Saturday afternoons in the Vasquez household revolve not only around opera radio broadcasts, but also various improvement projects that I routinely inflict upon my home. In fact, I find myself unable to walk by a freshly painted wall without recalling the broadcast that accompanied its completion.
I discovered Mary Dunleavy during one of these home destruction projects. Lyric Opera of Chicago was broadcasting Mozart’s Die Zauberflöte with Dunleavy as the Queen. During both of her difficult arias, which she executed with splendid panache, her voice projected an authority you seldom hear in this role nowadays. It went beyond impressive vocalism, and I was intrigued enough to stop painting.
Subsequent research revealed a young artist on the rise and gathering momentum at an exponential rate. The “Operatic Cyclone,” as the press has deemed her, has triumphed as Violetta, Gilda, Konstanze in Mozart’s “Abduction,” Massenet’s Thais, and all four ladies in Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffmann, to name just a few. The Met’s airing of Dunleavy’s Micaela in Carmen further confirmed the enthusiastic reports. Her coloring of each phrase, coupled with the elegant manner of her production, created a hypnotic light emanating from the darkness of the smugglers’ lair at the end of the third act. This was the work of a complete artist—what I had previously heard was no mere flash in the operatic pan.
I met Dunleavy last November in her press agent Karen Nelson’s cozy apartment near Lincoln Center. She had just arrived from Brussels after her spectacular success as Aspasia in Mozart’s Mitridate. Before me stood a charming young lady with a spectacular figure who didn’t look a day past 27. (All of a sudden, I began to question my decision to eat that croissant earlier that morning.)
I first heard you sing during the Lyric Opera of Chicago broadcast of “Zauberflöte,” as Mozart’s infamous Queen of the Night. You made quite a name for yourself singing this role everywhere. Did this role limit your repertoire?
When I was singing the Queen, I had to just do the Queen. I mean, you don’t mess around with “The Queen.” When I had to get the Queen ready for a new engagement after a long absence, it was like having to go back to school. It was tricky. I had to get my voice lined up and narrow in order to find those notes. I never went out of my dressing room without those Fs, but the question was: Did I have them at that tempo, on that stage, at that moment? Everything has to be working perfectly, or she just goes off track.
Frankly, the Queen was really unrewarding. I had little time to be on stage and create a character. You were out and gone, out and gone. That just doesn’t do it for me. I wanted to be part of the show. I wanted to be Pamina! Now that I’m singing Pamina, I feel like I’m actually part of the opera.
Coming from the Queen, how has the technical transition to Pamina been?
Pamina isn’t a high wire act like the Queen or even Fiordiligi [Cosi fan Tutte], but she’s really precise and rests so much in the middle voice. Your singing must be perfectly modulated. Her aria needs incredible breath control, and she gets pretty dramatic towards the end, all while lingering in the passaggio. Everything has to be in the center of the pitch for the chromatics, and there’s an elegance to her that cannot be faked.
I marvel at a singer who can sing a dashing Queen, switch gears to Pamina, and then add Aspasia to her repertoire. You definitely have a unique instrument. When was the first time those around you recognized your special gift?
My parents were used to me singing constantly. Along with my sister, we put on shows around the house and made a nuisance of ourselves. I was already taking saxophone lessons and playing in the school band, so my parents didn’t think I needed singing lessons. They came around when I sang Annie in the sixth-grade musical. I was pretty darn good, and many parents basically told them I should take lessons, so they caved.
My first teacher had me practice a lot of Vaccai exercises, art songs, and Broadway. Everything was in the middle range, and I didn’t realize I had high notes until college.
Is that also when you made the conscious decision to pursue opera as a career?
My decision came when I was applying for college. I applied for the school of music and auditioned with classical songs. In my heart I was still entertaining thoughts of Broadway, so opera was more a gradual thing.
When choosing schools, Northwestern offered a full university experience, with football games and a Greek life. They also had a great theater program. I also wanted to pursue a double major in economics. That fell by the wayside by my junior year.
When it came to grad school, my teacher at Northwestern, Kathleen Kaun, had been to UT [University of Texas] and thought it would be a [good] place for me to be a big fish in a little pond. She was afraid that a school like Juilliard or IU [Indiana University] would eat me up and spit me out. UT had a great faculty, which included Gerard Souzay, David Garvey, and particularly, Mignon Dunn. I was not to accept Texas unless Mignon agreed to teach me. She [Kaun] was smart.
How did your career get started after you graduated?
