Before we talk about your family and what’s going on with you now, tell me about some of the highlights of your career so far.
Ah, well, a highlight of singing at the Met was hanging around people like Alfredo Kraus and Risë Stevens.
You sang with them? That’s great.
Well, I didn’t sing with Risë. The first time I was in New York was for the Met competition. That was in 1985. Deborah Voigt and I had tied for first place in the western region. I was from Southern California and had never been to New York. And as “big city” as L.A. is, East L.A. is a very small town.
I was terrified. I went a week early. I had tons of friends, because the cast of The King and I, which I had belonged to here in L.A., was on Broadway at the time. And still I didn’t leave the apartment for four days. When I got to the Met, I knew nothing. I had never heard of Manhattan School of Music or of Mannes School of Music. I didn’t know all the current teachers. So I gravitated to this beautiful woman sitting by herself, and we just started talking, and she was kind and wonderful. Then she said, “I better go get things started.” And it was Risë Stevens.
She became my champion. And the greatest compliment I ever received in my life was from a reporter in a Philadelphia newspaper. He came up to me and said: “I’ve been watching your work, and there’s only one Carmen who’s better than you, and that’s Risë Stevens.”
Tell us about those experiences you call “golden moments.”
There is a golden moment in every performance. There should be. There’s a place where it can happen. For example, in Amahl and the Night Visitors there are two. The first is at the very end of “All that gold,” where Amahl’s mother is holding the high G. The very next line is, “Oh what I could do for my child.” At the Kennedy Center, Maestro [Gian Carlo] Menotti directed me to sing a downward glissando through clenched teeth so that the “Oh” was just absolute surrender to the seduction of the gold. That was just the most amazing moment.
And the other one I actually discovered after he showed me the seduction of the gold. I had the most amazing Amahl ever, Joel Chaiken, the son of Steve Chaiken the stage manager at New York City Opera. Savvy theater kid. Amazing, amazing child. The important thing is that we found the golden moment together.
As Amahl leaves the mother, he’d walk away, and then during the upward crescendo: Run. Run. Run. Hug.
And I told him, “You need to tackle me, like a football player.” He would throw his arms around my neck, and you could hear the entire Eisenhower Theater take a unison breath. And then we would just go down to the ground together—and it was magic, magic, magic.
At the end of every performance during that production, I realized what the role of a singer’s availability after a performance is. We have energy that we share with these people and somehow we make a connection. We don’t have that golden moment unless they get it and they feel it. After every performance I must have been backstage talking to people for about an hour. I stand there and people say, “When I was a little girl . . .” or they’ll say, “I lost my son.” I think this is an example of how our job continues on after we leave the stage.
Tell us about your son, Conor. How did being a single parent change your career?
I realized that I was going to be solely responsible for him. So I said: “This is time for me to change careers.” I said, “I need to find what else I can do to support him.”
And I got more work than ever.
And here’s the really hard thing. Everyone told me how hard it was going to be. All my singer friends said, “You cannot tell companies you have a baby. You have to pretend that you don’t have one.”
I didn’t lie. I went back to work when he was 6 weeks old. And then I went on the road when he was 5 months old, and I took a nanny with me. And only one company ever asked me, “Do you want to cancel. I know it will be hard because you have a new baby.” It was a friend of mine. And I think it was because he knew me, that he wanted to give me the option.
But it was never an issue. Actually, companies would attempt to bring up, “What are you going to do with…” And I would say, “There’s absolutely no problem. We don’t need to discuss that.” So I never brought my son’s involvement into play in negotiations. Most people didn’t even know he was around, except that he came with me to work sometimes.
By the time he was 7, he had been on 127 airplanes and had flown to Europe seven times. In Europe, they’re much easier about children. Conor could come to the theater with me.
What about once he started school? You make your living from singing.
Oh yeah, 1,000 percent. When he started school—he started, of course, regular kindergarten when he was 5—I found a school that let us do combination home school. They gave me the curriculum. And when I was traveling we would fax homework. And he developed [email relationships] with his friends.
We also developed a plan we called “re-entry,” where we would send postcards. We typically were gone for three weeks. And he would start sending postcards—as soon as he got there—about the location where we were. So if we were in Dallas, for example, we would send back information about the grassy knoll.
So having a working mom, instead of being an impediment, was a privilege.
Yes exactly.
When he got older and he was in school, we tried to enter him in programs wherever we would be. So if we were going to be somewhere for three weeks, I would put him in a coop preschool, for example, where I could participate and get to know people in the community. Because once we got to know people in the community, somehow then we could arrange play dates. Then it would give my aunt or my cousin, whoever came with us, it would give them a break.
So it was creative and it took a lot of energy. I started asking the companies, “Do you know babysitters; do you have a babysitter service?” And you would not believe how many opera companies deal with this. So I totally came out of the closet as far as being a mom. And it was just wonderful.
