Meet “Kaki,” a white feather boa given to me by a grande dame whose name is Katherine. Kaki enchants, dazzles, turns heads, mesmerizes, and urges you to do things you normally wouldn’t do. She even elicits gasps.
Kaki’s about 50 years old, six feet long, has five tiers of thin, fluffy feathers with four tails at each end, and a silk lining—hand-sewn—so she can caress delicate shoulders. In other words: Kaki is most definitely not one of those boas you find at costume stores that have fat, stumpy feathers shot through with cheap silver strands of tinsel! (What are they, pigeon?)
A veteran of Viennese operetta has been known to call up the florist responsible for the floral arrangements at gala concerts to learn the color scheme so she could have a gown designed to match. Once, when I complimented her on her dress after a concert, she laughed and said with conspiratorial glee, “Aber, Andrea, das ist die halbe Miete!” (“But, Andrea, that’s half the rent!”)
I’ve never forgotten that.
We live in a visual world—and attention spans are waning. Often, audience members indulge in dinner and wine before rushing to their seats. Once they have made the effort to attend a live theatrical event, away from wide-screen HDTV, it’s up to us to keep them awake—and coming back for more.
Sometimes, even in Europe, I think I’m singing in Missouri, where the license plates tell me I’m in the “Show-Me State.” I see pursed lips and jutted chins belonging to people ready to judge, to dismiss, even ready to walk out at intermission—so I show up with Kaki.
When you’re on stage by yourself, you should, above all, never be alone.
So what can you do with a beautiful feather boa? Depending on the song or aria you are singing, lots. Let the music dictate your movements—and since an audience is seduced not only by what it hears, but also by what it sees, go to a ballet studio with a wall of mirrors. Work with your boa after you’ve practiced your vocalises. (It goes without saying that the other half of the rent is a pleasing well-produced voice—boas can’t do everything, not even Kaki!)
If you’re uncertain of what you see, call in another pair of eyes—a dance teacher is my first choice. Dance teachers understand the language of movement. For that matter, sign up for dance class. You have a voice teacher and a coach. Why not consult an expert about moving?
You have three decisions to make. First, decide which of your pieces is a “boa number.” “Meine Lippen Sie Küssen So Heiss”? Yes. “My Favorite Things”? No. Next, decide how you will enter. With the boa wrapped completely around you? Loosely? Carelessly flung over one shoulder?
Once you are on stage, sometimes all you need to do is just stand there in a cloud of feathers and sing, reminisce, yearn—provided you know who your character is. Take, for example, Hanna Glawari singing “Vilja” from Die Lustige Witwe. Even though she sings this aria in a folkloric costume in the operetta, in a gala concert this is a diva number par excellence.
Finally, decide on the progression of your boa choreography, one that will enhance what you are singing rather than distract. Any “choreography” must grow from the core of the music organically, not be appliquéd on top of it. Take a languid song such as Robert Stolz’s “Romeo,” for example. Start with one end of the boa in one hand, the other end flung over one shoulder and going down your back to the floor. Pull the boa slowly, teasingly, over your shoulder, one hand over the other, down the front of you for say, 16 measures. Then whip it around (timed to a certain accent in the music) and let it settle on your shoulders.
I did that once and it left the impression of a femme fatale, one who winks—not only at the audience but also at herself. Audiences love that kind of collaboration. They don’t want to hear you singing at them, they want to hear you singing for them.
So set your imagination free. Let it run wild in rehearsal. Let it go way over the top. Explore the boundaries. Then put a bit in its mouth and rein it in. Distill it. Less is more. And always make it charming and tasteful, never vulgar, bitte schön.
Now, we don’t have props for concerts as a rule, which is why boas and shawls are so useful. If you have a gown with a train, you can use the train to convey mood, atmosphere, and character. Theaters and concert halls can be cavernous and facial expressions hard to read. If your character is coming through your body as well as your voice, the audience will have a better chance to register what is going on.