I hit the streets of New York—and they hit me back. While it was tough, I have to say that things happened quickly, in retrospect. I worked part-time jobs, took lessons, participated in masterclasses, competitions, went to every open audition.
I hear those are fun.
Well, I was hopeful and perhaps naive. But you know, one of my first open auditions in NYC was for Eugene Opera, and I got an offer! You’ve got to give your best performance under any circumstance, because you just never know who’s listening!
How did you eventually get representation?
It happened a bit by accident. I was coaching with a great guy who’s now in Stuttgart, and he wanted me to sing for a conductor who was visiting New York. We were having trouble coordinating his schedule, and the conductor arranged for me to sing for him at CAMI [Columbia Artists Management Inc] with his managers, [Bruce] Zemsky [and Alan] Greene. I had no idea who these guys were, and therefore wasn’t particularly nervous. That’s another case of you never know who’s listening. It turned out they liked me a lot, and they ended up representing me for 10 years.
You went from performing open auditions to landing a contract with the Met. What led to your engagement with America’s most prestigious company?
It all started when Mignon Dunn got me an “audition” with the Met casting staff. She was a bit stumped with my voice, which is big and has a high range, and she wanted to get their opinion on what repertoire I should be singing. The “audition” was very much on the “down low,” and that made me less nervous. I certainly wasn’t anticipating being hired. A few months later they called to offer me a cover of Niade in Ariadne auf Naxos. I was ecstatic!
You finally made your official Met debut as a sprite in Dvorák’s Rusalka, the first of a series of small parts before you were cast in principal roles. Was this gradual progression necessary for your artistic development?
Starting out small allowed me to slowly get comfortable with being on stage at such a prestigious house. It was also an invaluable experience to observe the politics and personalities—who doesn’t know the music and who the good colleagues are, you know—stuff they can’t teach at a university.
I sang many performances of Frasquita working with [Plácido] Domingo, [Angela] Georghiu, and [Franco] Zeffirelli. When I finally did the same production as Micaëla, it wasn’t scary. I knew I had worked my way up the hard way.
You’re not only a great singer but also a sensitive actress. How did you discover this talent?
I was always an actress in my own head, but lacked the technique to project my ideas to the audience. I was covering Antonia and Olympia at the Met’s run of Tales of Hoffmann, and I was slated to get one performance in the run. This afforded me the opportunity to watch the show from an audience’s point of view.
What troubled me was this: I knew the singer on stage had great emotional instincts, but [those emotions weren’t] projecting to the audience. Hence, even if I made whatever changes I deemed appropriate, it didn’t mean that my intentions would project either. The night before my performance, I called my friend Hank Hammett (who is currently running the opera department at SMU) and we ended up talking for hours about Antonia’s inner dialogue, her relationship with her father, her lover, and her mother. “If you think this way, you will show that in your body,” he said. It was like a whole new world opening up.
I have to say that the next day, I gave one of my best performances. Instead of being preoccupied with impressing the administration into rehiring me, I was busy being Antonia and Olympia. I realized that opera isn’t about breathing properly or producing beautiful notes in the correct resonance spot, i.e., all you learn at the university. Opera is about something that’s in the moment and not studied. Only then is it exciting—and that’s when you get the real applause.
You were engaged at New York City Opera for a series of performances of Bellini’s I capuleti ed i montecchi around the same time as the 9/11 attacks. What was that experience like for you?
I was supposed to have rehearsal on that day, but obviously couldn’t. Those performances were an incredible experience. Everyone around you was feeling overwhelmed, like a big cloud of mist around you from which there was no escape. Every night, we would sing the national anthem before the show with the curtain up and the work lights on. The singers and crew came on stage to sing it, along with the audience. So already you started the night crying, and singing the opera came as a relief. But very quickly you would be faced with the issues in the opera, which are identical to the ones we were dealing with.
We had pictures of the firemen and crew who had died, on the walls backstage, and every time you crossed the stage you were looking at them. You couldn’t get away from it. All we could do was tell the story: “I’m Giulietta, this is my story.”
What was wonderful was this sense that everybody wanted and needed to be there. By the end of the show, it was a love fest between the audience, the singers, and the orchestra. You felt this kind of thank you going back and forth across the stage that was powerful and beautiful. I felt this amazing gift to be able to do that in the city during that time.
From a dramatic point of view, some of these Bel Canto librettos have been accused of being static. Do you find this to be an issue that you’ve had to resolve on stage?
