent me the promised (artificial) flowers for my birthday, then I apologized, saying if I had offended her I was sorry, then she said she was just going to say goodbye because she wanted to be kind (kind??? what planet is she living on?) and hoped we could part "on good terms". Really? Good terms?? (I suppose she meant her terms.)
Then she sent me a thank you note for a picture I had sent her daughter for a memory book and I wrote her the nastiest (but most carefully crafted, with nothing untrue or hyperbolic) letter in all caps, not an email, with no salutation and signature, asking her never to communicate with me again.
But I am still angry. What dawned on me over a year later is that I am so angry because she deprived me of a confidante like no other. So it was like coming home and finding all my furniture on the street with the door locked and no warning. I can't tell you how many times I will start musing (about Myers-Briggs, about people, about politics) and say to myself "Gee I should tell LC that" and then WHOA.
She did me a lot of damage. I guess my takeaway is that relationships based solely on what is politely referred to in therapy circles as "co-ruminating" are destined to end badly. Sure, I still share confidences with friends, but they are usually about things that are concrete (problems with my partner, feeling isolated, artistic yearnings that are unfulfilled, quarrels with other friends) and more importantly, this is not the bulk of our interaction. We usually share interests, eat together, even go on outings. So there's some substance there. And if friends live in the same city (someplace I never leave) even if there's tension, and a quiet backing away, we never know when we'll see each other in person and move closer again.
I hope writing this will help me evict LC from my head. She doesn't deserve to rent space there.
Wednesday, June 13, 2018
Some Musings on Children and Summer
Last week I went to the Central Park Zoo with my oldest friend. She had her 14-year-old grandson with her for the summer, so he came too. Based on things she had told me, I thought he was interested in wildlife, particularly birds, but he said no, he wasn't interested in birds, he preferred dogs, so I asked him about his dog. That was probably the last verbal interchange we had. After that his ears were so totally plugged up with whatever he was listening to (my friend said it was Rap, but I wouldn't have cared if it had been Bach) that he did not respond to any attempts to make conversation. I complained about it to my friend and she said "well, he's 14". I don't consider that a valid excuse. He needs to be taught that that sort of behavior just, as the British say "won't do". At what age are young people supposed to be taught manners, then? Fine if he looks sullen, fine if he looks bored. People can't be expected to control the fact that emotions show on their faces. That's acceptable for 14. But when you are someplace, that's where you are. You don't block out where you are with plugs in your ears. Of course adults do this too, and (because I'm an "ear person"?) I find this much worse than sitting and texting. At least if you're doing that and someone speaks to you you know you've been spoken to.
Fourteen was pretty much my last chance to take the right "fork in the road" and I didn't. I'm not sure what would have made a difference; there was such a terrible confluence of circumstances. An eating disorder, my mother's preoccupation with grieving over my father's death, my lack of adult mentors (most of the adults I saw in my mother's house were drinking and being smartass). And of course the fact that it was the 60s, when it was cool to say yes to drugs and no to just about everything else: school, career plans, thinking about a future, learning homemaking and budgeting skills... But even I would have responded if someone spoke to me in the course of an afternoon when my mother dragged me off to an "enrichment activity" with her friends. I might have said something stupid or something fresh, but I would have said something.
So I think of all the "theater kids" (did that phrase even exist before the millennium? I doubt it). And the kids who are in enrichment programs and intensive courses which means summers away in beautiful surroundings. Middle class kids have these things paid for by parents. Some less privileged kids can get scholarships if they're lucky. Sometimes I think there are two types of kids (irrespective of race or class). The ones who appreciate the chance to build a future and the ones who snub adults and try to be cool. As I said in an earlier post about marijuana, the world is too competitive and harsh to shoot yourself in the foot by saying no to your future to spite grownups. The fallout from that will still be with you when you're 60. I know.
Ah, summer! Since I haven't been working and have been a caregiver I haven't really had a summer. Another marker of being a middle-class professional: summers away. All those summer music festivals. Professional and emerging professional musicians get to go to these. Sometimes I shut my eyes and think how desperately I yearn to be someplace like that. There are ones for writers and artists too. I forget the generic catch-all phrase for these. Colonies?
I know that one of the things that antagonized the loathesome LC (in addition to my talking about myself instead of sobbing over the shooting in Orlando the week following) was that I referred to myself as "underprivileged". Well I think I am. I'm not really poor; I don't worry about how I'm going to pay the rent or buy food, and I have a few small luxuries, but I don't go away for the summer. That's what "underprivileged" means to me. That's why there's a "fresh air fund" for kids.
Maybe there's a music and arts "camp" for senior citizens. If I ever have some free time I will look for one and scrounge up the money.
Fourteen was pretty much my last chance to take the right "fork in the road" and I didn't. I'm not sure what would have made a difference; there was such a terrible confluence of circumstances. An eating disorder, my mother's preoccupation with grieving over my father's death, my lack of adult mentors (most of the adults I saw in my mother's house were drinking and being smartass). And of course the fact that it was the 60s, when it was cool to say yes to drugs and no to just about everything else: school, career plans, thinking about a future, learning homemaking and budgeting skills... But even I would have responded if someone spoke to me in the course of an afternoon when my mother dragged me off to an "enrichment activity" with her friends. I might have said something stupid or something fresh, but I would have said something.
So I think of all the "theater kids" (did that phrase even exist before the millennium? I doubt it). And the kids who are in enrichment programs and intensive courses which means summers away in beautiful surroundings. Middle class kids have these things paid for by parents. Some less privileged kids can get scholarships if they're lucky. Sometimes I think there are two types of kids (irrespective of race or class). The ones who appreciate the chance to build a future and the ones who snub adults and try to be cool. As I said in an earlier post about marijuana, the world is too competitive and harsh to shoot yourself in the foot by saying no to your future to spite grownups. The fallout from that will still be with you when you're 60. I know.
