The Shifting Soprano

  • Private Lives

    Or: I saw a play

    TW: Domestic Violence

    Photo: Emilia Perrotta. Minneapolis, June 2026.

    I don’t think I’ve seen a play in over a decade until this week. We all have our preferred artistic mediums; unsurprisingly, mine involves music of some kind. Operas, contemporary classical music, musicals, symphonies, recitals– I’ve racked up hundreds of performances over the years, I’m sure. No plays.

    What a mistake!

    A friend and colleague of mine had tickets to see the opening night of Private Lives by Noel Coward at the famed Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis– I didn’t hesitate in saying yes. At first, I was thrown off by how loudly the actors were speaking. They were mic’d, but it still felt like they were yelling in fake British accents. I’m sure I made a face. I always make a face.

    When you’re used to movies and TV shows, the raw theatricality of a straight play without the obvious breach of reality that is singing and dancing on the spot feels a little jarring. However, I quickly got over it as I was pulled into the relationships onstage. The libretto was nearly perfect; the direction and acting matched. How many times have I sat through an opera or musical desperately awaiting intermission so I could get a glass of wine and talk with my friends?

    That’s not how I felt during Private Lives. Even in extended scenes with only two characters onstage, I was totally riveted. The actors drew me into the story. I was so invested that even the ending seemed sudden.

    As singers, we’re taught almost exclusively about music. In addition to my voice lessons and ensembles, I took two years of music theory, aural (listening) skills, and a year each of music history (a focus on Western musical tradition) and world music. I took two semesters of song literature and English, Italian, French, and German diction. A year of French and German each was also required. Lastly, I had to learn vocal pedagogy. In all of that curriculum, there was only one semester of acting. Opera exists to serve the music, after all.

    This is probably the last time I did a play– Myra Menke in Holes at the Northfield Arts Guild, 2009.

    I firmly believe that truly fine singing is the most important aspect of operatic singing. However, we live in the 21st century. Many say that Maria Callas was the first soprano to meaningfully incorporate stagecraft and acting into her performance– while her voice is considered jarring to this day (I personally love it), her interpretation stood the test of time and even became the norm. To simply “park and bark,” as it were, is simply unacceptable. 

    Attention spans are so damn short. But I really truly put my phone away for three hours and allowed myself to get drawn in by the plot. “How do people remain in love with their exes or even consider going back to them?” I wondered. That has never been my experience. When I’m done, I’m good and done. Senza rancor. Never have I ever yearned for an ex. But it’s enough of a trope that it’s been written about again and again. 

    The audience laughed uncomfortably whenever a mention of domestic violence occurred. I found myself especially prickly and sensitive to those jokes because of a true crime documentary I just watched. Behind the Rage: America’s Domestic Violence, a documentary by filmmaker Deeyah Khan, interviewed allegedly former domestic violence perpetrators to get an idea of why (mostly) men engage in intimate partner violence. The interviews were sickening and harrowing, with many of the men’s eyes lighting up when they spoke about former abuse. They choked their wives or girlfriends to get them to be quiet, abusing them to feel a sense of superiority and power. To quell their feelings of abandonment. To assert their physical dominance when their masculinity felt threatened. It made me sick.

    It shocked me to learn that one in three women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime. Yet, nobody wants to admit their friend, father, or brother could possibly be an abuser. As Christian fundamentalism continues its chokehold on the culture (this isn’t meant to be a joke in poor taste, I swear), I suspect that domestic violence will only increase in America. The manosphere, an increasingly mainstream platform which has an inseparable connection to Christian evangelicalism, emphasizes male dominance and female submission to the most extreme measures. When women willingly give up their voices, their autonomy, their votes– it’s much more difficult to leave a dangerous situation. 

    The male protagonist in Private Lives, written in the 1930s, threatens jokingly to kill his new wife early in Act 1. Everyone laughed. He and his ex-wife antagonize each other in a fight during Act 2, which culminates in a slap. The male protagonist, who has already proven himself prone to violence, asserts that some women deserve to be hit. Tepid laughs and “oohs” from the audience. The man in a supporting role is portrayed as a sap, consistently breaking down into tears and uninterested in physical violence. He looks like less of a “man” in comparison to the clearly abusive protagonist, who espouses stereotypical masculinity. 

