Martile Rowland wears many hats: voice teacher, artistic director, stage director, music director, the list goes on. After years of enjoying a successful international singing career, Ms. Rowland recently retired so she could concentrate more of her energy on her roles as artistic director of Opera Theatre of the Rockies and program director of the Vocal Arts Symposium summer program. She also maintains an active and full private voice studio.
Once hailed as the next Dame Joan Southerland, Rowland continues to thrill and inspire, but now from offstage. As one singer and student said, “Martile Rowland guides me to artistic creation by…varied and effective technical instruction, clear communication of ideas and intent, insistence upon successful execution of new concepts before progressing, and dramatic exploration. I can walk into her studio dejected and unmotivated—but I cannot leave her presence any other way than inspired. Martile is able to help me see the artistic beauty within me, beauty I can then share in song.”
In this Classical Singer exclusive interview, Ms. Rowland shares how she works to ensure this same personalized approach with every singer who crosses her path.
Where are you from originally?
I’m originally from South Louisiana.
When did you leave?
I left right out of school. I did college at a very fine liberal arts school in Louisiana, Centenary College. I originally thought I was going pre-med, but then I realized that you have to spend hours in the lab and it was much more fun to spend hours in the practice room. I just went crazy over opera and music.
I got out of school and went to New York City, thinking that I was ready to be a singer—but I wasn’t. I was ready to study singing.
I was fortunate to be thrust into the path of Beverley Peck Johnson at the Juilliard School. She had extremely well-bred ears and was an amazing technician. Not everyone felt comfortable working with her. She was what you call brutally honest, and some people considered it too brutal. I considered it probably the best gift she gave me, because I knew that if she told you what she thought, it was exactly what she thought. She lived a long time. I was blessed by that longevity: I studied with her for 25 years.
Over the years, we became very close friends, and we used to talk for hours about voice: “How do you approach this? How did you hear that?” I really always wanted to teach voice. I’d hear someone who sang really well and want to know what their background was. Studying the human voice became like the pursuit of the Holy Grail.
When did you move to Colorado?
I moved to Colorado in 1981. My husband, James, and I had dated since I was a freshman in college—but I went off to New York. We later got back together, and he was living in Denver. I said I had to be in New York because that’s where all things happen, so he moved there.
Apparently, someone thinks there’s a manual on how to have a career, and that if you don’t follow the manual, then there is really no help for you. I remember being in the Metropolitan Opera auditions many years ago and hearing, “If you reach 30 years old” (that was the magic number) “and you’re not having a major career, then you should find something else to do.” I believed that, because that’s what someone in authority said. The closer I got to 30, I kept hearing that in my head. When James had a wonderful opportunity to work for the mental health center in Colorado Springs, I said, “Let’s go.” The idea was to move to Colorado and forget about the dream.
So James isn’t a musician?
Goodness, no. I think I found the perfect solution for every singer: marry a psychotherapist. It couldn’t be better, especially if you’re a soprano. When James and I married, he knew nothing about music, especially opera, and I knew nothing about mental health. [Laughs.] Fortunately, I could understand, after a while, the benefits of knowing a little more about mental health—and he now loves opera. We’ve been married 30 years [this month].
How did leaving New York affect your singing pursuits?
I thought I had given up singing, but something really amazing happened: I began teaching. I started examining my own questions about singing, and I actually started to study more seriously. It was not about trying to prepare for something. It was about trying to learn the art of being a good singer. I continued to go back to New York City to see Beverley, but it wasn’t about getting ready to perform. It was just about studying.
I didn’t really sing any opera for five or six years. I did three concerts, sang in a professional choir, was the soprano soloist at a church, and sang with the symphony. I had a lot of time to think about singing. There was a wonderful opera festival in Colorado Springs. I didn’t sing with them for a while. When I finally did, I sang Violetta. It was a whole other experience, having really worked and prepared.
From that performance, every other thing happened. Somebody in the audience worked for [New York] City Opera and said, “Would you ever like to do an audition at City Opera?” That led to a big discussion with my husband. I said, “I’m too old to do this. Remember, you’re supposed to do this by 30!” And I was closer to 40. He said, “You can either sit here, or you can go and see how it turns out.”