Ah, summer! Since I haven't been working and have been a caregiver I haven't really had a summer. Another marker of being a middle-class professional: summers away. All those summer music festivals. Professional and emerging professional musicians get to go to these. Sometimes I shut my eyes and think how desperately I yearn to be someplace like that. There are ones for writers and artists too. I forget the generic catch-all phrase for these. Colonies?
I know that one of the things that antagonized the loathesome LC (in addition to my talking about myself instead of sobbing over the shooting in Orlando the week following) was that I referred to myself as "underprivileged". Well I think I am. I'm not really poor; I don't worry about how I'm going to pay the rent or buy food, and I have a few small luxuries, but I don't go away for the summer. That's what "underprivileged" means to me. That's why there's a "fresh air fund" for kids.
Maybe there's a music and arts "camp" for senior citizens. If I ever have some free time I will look for one and scrounge up the money.
Sunday, June 10, 2018
My Four Quads
I wanted to stop by here to let readers know I am feeling much better.
I got another recital date in a senior residence: Monday July 23. The only problem is finding an accompanist. My regular accompanist always goes away for the summer and the new one I found will be away that week. So I'm putting feelers out. There's an accompanist at church who is really good and who is not busy 24/7, so I asked her and am waiting to hear back. I might sing a duet with my teacher this time, probably the "Barcarole" from La Gioconda.
This morning I did something that I never dreamed I would be able to do, and which I certainly would not have been able to do even as recently as last year. The choir sang a tiny snippet from Bernstein's Mass which entailed the sopranos singing four pianissimo high As. I nailed all of them not just this moring but every single time in every rehearsal. And in my warmups at home, I am singing sustained, float-y high Bs, and even the occasional C.
So it's totally untrue that voices lose range and flexibility as people age. It all depends.
I also got my summer choir solo date: June 8. I came up with an idea of something to sing and am waiting to hear back from the music director.
(As for the title of this post, I watch a lot of skating, and have always thought that the way skaters set themselves up for a jump is very similar to how singers - or I, anyhow - set ourselves up for high notes. So those pianissimo high As weren't just doubles or triples, they were quads!!)
I got another recital date in a senior residence: Monday July 23. The only problem is finding an accompanist. My regular accompanist always goes away for the summer and the new one I found will be away that week. So I'm putting feelers out. There's an accompanist at church who is really good and who is not busy 24/7, so I asked her and am waiting to hear back. I might sing a duet with my teacher this time, probably the "Barcarole" from La Gioconda.
This morning I did something that I never dreamed I would be able to do, and which I certainly would not have been able to do even as recently as last year. The choir sang a tiny snippet from Bernstein's Mass which entailed the sopranos singing four pianissimo high As. I nailed all of them not just this moring but every single time in every rehearsal. And in my warmups at home, I am singing sustained, float-y high Bs, and even the occasional C.
So it's totally untrue that voices lose range and flexibility as people age. It all depends.
I also got my summer choir solo date: June 8. I came up with an idea of something to sing and am waiting to hear back from the music director.
(As for the title of this post, I watch a lot of skating, and have always thought that the way skaters set themselves up for a jump is very similar to how singers - or I, anyhow - set ourselves up for high notes. So those pianissimo high As weren't just doubles or triples, they were quads!!)
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
A Bold Move
After a terrible experience getting harsh (and I suppose mostly gauche) negative criticism (it was so severe and all encompassing it completely took me aback and left me shaken for weeks) after posting some (badly engineered) sound clips at a time when I wasn't sounding as good as I would have liked, I have only once posted a video of myself singing here. That was in 2012 (the day after "Sandy Hook") and I posted a video made in church of me singing "Der Engel" by Richard Wagner, struggling to keep the whole thing pianissimo, and only using half my voice.
Well, now This video of me singing Rossini is the culmination of 14 years of hard work. I was debating whether or not to publish it here, and I know that I'm doing it partly because I'm proud and partly because I'm angry and depressed.
I know this is silly; I know how hard I've worked, how much progress I've made, everyone says it including my teacher and the choir director (I can sing a pianissimo high A off the cuff which I couldn't even do last year). But all I have to do is engage with real singers talking about singing and I feel like nothing. Like a tiny mouse who has found herself in a den of snakes. Sometimes they ignore me, sometimes I think they're laughing at me. Mostly I feel like someone who's stepped into an exclusive club where I don't belong. And I keep trying! I keep putting feelers out. Because I'm stupid and have no self-esteem.
(I'm also depressed now because I have no more solo singing on the horizon other than something in church in July or August tbd).
So here's "Tanti Affetti", one of the most flamboyant mezzo arias on the planet. Like it or lump it.
Well, now This video of me singing Rossini is the culmination of 14 years of hard work. I was debating whether or not to publish it here, and I know that I'm doing it partly because I'm proud and partly because I'm angry and depressed.
I know this is silly; I know how hard I've worked, how much progress I've made, everyone says it including my teacher and the choir director (I can sing a pianissimo high A off the cuff which I couldn't even do last year). But all I have to do is engage with real singers talking about singing and I feel like nothing. Like a tiny mouse who has found herself in a den of snakes. Sometimes they ignore me, sometimes I think they're laughing at me. Mostly I feel like someone who's stepped into an exclusive club where I don't belong. And I keep trying! I keep putting feelers out. Because I'm stupid and have no self-esteem.
(I'm also depressed now because I have no more solo singing on the horizon other than something in church in July or August tbd).
So here's "Tanti Affetti", one of the most flamboyant mezzo arias on the planet. Like it or lump it.
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