    The play is supposed to be about the private lives of a formerly married couple and their new spouses, but I couldn’t help thinking about how the play was really about how men are stubbornly disinterested in the inner lives of women. Graham Platner has been the perfect example of a politically progressive man who still mistreats women. Why bother if the poor treatment of women transcends party lines?

    I can’t help but think I’m getting out of America at the right time. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone– could be a few months, could be a more permanent move. I can’t answer that question right now. All I know is the evidence seems to point towards the fact that men just hate women, or at least don’t give a crap about them in a meaningful way. I’m increasingly hearing of accidental pregnancies where the woman has gone off birth control (or never taken it) because of the right-wing propaganda that birth control is bad for women and men can’t be bothered to understand their responsibility in preventing pregnancy. I have literally heard with my own ears in conversation the argument, more than once, that men consciously put the burden of pregnancy prevention on women because women have more to lose if an accidental pregnancy occurs. 

    Men will do anything but 

    1) wear a condom or 

    2) divorce their wives. 

    Great book. Less than an hour read. Highly recommend.

    Somehow, I feel they’re connected. And just to bring it back around– the most dangerous time for a woman who experiences intimate partner violence is while she’s pregnant. 

    All of these thoughts just from seeing a play. And then I wondered, did anyone else have the same thought trajectory as I did, just from seeing a play? Probably not. But…maybe? Maybe they made even crazier comparisons! 

    At this point, I wrote this blog over two weeks ago. Since then I’ve consumed other media– like everyone else, I saw The Odyssey in theatres and, continuing the Greek mythology theme, the Hadestown pro-shot. The Christopher Nolan epic is three hours long and it had my full attention the entire time. Hadestown wasn’t much shorter but was closer to the medium I perform. As a through-composed musical, I would call it a “popera” similar to Les Mis.

    I’ve increasingly found that as an artist specializing in what is considered (at least in the United States) to be a niche genre forces me to think critically about why people consume art. I doubt most Americans flocking to the movie theatre think about consuming The Odyssey as artistic patronage, but that’s what’s going on. Timothee Chalamet will be so pleased to hear of the renaissance of cinema.

    The way I see it, Americans got excited about The Odyssey for several reasons. First, there was plenty of hype and discourse online about casting (much of it racist and transphobic, no surprise there), it was a familiar story, and the film was directed by a household name. They stayed because the craftsmanship was there.

    Fewer Americans are familiar with Hadestown unless they’re self-professed theatre nerds. I first listened to the soundtrack in anticipation of seeing the national tour at the Orpheum theatre in 2024 and I found it less than inspiring. However, when combined with staging, costumes, set, and the magic of live theatre, I was totally drawn into the underworld. As a performer, the swinging lamps in “Wait for Me” practically gave me a heart attack, but they’re an extra memorable and creative form of stagecraft.

    Hadestown tells a familiar story (we all know Orpheus is going to turn around, but we all hope it’s different this time!) in a creative way. It feels intensely relevant for a world mired in late-stage capitalism. It feels right to tell this story through music, but I’m not convinced opera would be the medium for this tale. The mix of big band, jazz, and folk themes clicked for Anaïs Nin’s setting.

    Opera is an especially tough sell for modern audiences. The most famous stories are told in foreign languages, most have an over two hour run time (though epic movies and many musicals are the same!), and the singing is so difficult it often precludes the storytelling except with the most skilled performers.

    Singing opera is hard. The better the technique becomes, and the more stage experiences one acquires, the easier it becomes. But it is difficult. And we can’t flop on couches while singing fioratura, but I still think we can do better. Verismo didn’t exist during Mozart’s time, but imbuing those characters with a bit more realism and motivation only makes his work more interesting and accessible to a 21st-century audience.

