I was not lucky enough to hear Diana Soviero live in the theater. Her name came to me both by reputation and through the wealth of broadcast material that sometimes lands in my hands. Thus, like in the case of most great artists, my experience of her art came to me solely through the landscape she created with her voice alone. Those who remember Soviero as the great singing actress of her generation may suggest that I’m at a great disadvantage. A beautiful, shapely woman, Soviero was the very personification of the heroines she channeled onstage, and surely I would need to see her to experience the complete effect of her portrayals. Hence, for a while, I thought myself quite unlucky to only be able to hear them, and yet counted my blessings nevertheless.
My one-man pity party ended one day while I was driving to the grocery store with my partner. I was blasting one of Soviero’s broadcast performances of Suor Angelica in the car, and Puccini’s music prompted him to request a plot explanation. As the harp signaled the beginning of the finale, I halted my narration when an overwhelming rain of tears poured violently from my eyes. I realized then that I had actually “seen” Soviero after all. I had seen her through her voice. This experience prompted me to re-examine her material, and it didn’t take long for me to recognize Soviero as a singer in the tradition of the great verismo artists like Augusta Oltrabella, Mafalda Favero, Magda Olivero and, her closest predecessor, Renata Scotto.
Last summer, Soviero welcomed me into her palatial yet cozy apartment in Manhattan. Surrounded by portraits of her greatest heroines, dedications from famous colleagues, and priceless mementos (“That tablecloth belonged to Arturo Toscanini, you know”), we discussed her stage career and her current role as teacher and coach, both as part of the Lindemann Young Artist Development Program and in her private studio. To my delight, her husband, the celebrated director Bernard Uzan, popped in at various points during the interview to add his “two cents.”
I couldn’t shake the memory of the Suor Angelica from my mind, and thus felt compelled to ask her about that unforgettable achievement.
What makes, in your opinion, a great verismo exponent?
Diana Soviero: I would say one word: abbandonata. No control, yet controlled.
I think of the finale in Suor Angelica. It destroyed the audience!
DS: I had to find within myself that abbandonata that would choke up my audience, yet I had to remain in control of my voice. When I sang it for the first time, under the direction of my husband Bernard Uzan, he said to me, “Just give me a look, and I’ll stop the rehearsal if you need it.” Taking a deep breath, I said, “I’m going to let go now,” and embarked into the music. The tears came down, my nose clogged up, and make-up was running all over my face. But that element had to be there, and so I sang through it. Afterwards I asked, “Was it awful?” The whole room was completely silent. Bernard rose and asked, “Can you do that on stage?” And I said, “You know, Bernard, I don’t know.”
How were you able to take it that far?
DS: I never once thought about my technique while I was on stage. If a pianissimo was written, it was there because the composer wanted me to suffer through that moment. I had to make that happen inside me.
You made a career in that emotional, dangerous verismo repertoire. How did you manage to do this?
DS: That’s a difficult question, but it may have something to do with my background. When I was a young student at Juilliard, I was very Italian: long black hair, etc. I went to an audition given by Kurt Adler, and from my looks alone he was able to determine what I was going to sound like. After the audition, I said to my mother, “I was like everybody else.” She replied: “Diana, do any of the other students speak Italian or act in front of the mirror the way you do? Why don’t you look for things to sing that have all of these ingredients?”
With that thought in mind, I asked my pianist to accompany me to the library to look through different scores the following day. During our search, we stumbled upon a Pagliacci score. “Di!” He said. “You’ve got to act like in the Commedia! You’ve got to spit and hold a whip!” I got all excited and became familiar with the “Ballatella.” Years passed, and I found myself auditioning for NYCO. At that time, Frank Corsaro had mounted the new production of Pagliacci for Patricia Wells, but she became indisposed and they didn’t have a cover. Before I knew it, Julius Rudel asks me, “Do you know the aria ‘Ballatella’?” I said, “Yes.” That was the beginning of my verismo life.
[At this time, Uzan’s voice comes from the library.]
Bernard Uzan: I can tell you where her affinity for verismo comes from.
DS: [To me, with a knowing glance.] What did I tell you?
BU: [Entering the living room.] Everybody tells me, “Bernard, you’re such a great director. You helped Diana understand Adriana, Pagliacci, and Suor Angelica!” I have to confess: I didn’t have to do anything! She is living verismo. I channeled her, but channeling isn’t the same thing as directing. She has the qualities of verismo inside her. When you have to make an effort to do something, the technique can be used as the only way to survive. But in her case, she was just expressing who she is. Diana’s is essentially the Stanislavsky style. She involves herself totally with her memories, personal emotions, and connections. She didn’t need to look at herself as someone else—she became that person.