Well, that particular audition didn’t lead to anything, but I coached with Benton Hess, who happened to be assistant conductor to Eve Queler. He said, “Why don’t you sing for Eve?” I sang for Eve, and she said, “I have nothing for you, but I love what your voice does.” Eve picked up the phone and called Lenore Rosenberg, and said, “I’d like you to hear this young woman.” I didn’t say anything about my age. They assumed I was younger than I was because they hadn’t heard of me.
I sang an audition at Liszt Hall, and nothing came of it either, at that moment. But Eve called later and said, “I’m about to do a production of Roberto Devereux and I just keep hearing your voice as Elisabetta. I already have a cover. I can offer you the chance to sing the preview.”
I almost didn’t take it, as I was concerned about the financial hardship. James thought I should seize the opportunity. One day he came in from work and said, “Congratulations, you are the first and likely last recipient of the James Rowland Career Advancement Award.” He had taken money from his retirement investment so that I could go to New York, live for five weeks, and not worry about silly things like finances. Without his unselfish and generous support, I would not have gone.
Eve and I worked for many hours, and every session was like opening presents on Christmas morning. The coachings alone would have been more than enough reward, but on the evening before the first cover’s performance on Long Island, Eve called me to say that the first cover was ill and I would be singing that performance. It was amazing to sing that role on Long Island, with Eve conducting that marvelous orchestra.
The day of the Carnegie Hall performance, I went out and ran some errands—and when I returned to my apartment, there were frantic calls from the Opera Orchestra staff. Mara Zampieri had cancelled due to illness and I would be singing in Carnegie Hall that evening. I called my husband, who got on the first plane to New York. He talked the stage-door guard into letting him in for the second act by pleading “that’s my wife on that stage.” Anytime I felt insecure, I only needed to look over and see Eve’s face and it was just like being in her living room for a coaching session. She led me through insecure moments, and gave me the freedom to spread my wings.
Because of that performance, I was hired by the Metropolitan Opera to cover the final three performances of I Puritani four months later. I had 10 days to get the role into my voice. I was given a three-hour staging and watched the first two performances, going through the staging in my head. By the third performance, I was convinced that I was “off the hook.”
During the first intermission of that performance, I was standing in the Grand Tier lobby when I was tapped on the shoulder and asked to follow the assistant stage director. I was taken backstage through the bowels of the Met and told that I would be going on for the second act—the mad scene.
I remember asking God to let me know if I was going to make a fool of myself, so that I could run out of the Met right then. The strains of “Qui la voce” began, and I had no choice but to sing. The rest is hazy, except when I had fallen to the floor after the mad scene and I heard Paul Plishka standing over me and saying “brava!” Then I heard the audience enthusiasm and thought, “Isn’t that nice, they feel sorry for me.”
When did you decide to retire from singing?
I decided to stop singing about a year and a half ago. I had started Opera Theatre of the Rockies, and I felt the pull to give my energy there. The need to work on other people’s singing and to give them opportunities seemed to override my own need to sing. My own practicing was way down on the list of priorities. If you tell your students they have to practice, then you also must practice. It was actually an easy decision.
Tell me about the summer program you run.
It’s the Vocal Arts Symposium, in collaboration with Opera Theatre of the Rockies and The Colorado College, a small liberal arts college. This will be our eighth summer. Between 55 and 60 singers attend. I’m very particular about the faculty, too. Sometimes we’ve had faculty that wasn’t necessarily a good mix because of the intensity of the pace.
We try to do an amazing amount of stuff in three weeks, but I don’t want people to feel like they can’t do it well. I want them to feel pushed. I want people to have an experience that makes them feel successful at whatever level they are.
What do you think are the key elements of a healthy technique?
I hear a lot of, “This is my method.” I always had a problem with that. Your method is only as good as [its ability to] be understood and put into practice by the student. That method, even though it should always involve a care and a concern for the longevity and health of the singer, must be determined by what the needs of that singer are. I don’t use the same vocal exercises with every singer. In fact, I make it a point to vary those exercises. If I can’t think up new ways to address certain issues, then I’m not a very good teacher.