    I don’t think Private Lives should be turned into an opera; I liked it as a play. Hadestown wouldn’t be as effective as a non-musical film. The Odyssey benefits from the tools that filmmaking has to offer. It’s not our fault as classical singers that our acting training was sorely lacking for most of us in both undergrad and grad school. But it is our job to make up for those deficiencies now. We draw people into the story with both music and stagecraft.

    Operatic stories are those that can only be told through the heightened emotion of singing. Those stories can sometimes be hard– domestic violence, misogyny, and sexism are rampant in opera because those stories are a reflection of our continued culture. But it’s our job as singers and actors and I believe in the power of drawing in new audiences. People will always crave impressive performances and compelling stories– we just have to invite them in.

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  • Daddy Franklin

    In honor of America

    Our guy.

    Ben Franklin was arguably the most important Founding Father. While he never became president of the United States of America, his overseas diplomacy to France, sharp editing skills (no doubt honed by years in the newspaper business), and revolutionary ideas made the American Experiment possible. In casual conversation, most folks remember Franklin for his balding head and tiny glasses, authorship of Poor Richard’s Almanac, or discovery of electricity through the use of kites and weather vanes.    

    I prefer to think about Franklin through his women.

    Most of the Founding Fathers have shoddy track records by modern standards– it’s important to address these shortcomings while also acknowledging the time in which they lived. George Washington famously bristled at the sight of African-American soldiers enlisted in the Continental Army, barring future Black Americans, enslaved or free, from signing up to serve until the British offered freedom to slaves willing to fight on their side. Thomas Jefferson may have penned the Declaration of Independence, but he did so at a time when the truth wasn’t anywhere near “self-evident that all men were created equal”, likely attended by an enslaved African-American during long bouts of editing.

    Even John Adams, arguably the least problematic Founding Father, responded less than favorably to his wife’s infamous plea “remember the ladies,” imploring Adams to include women’s suffrage in the creation of a brand-new nation:

    “As to your extraordinary Code of Laws, I cannot but laugh. We have been told that our Struggle has loosened the bands of Government every where. That Children and Apprentices were disobedient—that schools and Colledges were grown turbulent—that Indians slighted their Guardians and Negroes grew insolent to their Masters. But your Letter was the first Intimation that another Tribe more numerous and powerfull than all the rest were grown discontented.—This is rather too coarse a Compliment but you are so saucy, I wont blot it out.

    Depend upon it, We know better than to repeal our Masculine systems. Altho they are in full Force, you know they are little more than Theory. We dare not exert our Power in its full Latitude. We are obliged to go fair, and softly, and in Practice you know We are the subjects. We have only the Name of Masters, and rather than give up this, which would compleatly subject Us to the Despotism of the Peticoat.”

    Not even Adams, who considered Abigail to be his intellectual equal in many regards, could be swayed to the idea that women had any part of American life outside domesticity. He actually found it funny she would even suggest it. It’s interesting to me that while we remember Abigail’s words, Adams’ response isn’t as well-known.

    Deborah Reed. Courtesy of battlefields.org.

    Franklin didn’t love his common-law wife, Deborah Reed, in the same way that Adams loved Abigail. Deborah came from a middling merchant class family and received the minimal education expected of women of that class at the time. Sources that deem her illiterate or slow seem to forget that women were barely taught to read or write in 18th-century America, and unless they had a special proclivity for reading, most women possessed only elementary literacy. Deborah was a provincial woman, but she was also a shrewd businesswoman who kept Franklin’s financial assets afloat while he played house in England. She raised Franklin’s bastard son, who later became the loyalist governor of New Jersey, and consistently begged her husband to stay in Philadelphia. He wouldn’t even return from abroad when she suffered two strokes; she died without having seen her husband in years as he created a second life in London with his landlady, Margaret Stevenson.