[He returns to the library, leaving us to digest what he has said.]
Tell me more about this background, to which you attribute your affinity to this repertoire.
DS: My great grandfather came to this country traveling on tour as first viola with the Pietro Mascagni Orchestra. My mother was Sicilian, and my father was Livornese. He was a big opera fan, and the voices of Tebaldi, Callas, Albanese, and Rosa Ponselle resonated throughout our home. When I was in elementary school, I joined the Junior Choir, but I overpowered the other choir members, so the Mother Superior assigned me to sing a solo—which subsequently stopped the Mass. That’s when I realized that I had real talent.
I didn’t decide to become an opera singer until my parents took me to the old Met to see Tebaldi sing Tosca. That’s when I knew that I wanted to be her. My father had a record of her Tosca, and I listened to it day in and day out, mimicking everything she did. In fact, I ruined many a record playing them over and over! In grammar school, I furthered my studies by taking piano lessons for three years and, at 16, I auditioned for the Juilliard prep school. I brought 23 art songs and arias in three languages and underwent a piano examination. I was told that I was the first one in 10 years to be given “exceptionally outstanding” in all categories.
Did you experience technical hurdles during your training days?
DS: In the beginning I loved singing long legato phrases, but avoided fast coloratura passages. My teacher, Florence Berggren, noticed this and forced upon me every vocalize she could find in order to lighten my breath. This gave me the vocal know-how to sing roles such as Rosina, Gilda and, eventually, Violetta. Upon Florence’s urging, I studied with Marenka Gurewich, who brought me vocal strength and stamina and enriched my abilities in miraculous ways.
I also found a mentor and coach in Martin Rich early on in my musical training. What has stuck with me the most is his insistence that I’m allowed to make mistakes, because they may lead me to the greatest expression of my artistry. And it’s so true, you know? That’s why there are erasers on pencils. He also taught me to study from an orchestral score, not a vocal score like they do nowadays.
Why is that?
DS: The vocal score won’t tell you what’s doubling you in the orchestra. If I saw my vocal line going up the passaggio with all sorts of instruments blasting away, I’d set that score aside and look at something else. I was offered several roles that I found myself turning down: Salome, Lulu, and Marie in Wozzeck. I knew these roles would hurt me because the orchestral score told me, and I have Martin Rich to thank for that. He showed me what instruments were accompanying me vocally so I could better guide my vocal emissions, thus providing me with a method of learning that was the basis of my future work. My association with him also led to my professional stage debut in my early twenties as Mimì in La bohème at Chautauqua Opera, which he was conducting.
I understand that you sang at the Metropolitan well prior to your debut.
DS: Yes. When I was young, my father was asked by Philip Johnson to do the architectural work for Lincoln Center. One day he called me to the construction site when they were building the Metropolitan. As I put on a construction hat, my father’s workers, all Italian immigrants, started shouting “Sing Madama Butterfly!” I smiled and started singing “Un bel dì vedremo.” Afterwards, my father said, “Guess where you’re standing? This is going to be the prompter’s box!” You cannot imagine the tears! Sadly, my father passed away from emphysema and mesothelioma before my proper Met debut. I almost couldn’t sing that night just thinking about it.
But that debut took place prior to its scheduled date.
DS: Yes. The Metropolitan scheduled Cecilia Gasdia to star in their production of Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette, alongside Alfredo Kraus and Plácido Domingo conducting. I had just sung Juliette in Montreal under my husband’s direction, and the Metropolitan engaged me as the cover. I was an unknown to the Metropolitan, so it was decided that I rehearse the opera with Alfredo, and he would have the final say. Needless to say, we hit it off and, as fate would have it, I found myself singing several of the performances following opening night. This led to a long career with the Metropolitan Opera, including many broadcasts.
But that’s my life story. Even my NYCO debut in Pagliacci was like this. The orchestra was on strike. I was covering and wasn’t supposed to make my debut for another four months. Suddenly the strike was over and I received a call on Thursday: “You’re going onstage Saturday night!” No rehearsals, 22 props to handle. But I was prepared.
Back when I didn’t have a big name or career, I practically lived in the rehearsal room watching all the proceedings. I sat in the back because I didn’t want to make anyone feel nervous. Little did I know, I did myself a favor because I saw the choreography from the singer’s stage perspective. If the soprano went to the right, I wrote “stage right.” I had a clear visual cue of what these directions meant, and I didn’t have to turn things around in my head when the time came to perform the choreography myself. Nowadays I tell my students, “Don’t sit in the front, go to the back!” If you’re asked to cover all of the sudden, you won’t freak out.
