“Why am I doing this?” I huffed, letting my garment bag and other luggage fall to the floor of our apartment.
My husband, Chad, (also a struggling musician) whirled around in his desk chair to face me, an empathetic half-smile on his face. Quoting one of The Godfather movies, he grinned and said, “This is the business we’ve chosen.”
I couldn’t help laughing, in spite of the day I’d had. It had been another sweat-drenched, chaotic, adrenaline-pumping audition day in New York. The trip normally subjects me to three hours of train travel each way. On this particular day, I’d hoped my well-laid plans to take the more expensive (i.e., faster) train would allow me more time to warm up and feel more focused.
But alas, the train was an hour late, I’d somehow gotten a wrong address for the audition location—and by the time I’d recovered from an asthma attack, attempted to salvage my melting makeup job and get in the right frame of mind to sing, I started to seriously question my reasons for repeatedly inviting this insanity into my world.
Life went on after that audition, however (as it somehow always does), and I started to realize what a wonderful opportunity it was to be able to even be in New York for that audition. To have the resources to do so, even if it was a sacrifice; to have a husband who understands; to have had enough people believing in me to convince me to go in the first place; to have a voice; to be an artist with something to say and a place to say it.
The list goes on and on, come to think of it. I indeed have much to be grateful for. A Vietnamese proverb says: “When eating fruit, think of the person who planted the tree.”
Have you ever written a thank-you note to someone who helped plant or nurture the tree which yields the fruit that is your voice? Maybe that person is your first voice teacher. Maybe it’s your seventh (I know how that goes). Maybe it’s the person who took you to the performance that got you hooked, or dragged you to your first audition because he or she saw something in you that you didn’t see at the time. Maybe you could even send a mental “thank you” to a person who discouraged you, provoking you to prove him or her wrong and spurring you on to wonderful accomplishments.
It’s even possible to be grateful for that casting director or conductor who refused to hire you. When I look back on some of those occasions, I have to admit that I wasn’t as ready as I thought I was for that job— and I can see that rejection as a blessing.
Storm Jameson, inJourney from the Northwrites, “For what I have received…make me truly thankful. And more truly for what I have not received.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about this, as I travel along this path called a singing career, and I realize that I have quite a few people to thank—especially a voice teacher to whom I recently wrote a letter, in appreciation of his patience with me when I was his student as an undergraduate. Looking back, across a distance of eight years (and many humbling experiences later), I can appreciate what a gifted and knowledgeable teacher he is, in spite of my resistance to his attempts to pry open my eyes and mind—and I felt the need to let him know how deeply that appreciation runs.
When I first came to this teacher I was 19 and cocky, having left high school with an embarrassingly distorted view of myself as a singer: I’d gotten into the top choirs, sung the solos, and even ran for a title and crown as homecoming choir “queen.” (I’m sure I had soprano peers who had other names for me.)
My first voice teacher hadn’t helped things. In her well-intentioned efforts to boost my self-image, she had only fanned the flames. As a college freshman, I wanted more of that addictive drug called praise—not suggestions for growth and improvement!
I still have the Vaccai book of exercises that this college teacher introduced to me. Quite recently, I found it among the photocopied art songs I memorized for juries (and long since repressed). Inside the front cover I found the notes I took during my first lesson with him: recommendations of small local companies where valuable experience could be gained, mentions of young artist programs, and role and repertoire suggestions. All are conclusions with which I came to agree or disagree—sometimes painfully—in my own time, whereas I could have taken the easier route of simply heeding and exploring my teacher’s advice. I wish I could have quelled my ego long enough to realize that these suggestions were not threats to my ability, but rather, possibilities. They were a source of help.
Many of these “prophecies” came to be fulfilled. Now I look at that Vaccai cover with the kind of wonder with which one looks at a past visit to a fortune teller: “How did he know?” And more importantly, “Why didn’t I listen?”
Many humbling experiences have come my way since then, and it’s been at this—one of the most sobering times—that I’ve realized the need to be appreciative of the help I’ve received along the way.
As I say, I have a husband who understands. He and I recently changed coasts, so that he could complete a conducting degree, while I try out the audition “scene” in the Northeast. The first several months were traumatic for both of us, as we struggled to adjust to the absence of friends, family, and familiar colleagues. Chad is particularly sympathetic to my plight, because he is being “tried by fire” in various and comparable ways, as graduate school tests his strengths and exposes his weaknesses.
Upon our arrival, it felt like I was also doing a kind of graduate work, in the School of Experience—and I had plenty of my own hurdles to face and overcome. Vocally, I’d hit a wall, discovering that as I turned 26, I couldn’t sing on pure instinct (or youth, or whatever it was) anymore, and the holes in my technique were becoming obvious and psychologically inhibitive. Everything stopped working, auditions went badly, and I was in the middle of nowhere, in every respect.
I often find that it is easier to feel thankful when I feel the most spent, the most discouraged, perhaps because when there is nothing left to lose, I can allow myself to be open to the giving of others. Albert Schweitzer—Alsatian theologian, organist, and humanitarian recipient of the Nobel Peace Prize—acknowledges this state of being: “In everyone’s life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”
For me, the first of many of these encounters was an unusually generous artistic director hearing auditions for a young artist program, who took the time during my audition to inform me that my biggest obstacle was inappropriate repertoire. This led to one epiphany, then another, until I finally threw pride and prior conviction to the wind and started researching repertoire and teachers.
I have experienced many such encounters since then, and I am indeed grateful for this bleak time that has allowed me to be receptive to them. I have high hopes that I’m on my way to better times. Though the one thing that remains certain is how much I don’t know, perhaps some maturity is finally settling in, along with an attitude of genuine thankfulness.
Ours is a profession that is too often illustrated by a list of perceived successes and failures, great and small. Sometimes we feel like we’re really getting somewhere, and then other times it seems as if we haven’t moved an inch. I don’t have to tell you that quite often, the greatest challenge for a singer is to remain in a positive and grateful state of mind – and even to appreciate the failures.
The artist with a grateful heart will gain a large reward.
“The more you practice the art of thankfulness,” says author Norman Vincent Peale, “the more you have to be thankful for…thankfulness does tend to reproduce in kind. The attitude of gratitude revitalizes the entire mental process by activating all other attitudes, thus stimulating creativity” (from Treasury of Courage and Confidence).
Thankfulness requires a certain kind of humility. It acknowledges that we are incomplete, and that we need the help of others. It also demands that we look beyond ourselves (singing career and all) and see that we are indebted to those who have “rekindled” us.
This may all sound like a call to sainthood or enlightenment. To me, reaching this highly evolved state of consciousness often seems as unattainable as does my debut at La Scala. But I wouldn’t have embarked on this journey without a conviction in the integrity of trying. You wouldn’t have, either.
Never forget the invaluable place in the world that we have as singers: to empathize with the human condition, in all forms and at all stages of its evolution. We are the reflection of what is—and more importantly, what can be.
The good news is that the practice of being thankful is quite simple, and only requires your awareness and a simple act, such as a thank-you letter.
I don’t know how, or if, the recipient of my most recent letter will respond, but at least he will know that his efforts to teach me something weren’t in vain.
I encourage you to take the time to thank those people who have helped you along the way. You may be surprised at what they thank you for, in return.