    Deborah was long gone, and Ben Franklin was already a household name by the time he was dispatched as an ambassador to France. Anyone who’s seen Hamilton (from which Franklin is noticeably absent!) knows that America’s success in the Revolutionary War hinged on France’s financial support. When Franklin landed in France, he was ill and cranky from a long, difficult journey across the Atlantic, and his bald head suffered from a ghastly skin condition. Therefore, he chose to don a fur hat, memorialized in many French portraits of the Founding Father.

    Already elderly and suffering from gout, Franklin was no longer a physically attractive man. However, what he lacked in that department was undoubtedly made up for in spades by his intellectual prowess, love of the game (flirting), and air of foreign mystery. The French hated the British, so being so American in a hat fresh from the fur trade (I might be a little early on that, gotta check dates there) was so incredibly cool.    

    Madame Brillon. Courtesy of History Oasis.

    Enter Madame Brillon. Madame Anne Louise Brillon de Jouy is perhaps the most perplexing yet famous of Franklin’s paramours during his time wooing the French elite. One of the most famous lines in her letters, “always love God, America, and me above all,” sounds like a sentiment straight out of a Lana Del Rey song. Interestingly, Franklin openly eschewed religion but seemed willing to entertain the idea of God to keep Madame Brillon’s attention. A godly man he was not.

    Franklin probably viewed Madame Brillon as a woman who was “different from other girls.” Honestly, she kind of was. Madame Brillon was a composer and skilled harpsichordist in her early 30s whose playing and writing rivaled those of any professional at the time. Franklin dabbled in music (he actually created an instrument called the glass armonica— even Mozart wrote pieces for it), but his expertise in the subject was less vast than many others. He admired Madame Brillon’s talent for music, social proclivities, and sharp wit. In a way, she was Franklin’s Abigail.

    There was just one tiny problem– Madame Brillon was married, and unlike stereotypical French aristocrats, she appeared to take those vows seriously. Franklin attempted to woo her through many letters, and while she expressed her love for him in return, they never physically consummated their affections. Eventually, Madame Brillon proposed a father/daughter type relationship, addressing her letters to him as “Mon cher Papa,” which basically translates to “my dear daddy.”

    While the tone of their letters shifts from shamelessly flirtatious to innocently coy, Franklin’s attraction to Madame Brillon remained clearly the same. She would work herself into fits when Franklin entertained other women, essentially forcing him to break off relationships with the available ladies or those willing to step outside their marriages. I’ve read many of their letters– I truly believe Madame Brillon loved Franklin because she was bored with simple-minded aristocrats, and Franklin loved her for basically the same reason. In a way, they were soulmates. But Franklin had to settle for “papa.”

    I heard an ad for a podcast recently that was pure Victoria-bait. Only Fantasy details, in six episodes, the cultural impact of OnlyFans for creators, consumers, and everyone in between. For those women over the age of 40 and men pretending to have never frequented the site, OnlyFans touts itself as a subscription-only platform for creators of any kind, but typically refers to paying for adult-only content. While I’m oversimplifying it, OnlyFans is essentially a pornography platform. Find a creator you like, usually from Instagram, TikTok, or Reddit, subscribe to their OnlyFans page, pay to see videos/photos, chat with them, or do video calls. Some of the most successful OnlyFans stars rake in millions.

    Quite a forgiving portrait of Franklin in Paris.

    So it’s no surprise that as I read Mon Cher Papa: Franklin and the Ladies of Paris, I wonder whether Franklin was the first daddy. An older gentleman with a sexual attraction to a younger woman. Surely not. But my brain went there. As we know, my brain’s always going places.

    I was both saddened and inspired by Only Fantasy. According to the podcast, upwards of 90% of men using the platform are married, and many of the most popular creators hire chatters to maintain conversation with their subscribers. One of the more disturbing stories detailed Gracie, a comedian and OnlyFans creator, discovering that her top subscriber had a wife with cancer. The wife found Gracie on the platform and confronted her about the relationship with her husband, admitting that what hurt most was their intimate, daily conversations. Men always cheat on their wives with cancer.    

    Another anonymous subscriber explained that his fascination with Gracie largely boiled down to his dissatisfaction with his own mediocre life. He was still married and had no intentions of leaving his wife, but Gracie’s life just looked so dynamic and youthful and adventurous and fun. She was brave. He was not.