Did Conor travel to Hawaii with you this year when you sang Despina?
Both times. But now that he’s older, he doesn’t want to come anymore. We were in Houston once for three months and I put him in school there and that was the best. It was just great.
Now he’s in the greatest school and it’s time for him to have his own social life. Up until this point, which is junior high school, I really felt he belonged with me. I needed him to be raised with my input, giving him the best things I wanted for him. And leaving him with aunts and cousins and sisters, while they love him, they’re not me. They’re not a parent.
“…and so do his cousins and his sisters and his aunts…”
That’s it. That’s so funny, I never thought of that. But it’s so true. Even now, I have really strict guidelines that he has to adhere to. Now I say, “If you don’t call me when you get home from school…”
It’s draining to be a parent. Mezzos have it much easier than sopranos when it comes to families. We can sing Azucenas one night and Berthas the next job. We don’t always have to sing Violetta, Butterfly, Mimì. We don’t always have to sing the demanding parts. I can take my son to school and go back to bed and still get enough rest. I don’t know if a soprano could do that. And they have to stay in physical shape more and kids bring home colds. And boys are active. They want to play and if you have a child that has any energy then it’s going to break your heart if you constantly have to make them second. They’ll feel it. There’ll be that Mommie Dearest, Joan Crawford syndrome. I’m sure my son has some of that. But at the very least I can say, “I’ve taken you to school and gotten you there on time, and I’ve been to a lot of your Little League games and almost all of your soccer games.”
Something that I admire about you, and which you’ve talked about before, is the way in which you are always true to yourself. Once someone told you how to audition for the Met. They said, “Don’t sing that aria you’re planning to sing. Sing this aria instead.” And similarly, just now you said they tried to tell you how to deal with opera companies, in so far as the subject of your child and motherhood are concerned. You never buy into those external efforts to limit you. And you succeed.
That’s so right. It all goes into that whole definition of what a diva is. If they want you to sing Dorabella and Cherubino and that’s not you, don’t show them that. If you show them what you are, what you love to do and what you do best, and then they hire you for that, you’ll be happy. Otherwise, you’ll always be miserable, because they’re not seeing the best you can bring.
What is the definition of “diva”?
“Diva” is bringing your best self to the performance every time—and that’s in every category: musically, visually, and dramatically. So that means, for example, if you’re doing a love scene and you know that you can sing really well on your back, you’ve got to tell the director that. If it’s going to make it more sensual for you to pull him down on top of you and you can sing that way…well, a director doesn’t know that you can do that.
For example, In “Florencia” [Florencia En El Amazonas, by Daniel Catán, which Miss Guzmán had recorded] the director was trying to get one of the characters, a river god, from the top of the ship down to the deck. The director tried to figure out some path, and the singer playing the part just jumped off. He was willing to take off his shirt when he did it, knowing he looked great and he had no fear of heights.
But no one will know those things about you if you don’t tell them. Your job is to know the character so well that you can bring all of that out.
Also, your job is to know how you look your best. So if you are supposed to be incredibly beautiful and the makeup designer is going with a look that does not make you feel beautiful, then you need to speak to him and say, “I love what you’re doing, but…” That’s where people become divas. You have to say, “I can’t accept ‘fine.’ I have to accept ‘best.’ And I know what’s best.”
So when a conductor, for example—and this is really, really a tricky one… I’ve never, ever not done what a conductor has asked…much to my regret. There are many times where I wish I had stuck to my guns and said, [her voice becomes soft] “That’s just too fast for me.” Or, “That’s the wrong tempo for me.” Or, “Please, I beg you, can I please just take this one moment.” Yet when I realize that when I’m doing a role like Carmen or Paola or even in Julius Caesar, where I did Cornelia, when I was so prepared and so certain of what I wanted to express, they were very willing to listen to me. Somebody said, “Oh, you’re singing it.” That was a wonderful compliment.
You told me about a conversation regarding the way you look and Los Angeles Opera’s production of La Traviata. This story is really relevant right now.
Placido [Domingo] came back and said, “Suzanna, when you do Flora we need to make you fat.” I thought for a second and said, “OK, I don’t care—but why?”
He said in Spanish, “Well, we want to see you as more jovial, as opposed to beautiful.”
And I said, “OK, Placido. Fat, yes, I can do. I can play old. But I can’t play short.” We both laughed, and then they let me be myself, which was great.
But that’s happened to me a lot. It’s completely OK, if it’s the character. But if they’re just randomly trying to do something with me physically to balance out the show, especially age things; if they’re trying to make me younger. I had a director say to me one time: “OK, I see Carmen as this little 16-year-old ball of fire.” And I said, [and Miss Guzmán smiles charmingly, honestly, and helplessly] “Well then you’re seeing another Carmen. Look at the one in front of you.”
You’re always so thrilling to watch on stage. Ned Rorem once said opera is “drama first.” What do you think about that?