Do you have other secrets that students can benefit from?
DS: Yes. I always had a small black pad with a black string that [hung] around my neck. I wore a black sweater over it in order to make sure no one saw it. I sat in the back making my notes and, if I needed to, I would turn quickly, read my notes, and know exactly what was being asked of me. Frank Corsaro always marveled, “How the heck did you remember all that staging?” [Smiles.] Nobody was going to say that I wasn’t ready.
Do you find that this sort of preparation and drive is missing in today’s young singers?
DS: Sadly, yes. They’re too busy with their little gadgets and not worrying about the work! Their job is to learn their music, their languages, to sight read, and learn how to create a character on stage. For the last act of Traviata, if I had to pick up a glass on stage, I’d think, “How would I pick it up if I was weak?” I’d lean forward first to get my strength. I’d press the cold glass against my face to soothe the fever. I practiced these things by myself and used them in performance. I wanted to come to rehearsal with enough material of my own to present to the director—and if the director thought it was too much, I’d take it out.
I also learned that you have to make yourself distracted to be good on stage. My husband said that to me once: “You’re not distracted enough, Diana.” That’s deep, eh? If you’re too centered, you risk losing your ability to be creative. But all of this takes work and sacrifice. I led the life of a saint; I never wanted anyone to tell me that because I stayed up all night, I didn’t sing well the next day. If I didn’t do well in a performance, it was because I was seriously ill. And, honestly, even sickness couldn’t hold me back most of the time. The joke went, “If Soviero’s scheduled, then the cover can forget it! She’s never going to let her sing.”
Even when you were sick?
DS: I don’t like to make excuses. When I was a student, I woke up one day with a terrible cold. I called my teacher Florence Berggren to tell her that I wasn’t coming in. She replied, “I feel so bad for you. I’ll see you at 11:00.” I explained again that I couldn’t possibly come in. There was silence. “Diana, do you want a career? Be here at 11:00. You will learn how to sing in pain, when you’re not well, and you will learn that you can make no excuses. No excuses, Diana.” I arrived in her studio at 11:00 on the dot. Afterwards I walked down that street knowing that I accomplished something that, in the beginning, I thought I couldn’t do.
Ever since then, I’ve had bronchitis, fevers, etc. I knew my technique and I knew that I could handle it. I’d figure out where I couldn’t pressure, and then I’d meet with the conductor to discuss my areas of weakness and strength. The conductors and everyone in the cast always worked with me when they knew that I was sick. They knew that I wanted to do my job.
You’re married to a celebrated director with whom you have collaborated in many productions. I suspect that you have a special perspective on the friction that sometimes occurs between directors and singers. Have you found yourself in situations where you disagreed with the director’s requests?
DS: Yes, many times, but I worked them out. When I married my husband, he was directing me in Manon Lescaut. During the third act, he was really pushing me to give more of Manon’s despair, and wanted me to bring more personal memories in my characterization. “I cannot do it that way!” I said, in a manner that wasn’t very nice. When we returned home, I noticed that he was still angry. I said out loud, “Oh! Today I had a day at rehearsal! I have this director—he’s really cute—who wanted me to give more.” He did not answer. Well, the next day we went back to rehearsal, and I did what he had asked me to do the previous day. “Well done, Ms. Soviero!” he said. It was almost as if we made amends in a kind, adult way.
Sometimes I ask my kids, “How would you get out of that situation with the director?” A lot of people have bad reputations because they make trouble wherever they go. We were never taught that. Nowadays, if a singer isn’t announced for a role they wanted, and it appears as “TBA” on the website, they storm into their manager’s office demanding to know why they weren’t assigned the role. It’s unbelievable. When I was on tour with Boris Goldovsky, I asked him once, “Maestro, you never tell me if I have improved or if you liked my performance.” He replied, “The best compliment I could ever give you is to rehire you. Have I rehired you?” I replied, “Yes, I am doing Traviata on your upcoming tour.” “Well, my darling, that’s the best compliment I can give you.” I never forgot that.
What’s the biggest mistake that you see young artists committing nowadays?
DS: That’s a difficult question. You know who’d have an answer right away? Bernard!
[We summon Mr. Uzan again and pose the question to him.]
BU: Biggest mistake? That they believe they know, but they don’t know anything yet. Today, everybody believes that they know enough to do what they’re doing. I’m sounding like an old man when I say this, but the ideas have changed. More so, things are changing today even faster and faster. I noticed this when I was teaching literature at Middlebury College 30 years ago, a program geared for teachers. I was supposed to teach a course on Beckett, but soon enough I realized that I couldn’t do a class on Beckett because they didn’t know the works of the authors before Beckett (Sartre, etc.). I had to pull the rope to get to the basics.