    A wife starts looking a whole lot less glamorous when arguing about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher. When she’s taking you to the urgent care for a glorified tummy ache, asking you to mow the lawn, looking disheveled from a day of tantrums and missed naptimes. “You’re not the woman I married,” men bemoan, finding solace in a youthful, impressionable woman, free from stretch marks and unrealized dreams. Young at heart. When they’re the ones who stole that youth in the first place.

    “Why get married if my husband is just going to find the younger version of me after he’s stolen my sunshine?” I thought.    

    In her own way, Madame Brillon was protecting her sunshine. She may have called it honor, but in reality, her guardedness saved her from being loved and later discarded by a known, unrepentant womanizer, our beloved Founding Father, Ben Franklin.

    I only had one New Year’s Resolution this year: I’m not going to let anyone steal my sunshine. Halfway through the year, I’ve realized the only person primed and ready to let me down is myself.    

    Sunshine. Photo by the amazing Emilia Perrotta. Minneapolis, June 2026.

    Ben Franklin knew that life wasn’t only made up of the milestone events: there’s no such thing as being born again. But we are baptized anew every day by our actions. We get one shot at this thing called life, made up of days, hours, minutes. Franklin had a list of habits (upwards of thirteen!) that he aspired to accomplish every single day. While I can’t say I’ve fully lived up to Franklin’s discipline, I rest easy every night knowing I spent my day becoming a better Victoria. My singing is better. I’m stronger. I network more efficiently. My friendships are more fulfilling. I’ve saved money. I’m moving to Germany because I’m ready now.    

    I have never given up on myself.    

    I’ve gotten really close. I’ve really almost settled for mediocrity, telling myself I’m ok with a version of what I imagined for my life, told myself to find joy in less. I am unapologetically who I am, and I’m proud that even in my lowest moments I refused to fall backwards into someone else’s life. What I want is greater, more complex, and harder to get. I will keep seeking and accept no substitutes.    

    Honestly, I think Ben Franklin would’ve wanted to be my daddy.

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  • What is wasted time, anyway?

    Or: I moved to NC a decade ago what the heck?

    At the MGK concert. Charlotte, NC, June 2026.

    When I first moved to North Carolina, I got a job at an upscale Southern restaurant. The goal was to gain North Carolina residency in case the university wasn’t able to provide me with a full ride for grad school, and while I was pretty confident I had it in the bag, I didn’t really feel there was much tying me to Minnesota in terms of professional development at the time. Dad and I headed over the mountains and through the woods to a mid-sized city in the South. Not necessarily what I had envisioned for myself, but it was the only direction I saw.

    ​

    Anyway, I waited tables and took private voice lessons for a year. I did opera chorus with the local company and lived with current UNC Greensboro grad students thanks to Shelley. I squandered most of my time hanging out with industry folks– fellow servers. I worked on my voice, certainly, but I’m sure the amount of drinking and yelling I did was only a hindrance to my technical development.

    ​

    One of many screenshotted snapchats from nights out. Greensboro, 2016.

    Server lifestyle wasn’t brand new to me. When I was growing up, my dad ran several chain restaurants, and I started working at age 15 as a hostess and later as a server. But this was different– the more upscale the dining, the more absolutely reckless the waitstaff are. Trust me on this: don’t let the pressed white shirts, crisp ties, and polished shoes fool you.

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    Friends were fickle during that time; dependent on similar work schedules, intermeshed drama, and general lifestyle. One friend of mine began waiting tables shortly after I did, a scrappy North Carolina native with big goals who was finishing up her undergraduate degree. We bonded over our hard-working natures, sunny outlook, and the belief that we were made of tougher stuff.

    ​

    Hanging out at the Fishbones bar top on a day off. Greensboro, 2017.