If a student is having problems with something, it is my responsibility, and not necessarily theirs. Yes, there are people with whom you have difficulty communicating. But is that all their fault? I don’t think so. Is it all my fault, either? Probably not. But we do have a responsibility together to give it as good a shot as we can. If someone looks at you with that blank look in the eye, do you say, “You’re just never going to get this?” Or do you say to yourself: “That’s not working, how can I make this better?”
There’s no mystery anymore about this. We have the science behind it to know exactly how it works on paper—but communicating that to someone is a different story. You have to unlock the learning process of each person. If this person doesn’t learn well by technical jargon, how can I speak technical jargon in a truthful manner and not let them know they’re actually learning [technical jargon]? Or if this person likes a lot of absolute technical terms, I need to be able to do it that way as well.
Some of this has to do with psychology. My sweet husband and I have had many discussions about how teaching singing is in some ways like untangling the emotions of a person in therapy. I’m not saying you have to be a therapist to be a good voice teacher, but I do think you have to be a good student of human nature. Unlocking and finding the treasure that is in the voice is very much like trying to help unlock whatever it is that’s keeping the voice inside that person.
It all comes down to the basics of good technique and healthy singing. We talk about all of these obtuse terms—intercostals, appoggio, stable larynxes, high soft palates, chiaroscuro—but how can I get you to interpret it so that whatever comes out of your mouth represents all of those things.
I don’t know if I have a technique or a method. I’m not sure if I should. I think that should always be up for grabs, depending on who is standing across from me. The basic principles aren’t up for grabs, however.
It’s seeing each student as an individual. Do you think that translates to how you hear voices, too?
I think that we have to be careful not to want a cookie-cutter sound—voices that we’re comfortable with. I don’t think we have to be comfortable with every voice. It’s not about a particular sound. Unique timbres, even quirky timbres, have made the singers of the past stand out. Who are the voices that you can recognize after five notes? Not so many today.
I don’t want everyone in my studio to sound the same. If everybody starts sounding the same, I’m not doing my job right. My job is to listen to a voice and think, “What’s unique about this?” then address if that something is unique to that voice, or if it is caused by technical difficulties. I try to listen beyond the sound, to what’s behind it, and to how that voice can best say what it has to say in a unique way.
I don’t think I can guarantee anyone a career. I don’t think I can guarantee anybody that they can do a certain thing that they want to do. But I do think it’s my responsibility to help them get as close as possible.
It’s a sacred trust to be able to work with people and their voices. I’ve worked with a number of people who’ve experienced trauma with their voices. It’s life shattering when something happens to the voice.
Do you do a lot of rehabilitative work?
I have done considerable work with people who were trying to rehabilitate their voices. Beverley Johnson did a lot of work in New York with people who were referred to her with vocal injuries. I was very fascinated by it, even though I was fortunate enough not to have it happen to me. She and I had long conversations about this process.
It does happen to people. It happens to very fine singers. One can have a virus in a nerve, or be at the beginning of an illness and not realize you shouldn’t sing, or have experienced a hemorrhage. Because it’s a discriminatory thing in our business, a taboo subject, it sometimes happens more often than people let on. Why can’t it be that if you’re a professional singer you can be injured just like a sports personality? Somehow, we attach some shame to that. Yes, it is better to be healthy of body and voice, but we are human and subject to the pressures of fatigue, stress, and sometimes bad decisions.
There are many things now that people can do, and they can end up better singers if they’re willing to take the time and not give up and quit. When that person is back performing, it makes you so happy to see them up there doing it again. It’s very rewarding, ultimately.
Do you have any final words for Classical Singer readers?
Everyone has a right to their own dreams, whether those are vocal dreams or personal dreams. It’s very easy to give into someone who says “you can’t do that,” or “you shouldn’t do that,” or “you’re too young,” or “too old,” or too this, or too that. If you’re a singer, you have to continue that quest for as long as you feel that passion inside of you. Sometimes it’s the people who are left standing who end up having success at this, because it is an ongoing process.
The art of singing doesn’t come in a day. It’s a lifelong journey. If you’re willing to spend the time and do the ongoing work, you can achieve things that you never thought possible. If you have something to say as a singer, find a way to say it.
For more information on Martile Rowland, Opera Theatre of the Rockies, and the Vocal Arts Symposium, visit www.operatheatreoftherockies.org.