I wouldn’t say that happens in Bel Canto for me. Rather, I find that in early Mozart roles like Aspasia, the arias are 10 minutes long, they have no real new emotional content, and the text is composed of two lines repeated over and over. In Mitridate, one of my arias went “Al destin che la minaccia.” Going by the text, it’s not really saying very much, so I worked hard with Hank to find the dramatic and emotional context of the aria. Beyond the text, the aria’s context is about this tyrant I was supposed to marry who is now dead. I’m in love with his son, but his other son is the one who is chasing me. There’s anger, confusion, frustration, and I filled it up with stuff that means something to me.
When I finally worked on it with the director, he wanted it to have an “I feel tortured” sort of concept. But the music had this C-major, imperial feel to it. We struggled to find a common place with how the director wanted it and how it seemed to me like it should work.
That’s the big struggle of our time, isn’t it?
Indeed! You have to, more importantly, make it really work for you, and then for him. Do whatever it takes for you to believe it. “Crawling around in the rubble of this bombed out building,” I mean, what else would Aspasia be doing? But you know, I did his staging and I gave him what he wanted.
The most important thing I’ve learned is not to resist. Try to find something in the craziness that works. In order to give him the appearance of what he wanted, I, as Mary Dunleavy, needed to think: “This is what Aspasia’s doing and this is what works for me.” If I don’t do that, then he’s not happy and I’m not happy. We both need to be happy, because if you fake it and do it because he told you to, everybody is going to know.
Do you find similar challenges when working with conductors?
I’m one of those singers to whom a conductor can say: “I think you should look at it this way instead.” Now inside I may disagree, but I will try it. I don’t want to be one of those people who never wants to look at something from a different angle.
The last time I did “Traviata” at the Met, the maestro wanted “Addio del passato” a bit faster than I was used to. I had initial reservations, but after trying it, I realized that I rather liked his idea, so we found a compromise. It wasn’t exactly what either he or I wanted, yet it became its own thing and it turned my head around.
A lot of singers tend to keep their concerns to themselves so they don’t seem as if they’re being difficult.
That’s deadly. You have to be really diplomatic but also protect yourself. If you do everything that everybody tells you to do, you will feel compromised and they will wonder if you have an opinion. However, if you push, they think you’re being unreasonable.
I was just in this new production and I was probably the most diplomatic in the cast, but this one colleague of mine just wouldn’t hesitate. “No . . .” “But . . .” “That’s crazy. I won’t do that!” Other people had other methods of negotiation, and it was a bit like the U.N.
Politics, waist size, traveling. I’m always surprised at how much more than singing this profession can involve.
I always talk about how opera has this incredible parallel to figure skating. The way it’s judged, the way they see your technique, your artistic interpretation, how you look in your costumes, how long you’ve been in the business. It’s so much like opera it’s not even funny!
One of the challenges facing singers (and figure skaters) is the stress associated with this profession. I don’t know about you, but when I get stressed, I eat. How do you manage to stay so fashionably thin?
What’s tricky for me is the constant change of environments, and I do have to watch my weight to a certain extent. If I have a “secret,” it’s the fact that I like to cook at home. If you go out to eat a lot, you don’t put much thought into what you’re eating. I like to buy fresh vegetables and make my own meals. It’s also part of how I unwind at the end of the day.
Every time I travel to a new assignment, I find myself restocking on salt, pepper, and thyme. I had to buy knives in Belgium because the knives in the hotel were a joke. I feel like I should start traveling with my butcher knives just like on Top Chef, and carry them in my luggage.
While you chop these vegetables, do you consider singing a more dramatic repertoire?
I want to. I want to sing everything. I have a voice that lends itself to a wide variety of musical styles. I have a strongly developed middle voice. I have squillo—my voice carries. Though it’s not what people consider a “big voice.” These are things that will help me as I get older and try on bigger parts.
I want to sing “Trovatore,” if I’m a big girl someday—but I don’t want people saying: “Mary, why did you go there?” I would love to sing Madama Butterfly and Tosca, but I don’t think it’s going to happen, unless I want to blow out my voice at 50. I would love to sing Mimi, but I cannot when I have a role like Konstanze in my calendar. So I must pace myself and decide when to let things go. I feel sad because I am getting older, and time is running out.
Have you found yourself singing a role that was not good for your voice?
Yes. When I was younger, I had learned parts of this one role, and for the longest time I wanted to sing the entire opera. Lo and behold, I got an offer to jump in for another singer and sing the role. I agreed. I was already killing myself by jumping in, but I was determined to make it work. I had no problems with the pieces that I had learned in the past, but soon enough I realized that the rest of the opera just wasn’t for me. It just didn’t feel right, but I had to do it. It was very stressful and also kind of sad.