    I didn’t necessarily think that Madison and I would stay in touch, especially once I started grad school. But we did. She came to my operas; I’d order takeout and bring it over so we could watch true crime documentaries. She was the first to show up at my doorstep when COVID-19 began, toilet paper and canned foods in tow, because she knew I had a broken ankle and couldn’t drive.

    ​

    Shortly after Madison delivered supplies, I made the decision to go home to Minnesota. I never thought I’d live in Minnesota again; I was hoping to move closer to New York City with my boyfriend at the time since I’d finished grad school. He was reticent: he had fallen in love with Greensboro and wanted to stay. I’ve heard he’s since opened a successful bar there.

    ​

    We might have ignored that 6 feet apart rule. Greensboro, June 2020.

    Ego bruised and dreams stomped upon like everyone else, I enmeshed myself in the early-COVID days of life back at my parents’ house. I started talking to friends and strangers alike on the phone about the Enneagram. I started drinking Cosmopolitans at 4 pm. Shortly after George Floyd’s murder, friends were kind enough to drive me back to North Carolina to get the rest of my things, my car, and to say goodbye to friends outdoors, masked, 6-feet apart, and before the cops started arresting folks who stayed out past the 8 pm curfew. A fever dream.

    ​

    On a walk through the Greensboro Arboretum, June 2022.

    While I was back in 2022 for another friend’s wedding, that visit was contained– less trodden ground on the familiar roads where I lived over four tumultuous years. I still made time to see Madison, though. An unexpected, continued relationship. She later visited me in Minnesota for a work trip, and she coordinated her schedule with some auditions I had in December, which culminated in taking Madison to the Metropolitan Opera for the first time to see Puccini’s La bohème. She said it was better than Rent, by the way. So you heard it here first.

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    Madison texted me in January while I was dogsitting on a farm for a month. “Machine Gun Kelly is coming to Charlotte in May,” she mused, “would you go?”

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    Don’t threaten me with a good time. She knew I was saving for Germany, so the follow-up of using her miles for a flight and hotel was too much to pass up. Of course, I said yes.

    Straight up having a great time. Charlotte, NC, May 2026.

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    People often seem surprised that I, as an opera singer, love an artist like MGK. The general consensus is that he’s trash, he’s cringe, he’s a poser–and you know what? I don’t care. All I care about is that an artist seems real, pulls me in, and makes me feel something. And MGK does that. We’re not gonna question it.

    ​

    My adult life is divided into pre- and post-COVID. I imagine I’m not the only one who feels that way. I lived in North Carolina for nearly four years, broke my ankle in mid-February 2020, then, suddenly, it’s mid-March, and I’m in a car with my dad and a couple of suitcases. I wouldn’t return until June 2020, with curfews in place, leaving my friends without a hug. This trip made me realize how few ties I truly have left.

    ​

    I didn’t realize I was still processing my young adult life in Greensboro. I feel disconnected from that person; the girl who went out to Jake’s Billiards or Speakeasy every night after work in her black pants and white tee, shedding her stuffy button-down after a shift, pockets full of cash. The one who let her industry friends roll up a joint on her Arias for Soprano book. A girl who thought going out on Halloween in just a black leotard and no purse was a good idea (I didn’t lose anything!), dating my boss who was ten years older than me and divorced with a child wasn’t a recipe for disaster, and going to the barcade to play DDR on Sundays for their mimosa special was setting myself up for a successful Monday morning in vocal pedagogy class.

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    I worry that I wasted time. I don’t actually know. I went to grad school for free, got some roles under my belt, and ultimately did get slightly better at singing. I made some great friends, some crappy friends, and was both a good and crappy friend– I became a person. Two relationships, two different lives– my server life and my singer life– converging and diverging and making me who I am now.

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    Little Brother Brewing, Greensboro, NC, June 2026.

    Madison and I hit up a few of our favorite spots downtown last week as a sort of reminiscence. Greensboro has changed a lot in seven years, but a few places remain the same. Besides, it feels good to make new memories. There’s something painful in thinking about the past, even the positive experiences. I wouldn’t call it nostalgia– I’m grieving something I can’t quite place.