I think that as opposed to using the word “drama” I would use the word “story,” and that is our job. We are storytellers. I think all artists are storytellers. And our job is to tell the story, and that frequently doesn’t happen, even while we’re singing. It often happens in the reaction. And I mention that a lot. Because I learned as Carmen that if I wasn’t viewed by my colleagues on stage as the most gorgeous thing in the world, the audience was not going to buy it. That’s why I think Butterflys can triumph 10 times more if they have Suzukis and Sharplesses who are there to react to them. That’s where the storytelling comes into play.
Another of my golden, golden, golden moments is one when I’m not singing at all. It’s the reaction to Butterfly when she says, “Va, va. Te lo commando.” The very first time I did Butterfly was with Yoko Watanabe at the Kennedy Center. And at that moment, I went to her instinctively, and she changed from a broken little girl to my mistress. My imperial mistress. And I did the most reverent bow to her and held it together until I got off stage—and then I got to lose it because I don’t have to sing again. And then the audience also loses it, and it propels her into singing the next aria—and it’s so delicious. That’s when it works, when it has that through story line.
What’s going on with your career right now? What’s coming up?
Well, the big thing that’s going on right now is that my son is in junior high school, and I believe this is a really important time to be home with him. So I have been taking smaller and smaller parts at Los Angeles Opera and concentrating more on my radio show [Miss Guzmán and Rodney Gilfrey have a weekly radio show Sunday nights] and local concerts to facilitate that. The downside is that LA Opera has expanded to be more international, they have new resident artists, [and] we have a whole new change of management.
Everything is shifting gears in Los Angeles Opera. That turns out to mean, for me, that I need to travel more. So, unfortunately, in the next year I’m back on the road. …I’ve had a wonderful, wonderful opportunity to live in a town where my son goes to school that is also a town with a major opera company. I created the school shows so that I could be affiliated and associated with LA Opera and have an impact on schools that would come to see me perform.
You’ve created in your career what you needed in your personal life.
Yes. And in the creation of it, I think it’s really important to note, I had to find what I wanted, which has never been to be a superstar. One thing I knew that I did not want to be was a house singer at the Met. I didn’t want to be the second cover for the nurse for another year.
There is such notoriety and glamour attached to singing at the Met. I was there for two years as a house singer—and for six months of those two years I was second cover of the nurse in Boris Goudonov. I wasn’t singing, and I wanted to sing. Yet I was getting all this acclaim and notice. People would say, “Oh you work at the Met.” My name was on the roster, but there was nothing behind it.
It was really empty. I said, “I think I need to go sing, even if it’s regional. Even if I had a regional career that’s OK.” And that had to be OK with me. I had to be willing [to do] that. I’m still willing [to do] that. If you have to make your living doing something that you love, it’s going to break your heart. God knows there are so many other ways in this world we can break our hearts, we don’t need to go look for it. And that’s why I think about lifting our voices up because we love to. It’s important to find the venues where we can do that and satisfy our souls that way.
There’s nowhere in the world anyone would pay me to sing “Steal Me Sweet Thief” down a step-and-a-half. But when I concertize I can do that.
I’ll be singing Cornelia in Julius Caesar in San Diego in 2005. I made my debut in San Diego in 1984. I’ve been singing for 20 years as my principal job. 20 years. That’s amazing to me.
In 20 years, how have opera companies changed regarding families?
Opera companies have become far more friendly. Many, many opera singers are realizing that a secret to a happy life is to have those that you love with you as much as you can. And many singers travel with their whole families, and that’s the most ideal thing, especially when they’re young. I know so many singers who bring them along, or at least make them come for a good chunk of the performances, when we have the free times. And that’s the secret, because then your partner doesn’t feel like a single parent raising your kids alone. The kids feel like they have their parents together.
Rod Gilfrey has an amazing tradition. It’s in his contract that he does not work Thanksgiving. And he has flown home from Europe on Wednesday and then left again on Friday for a Friday evening performance. But, the opera companies know that. That’s a precious holiday for Rod and his family and he makes sure they spend it together. It’s a real challenge, because you don’t have support from the world.
You have an international forum. Is there anything else you’d like to say?
The No. 1 thing for any opera singer to remember is the people in the audience that you’re singing for the most are the ones that you love. So make sure that you keep them a part of it.
My son said the most interesting thing one day. He woke up. He walked into my room and said, “I just thought this morning, how lonely it must be for you when you wake up and I’m not there.” … I said, “Remember that because it’s true.” So stay connected and find ways to be connected when your not close.
As a singer, I’m mostly free, days. And when I sing nights I’m not working every night. If I were doing theater, I’d be in a lot of trouble. I’d have to be at the theater before he went to bed. This has afforded me a wonderful, wonderful way to get to raise my son.
Singing is the best part-time job a single parent could ever have.