Like going out with a guy you always wanted to date.
And it turns out he’s a jerk, and a bad kisser! That’s the worst.
Vocally, do you sense anything that tips you off?
I wouldn’t say physically. When I sing something and it’s meant to be, it feels like a train is on the tracks. I’m not saying that you don’t have to work at it, but if the music doesn’t suit you from the beginning, you can fight all you want, but it’s just not going to happen.
When I was in college, my first teacher didn’t know what to do with me, so he gave me really heavy arias to sing. One of these arias was Massenet’s “Il est doux, il est bon” from Herodiade. I loved that aria, and pounded away in that rehearsal room because I wanted to sing it so badly. Ultimately, I couldn’t make it work in my voice. It was too low and too heavy. That was one of the first times when I realized there were things that I couldn’t and shouldn’t sing.
But now you know better.
Yes. I used to dismiss this concept in the past, but I have discovered that I can’t flip back and forth between high Mozart and something like “Traviata.” Unconsciously, since you know you aren’t singing above a C, your voice becomes a little fatter. When you flip to higher music, your singing is too fat to sing D staccatti. If I need to sing coloratura, I can’t do anything too dramatic because I need access to the top and to the bottom without fattening up the middle. Otherwise, I can’t get it back to the top.
I used to think that you should be able to sing anything, and yeah, you can sing anything, but you must know what you’re singing and how to sing it. I can’t just sing anything everyday. I’ve got too many irons in the fire.
Like the Infanta in Zemlinsky’s Der Zwerg?
That is the role I’m working on next, which is 180 degrees away from Aspasia. After “Zwerg,” I’m going to sing Konstanze, another 180 degrees back to Mozart. I try to find warm ups that work for both roles, so when I was singing Aspasia, I started practicing a little “Zwerg.” When I’m singing “Zwerg,” I am going to practice Ds and my Konstanze runs.
James Conlon asked you to participate in this revival [Der Zwerg] as part of his wonderful Forgotten Voices series. Is this a big change in repertoire for you?
It was actually one of my first assignments. I sang it in 1994 in Spoleto and Rome, with Menotti and Stephen Mercurio. I’m interested to see how I react to the opera now, because I did it 13 years ago when I was much younger. Musically, I find that it’s still very hard to learn. There are places were you’re picking your note out of thin air, while other times the music is very romantic and melodic. This is one of the reasons that I’m looking forward to singing it under Conlon’s baton. He really knows this music inside and out, and it’s going to be fun to work on it with a master.
Dramatically, the Infanta is challenging. She is royalty and has led a very sheltered kind of life. She isn’t a likable character in this piece, and my job is to find the emotional depth in someone who appears to be quite shallow. Now, because she’s 18 and I’m in LA, I’m going to have to get some botox to do this 18-year-old.
On the subject of 18-year-olds, I see young singers on the various Internet boards asking for translations of arias they need to learn in a short span of time. Do you think the amazing new technology may make young singers complacent?
Yes! Definitely. You gotta do your work. Nico Castel’s translation books are great, but I’m still looking up words in the dictionary. I want to know my other choices for words, and I don’t want somebody telling me what they are.
The first time I did “Traviata,” I translated it with my dictionary word for word. Then I listened to the recordings. I read the book. I saw the movies. It’s homework, but you’ve got to do it because it pays off.
Nowadays it seems that no one wants to do it. You must figure out a way to make technology aid your learning, not take the place of it. It helps me tremendously to use the iPod learning new music. “Zwerg” is so complicated there’s no way that I can play it on my piano. So I listen to a bit on the iPod, play along, pause or rewind, go back two seconds and listen to the violin solo. It’s fabulous. Back in the day, you had to pick up the needle and find that part again. Today people wouldn’t even understand that concept.
As a bona fide professional singer looking back to those student days, would you change anything?
I would learn more languages and listen to more operas. When I say “listen,” I mean with the score in your hand. Both at Northwestern and UT, the music libraries had listening stations. I would pull the scores and listen to Callas, Caballe, Troyanos, etc. for hours. Sadly, I mostly listened to individual arias or duets, and very rarely to the entire opera, which is dumb! Knowing the entire opera informs what you’re doing!
Study as many operas as you can, and do this while you’re unemployed. Once you turn professional, you run out of time to do this stuff.