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    I wish I would’ve screenshotted every snap Alice sent. Greensboro, NC, 2016.

    One of the biggest reasons Madison and I meaningfully reconnected was because of a call shortly after I got back from Madagascar in 2022. I was making my coffee on a typical Saturday morning when Madison called out of the blue to tell me that one of our fellow server friends, Alice, had passed away unexpectedly. She and this friend had remained close over the years, but I grew apart from most industry folks once I started grad school. We still don’t know what happened to her, and we probably never will.

    Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I’m feeling so reflective– she was alive when I went to another friend’s wedding in Greensboro in 2022. She died a month later. If only I had known that was my last chance to see her.

    It’s a hokey thing to say, but life really can be short. Our friend died, and that’s the main thing that brought Madison and me back together. It’s a shame that’s what it was, but I am grateful to her memory for that, at the very least. Life is so precious. I can wonder if I didn’t do things right, or could’ve taken different opportunities, focused more, and made better decisions.

    But I know this: it’s not a waste of time to go out with my friends, text that crush, book the one-way ticket, call my mom, or go to a Machine Gun Kelly concert. I’m so grateful for where my life has brought me. A week in the past will do that to you.

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  • Exposure therapy

    To be cringe is to be free

    One of my new furry friends. Excelsior, MN, April 2026.

    When I was in elementary school, I became obsessed with dog breeds. No, not anything useful like how to train or care for dogs, but specifically the different types of dogs officially recognized by groups such as the American Kennel Club. I could tell you that most Cavalier King Charles Spaniels die of the same cardiovascular disease or Border Collies were the smartest, most active breed of dog.

    I could (and would) let you know that Samoyeds endlessly shed, but Poodles and Schnauzers were largely hypoallergenic. Labs, Golden Retrievers, and German Shepherds were the most popular breeds of dog at the time, but realistically, most people should shy away from those breeds unless they were prepared for hours of activity and care daily due to their high energy levels and need for stimulation.

    These days, Frenchies are the most popular breed of purebred dog, and while the ethics of continuing to produce puppies who are unable to breathe at the slightest climb in humidity or walking speed remains in question, at least most sedentary Americans are prepared to care for a dog that more accurately matches their activity level.

    Recently, I’ve started dog sitting again. This decision was a no-brainer for a couple of reasons: I am trying to save money pretty quickly for a potential life change (saving money is a new concept for me and one I’ve been astonishingly bad at for basically my entire adult life) and, on an emotional level, I miss the dog I shared with my ex-boyfriend. In the weeks (and if I’m being honest, months) leading up to our breakup, I tried to emotionally distance myself from her, but she stuck like glue to her favorite humans, and it was difficult. I miss her. I wasn’t great at caring for her. It was like I was always prepared to say goodbye and never wanted to feel too invested.

    Running around Lake Minnetonka, May 2026.

    Last week, I was in Mound, a town nestled in the back channels of Lake Minnetonka. Days before I began this seemingly routine house sit, I began to feel uneasy and uncomfortable with the idea of being right on Lake Minnetonka again because of the positive memories I had of boating, drinking margaritas, and braving the ice to watch dog sledding on the expansive lake. I truly love Lake Minnetonka, the radiantly beautiful and expansive chain of lakes just west of the Twin Cities. So does everyone else– it’s why all the rich people live there.

    I didn’t get to fully enjoy the beauty of Tonka Bay because I was also in dress rehearsals for Pagliacci at Minnesota Opera. Last Friday, I didn’t have rehearsal, which was a welcome reprieve as I was still suffering from hoarseness caused by a nasty cold. My immune system appears to hate me these days, and I’m not sure how my balanced diet and regular exercise have betrayed her so badly, but she’s mad. Anyways.

    A little sweaty at Back Channel Brewing Company, Mound, MN, May 2026.