Go back to the ballet studio and observe how that train is moving behind you. Use your hips to swing the train around, or your foot to kick it out of the way when you want to convey anger or impatience, or position yourself so that it curls around your feet like a cat’s tail.
When you’re rehearsing for a role, invest in professional dance heels you can move in, not too high or thin. Practice in these. Wear the wrong shoes for a four- to six-hour rehearsal for weeks and you will set your feet to screaming. If you are rehearsing a period show, always wear heels and a long skirt, if that is what your character will wear. Pants roles? Wear boots with the pants tucked in and come in one day with your breasts wrapped in an Ace bandage concealed under your shirt.
Talk about moving differently!
So how do you find props? Lurking on the set, waiting to be discovered.
One of my first roles in Germany was Oscar in Un ballo in maschera. His first-act aria is set in the king’s bedroom. The director envisioned Oscar as a trusted and beloved fool to the king, not merely a page. So, during one rehearsal, I went to the bed and started bouncing around, entertaining the king as a fool might. What was on the bed? Pillows. So I started a pillow fight with the king.
It was visual entertainment that made sense and established the relationship between the two characters. In addition, the male chorus members gathered around as various ministers who could approve or disapprove.
Sometimes you can use another character’s prop—in the following case, a piece of clothing. Uwe Schönbeck, a brilliant comedian known throughout Europe for his “Frosch” in Die Fledermaus, seized on a fox fur—complete with head and paws—I had draped around my Rosalinde’s neck. About the twelfth performance or so, Uwe “saw” its possibilities for the first time and suddenly said, “Sie konnen bleiben, aber der HUND bleibt draussen!” (“You can stay, but the dog stays outside!”)
Pickled with Slivovitz, a civil servant who reigns over his little reich of a prison, Frosch ripped the fur off my neck, walked to the window, and threw it out while barking! It was such a genius stroke of comic timing that the theater thundered with laughter that could hardly die out. I, yanked out of my role, could only laugh with them.
We kept it in.
Another ubiquitous prop is the champagne glass Violetta snatches up as soon as she sings “sempre libera,” declaring her intention to renounce love and remain “free.” We know that she is ambiguous about continuing her empty life when Alfred’s faint voice reaches her—or does it come from her mind? What can she do differently with the glass in her hand, rather than just hold it up in a pre-toast gesture?
At the close of the difficult coloratura phrase ending on “gioir,” how about smashing the glass against the table? The next “sempre libera” comes out very differently as she realizes she will never be free from her role in the demi-monde. Or you might ask the props person for a glass made out of sugar. Then you can crush it in your hand—the audience can see that all the way from the last row of the second balcony, where your face is just a blur.
Also, consider bringing your own props to the set.
During the third-act prelude in La traviata, Violetta is wasting away on her bed. I had read about Marie du Plessis, the inspiration for Violetta. She was a commoner, raised Catholic. Violetta mentions the priest who’d seen her the night before, and how comforting that was. So, I thought, wouldn’t it make sense if she had a rosary in her hands, atoning for her past and preparing for death?
I had one my mother had given to me, so I took it to rehearsal. The director loved it. Do your homework. Be your own dramaturge.
Shoes! Think what you can sometimes do with shoes. When the Countess and Susanna are “playing” with Cherubino in the Countess’s boudoir, the Countess has gotten very comfy and has taken off her shoes. Suddenly the Count bangs on the door. After hiding Cherubino, the Countess rushes to the door, discovers she has no shoes on, goes back to where she left them and tries to slip into them as she’s talking to him. If she cannot, for the life of her, get the second one on, you can convey her panic in a deliciously comic manner.
The possibilities for rendering your character’s inner canvas through the use of props are almost endless. Don’t worry if it doesn’t “work” or the director decides it is not right. Try it. Letting it flow, falling on your face, is what rehearsals are for. Then, open up and let fly. As the director Eike Gramss once told me: “You must open yourself up for grace.”