It’s the same thing with singers. Just because they do two years of a program, it doesn’t mean that they have experience. Today there’s no criteria for knowledge building anymore. I’m not saying it’s wrong, but I’m saying that this is what it is.
[He returns to the library.]
I don’t think we can top that. Let me change directions while I digest what he said. In addition to your success on the operatic stage, you were able to reach a wider audience through several appearances on television.
DS: Yes! In my youth I was given the opportunity to do about 13 television shows. I appeared in Las Vegas through the sponsorship of Dear Abby, as well as The Merv Griffin Show, Match Game, etc. I’m a quick person, so the panel-style shows were ideal for me. When Brett Somers retired from Match Game, the producers asked me to take over her position. I asked Beverly Sills for advice. “Diana,” she said, “you’re finished. Nobody will respect you in the opera field if you do that.” “Can’t I do both?” I said. “No, you have to make a choice.” And I did. I could’ve made a lot of money in California because I had a gift for that, but it wasn’t my calling. The line for crossovers is too fine.
When I was doing the Bastille production of Madama Butterfly in Paris, their ad campaign consisted of a photo of my lips with the red Japanese lipstick. The image was all over the Paris subways and buses. L’Oréal got wind of it and wanted to do a commercial around that concept with me, but I didn’t want to do that. I had to make the right choice, and I did. However, nowadays things are very different, and perhaps I would say yes to an offer like that today.
You chose to end your stage career in 2006 without signs of vocal wear and tear. What led to that decision?
DS: The decision to retire came to me after a performance. While we were driving back home, I turned to my husband: “Bernard, tonight I worked. And I’ve never worked in my life. I think it’s time. I’m going to honor all my contracts and after that, that’s it.” He begged me to reconsider, but it was no use.
I did the last broadcast of Traviata at the Metropolitan and closed my career with the world premieres of Tobias Picker’s Thérèse Raquin and Jake Heggie’s Dead Man Walking. I was 63 at the time, and now I’m going to be 68. Today I have focused my life on a different path, and I’m very proud to be considered one of the top voice teachers in New York. I have about 40 voice students, from superstars to young singers.
What is the focus of your studio?
DS: I work on everything that concerns vocal structure: vowel structure, appoggiatura, acciaccatura, etc. I separate all the registers and find out where the problems are within the registers, and then I seam them together in order to discover what isn’t working properly in the abdominal muscles of my students.
If the student is really good, I will focus on interpretive details and the text, because if the audience doesn’t hear that, then they won’t be interested. They want to hear the colors you make with those vowels. If you can’t do that, you will never grab the audience. They’ll hear your gorgeous voice, but suddenly they’ll start fiddling, looking at their pocket book, and you’ve lost them. You have to grab the belly of each one of them and demand their attention.
When did you consider becoming a teacher?
DS: I started before I retired. I was rehearsing a performance of Pagliacci at the Metropolitan, and I saw all of the Lindemann Young Artists on stage. I approached the stage manager: “These kids are going to get hurt!” And he said, “They have permission from management; they want to watch you work.” Later on I asked Gail Robinson if she gave them permission. “Yes, Diana, and after they’ve watched you, I’d love for you to do a masterclass. Just be yourself. Let them sing, and talk to them.” That’s all she said. Like a fish to water, I went right in it. Ever since, I’ve been asked all over the country to do masterclasses, and to even hold positions in many universities, which I’ve declined.
Why have you declined them?
DS: I’m not regimented in that way. I want to be able to go away and enjoy my family. I don’t want to be a part of the politics, the competition, and the jealousies. I love my own little private studio with my kids. Once a month I try to do a masterclass for them free of charge. I pick the subjects and tackle them for hours: breath control, appoggiatura, the differences in styles, etc. Sometimes my husband will come and direct them. Those days the session gets very packed, because his knowledge is overwhelming. Even I’m overwhelmed.
When you look back on your singing career, do you have any regrets?
DS: I never thought of that. Sometimes the politics got involved, but there’s going to be politics in everything. Somehow I ignored it. I remember a statement that Florence Berggren told me: “You have to be like a horse coming out of a fire. The owner will put blinders on the horse, so it doesn’t see the flames. You have to put the blinders on, Diana, and only look forward. There are going to be a lot of flames, a lot of things thrown at you. But if you stay focused, you will reach your goal.”
I never forgot that. No matter what was thrown at me, I pushed it out of my way. Funny . . . even as you ask me that question, I really don’t have a pinpoint answer, because I am still pushing.”
