So, you’ve sent in applications. You went to every audition you could possibly find, great and small, from the renowned to the obscure company in a cornfield somewhere out in Middle America. You sang your best, you put forth your best arias. You left auditions elated, with genuinely smiling directors chitchatting with you on your way to the door. You were pleased with how you performed in the auditions, feeling yourself growing more autonomous and free from audition anxiety and stage fright.
You have had interesting experiences in new places, often traveling farther away from your comfort zone, both from a performing standpoint and personally. You may have driven five hours to do an audition. You may have been surprised to find that you had to audition in a room smaller than your closet.
Maybe you flew to New York City for your first big audition. You may have gotten to the room or hall with plenty of time to spare, making new friends with other auditionees—or you may have gotten lost in the ghetto, showing up, breathless, minutes before you went in, only to have the most flawless audition you’ve ever done. Or perhaps, immediately following your audition, you found that your flight had been cancelled, and you had to take the most frightening cab ride of your life to catch an earlier flight.
Finally, home again, you wait. At first, you check the mail anxiously. You check your e-mail 12 times in a row. You check every phone message, and are somewhat disappointed to find out it’s only grandma—and you continue to wait.
As time passes, you check the mail less and less. You get into your school or work schedule, and forget about the auditions. The calls never come—and, if you’re applying to educational or Young Artist Programs, the rejection letters do.
The first rejection letter is not so bad. “Oh well,” you think, “it’s just one company. I really didn’t want to spend the summer in Idaho anyway.” The result is the same with the next few letters. When the last one comes, most likely on your busiest and most stressful day, what do you do? What do you do when you don’t get into any summer programs?
1. Have some ice cream—out of the container. Chocolate chip cookie dough is the best flavor in this type of situation.
2. Take a hot bath and cry. It’s OK to cry.
3. Look at your options. Have you had any other offers for the summer?
Right now, for example, I’ve already been offered a full-time baby-sitting job for a professor’s kids over the summer. I know I would have a blast with them—and they have a pool, which is not only a plus, but a necessity for spending the summer in Texas.
4. Remember the things you won’t have to miss: For the last five years I have been lucky enough to have a summer stock job or a program to attend, and in the course of those summers, I have missed 12 weddings, my grandmother’s induction into a ladies’ group hall of fame, and three family vacations.
5. This is a good time to make some money. Work two jobs, three jobs—save up for the following school year or next round of auditions. It would be nice to have a savings account just for application fees. Look for seasonal work at summer camps; many want to hire counselors who can also teach voice, piano, acting, and other things relevant to your career—or offer a voice camp or musical-theatre day camp for a week or two. Get together with other friends who are not leaving town or performing for the summer. You never know what interesting things you will learn from students you take on.
6. Take summer classes. This is a good time to learn languages or get that annoying political science class you have to take out of the way. Then you can spend more time in the school year focusing on music classes. You won’t feel as though your practice time is robbed from you because of a paper you have to write for a geology class. You could also learn how to make stained glass windows or some other diverse skill that you’ve always wanted to do but never quite had the time.
If you’re in the same town where you go to school, spend lots of time in the library. Look at new music, make yourself new audition folders, and list the new pieces you’d like to start learning. Listen to operas with which you are not familiar while looking at the scores. Pick themes and plan imaginary recitals around them. Just because it is not the school year doesn’t mean you can’t learn new things.
7. Travel. Yes, this is expensive. If, say, you’re doing something such as going on a mission trip to Africa (where I’ll be this summer), or backpacking Europe. You can find ways to diminish costs, though, and find books to help you through such travels. Traveling can also consist of a weekend road trip to visit a friend a few hours away, or those cousins you haven’t seen in a few years. It can also include a trip to the closest state park. Never limit yourself.
8. Volunteer. Nothing makes you feel less sorry for yourself than volunteering. A few hours in a women’s shelter or hammering nails for Habitat for Humanity will remind you that you really don’t have it so bad, and one summer without starring in an opera will not kill you. You may grow as a person and a performer in ways you never thought possible.
9. Do not, under any circumstances, do any of the following:
a. Answer your phone. It could be the person you least want to talk to, the least supportive member of your family, or a vicious, gossipy “friend.” It could also be your favorite person in the world—but you need the time to grieve. Yes, it is disappointing to be rejected, and no, you shouldn’t wallow in your own misery, but taking a few minutes of time to yourself to regroup and collect yourself prevents you from taking option b.
b. Apply for work in a fishing cannery in Alaska. This is not a good idea. Yes, you can make 10 grand in one summer, but really, is this going to advance your career? Besides, no one wants to be eaten by a Kodiak bear. Ever.
c. Decide to quit. Do you really want to do anything else with your life? If so, go for it. But you probably made the decision long ago that performing is what you love, not for the applause or a paycheck (otherwise you would have gone to law school like your mother wanted) but for the process of making great art.
My first summer without a company or program—without a “plan”—was one of my most productive. I took a summer class, worked full time, found a community production of Fiddler on the Roof that needed more sopranos in the chorus, read for fun, spent time hiking and sitting by the pool, and made time for my family, friends, and boyfriend.
I look forward to the adventures and experiences this summer sans opera job will bring—and I’ll be in touch from that fishing cannery.