    I realized there was a brewery nearby my house sit that I frequented with my ex and his family a couple of times early in our relationship. Settled on the shore of one of Lake Minnetonka’s many inlets, Back Channel Brewing is a picturesque little nook with tasty beers and patio seating: two of my favorites. I went for a run, culminating in a beer at the brewery. Then, I ran back. In my mind, I called it exposure therapy. I was worried the experience would be too painful. Instead, I realized that, while cute, Back Channel is just a brewery. It’s not special. How I felt about people who are no longer in my life is what made it special.

    The next day, I prepared to drive to sitzprobe at the Minnesota Opera Center in the North Loop of Minneapolis. Much to my chagrin, highway 12 was closed, and I was forced to detour through Wayzata, right past the cul de sac where my ex-boyfriend’s sister lives. Where I spent so many Sunday nights around a campfire, where we gathered before a camping trip, where I went to bible study.

    I found myself analyzing all the cars I passed, looking for their distinctive bumper stickers, craning my neck to see if their dog was in the driveway. “Why are you doing this,” I asked myself, embarrassed. I was worried that driving these familiar streets would be painful, but it wasn’t. It was just stupid. And what would I do if I saw them from my car, anyway?

    Going in the stage door at the Ordway. St. Paul, MN, May 2026.

    Pagliacci is my first show with Minnesota Opera. It was also one of the last shows I did with Greensboro Opera, where I sang in the soprano chorus and covered Nedda. Thinking about Greensboro Opera is painful. I left Greensboro during the early days of COVID-19 and never really returned, and I feel there are so many loose ends I never tied up with colleagues and mentors before I left because of the circumstances. Rewriting the show in the context of a new production with new people at a new company feels, again, like exposure therapy.

    I avoid painful things. Perhaps most of us do, but I’ve realized lately how many places, people, and situations feel actively painful to me. I pushed myself to just listen to Verdi in the car the other day, even though Verdi now feels tied to a situation that was painful for me. What, I’m going to just not listen to VERDI anymore?? Really?

    Memories become more painful with avoidance. But I can drive past my ex’s family’s house without scanning the surrounding streets for their car– there were happy AND painful memories tied to that house, and if the happy outweighed the painful, I’d still be there on a summer Sunday evening. I can dog sit, even though I miss my old dog, who I’ll never see again. I can sing Pagliacci even though I made an ill-informed promise to myself years ago. I can’t let painful memories rule my life moving forward.

    Exposure therapy seems to be a tactic used to treat OCD (and probably other diagnoses I’m not aware of), and I’m probably not doing it right, but that’s what I’m calling this. I can love Lake Minnetonka without being haunted by the ghosts of Christmases past, drive along Minnehaha Parkway even though that’s where my old voice teacher lived, perform in my favorite opera even though a conversation in the autumnal Adirondacks echoes in my mind. 

    I’m not surprised that I thought this was cute. Covering Nedda and singing soprano chorus with Greensboro Opera, November 2019.

    “I think I relate most to Nedda,” I answered when asked which operatic heroine I find myself in by a guest artist. Of course, the fall artists had a couple of drinks before heading to dinner that night while playing the new Zelda game, our nightly ritual. With wine-stained lips, I admitted, “It’s corny, but I also sort of feel like a trapped bird with no realistic way out.”

    I don’t feel so much like Nedda anymore. Women are often compared to birds in classic works– flighty and fragile, trapped in their cages. Even Sondheim uses the trope for Johanna in Sweeney Todd. The nice thing about being a woman in the 21st century is that our cages and clipped wings are manufactured.

    We can choose to stay in the cage of our own making, or we can choose to escape. I see women increasingly choosing to shut themselves in gilded cages, scoffing at the poor, lonely birds flying around outside. I’ll take the outside any day, even if it’s sometimes a little painful. They will, too, one day, though it might be too late.

    I make a lot of mistakes. Sometimes, I look around, and I think I make more mistakes than the average person. Those egregious errors twist in my stomach and tighten in my chest. But, at the end of the day, or even the end of my life, those painful choices have made me who I am, enabled me to embrace chaos, and trust where the next step leads me. I won’t let me hold me back.

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  • The Ballad of Baby Doe

    Not the opera.

    Gripping the fireplace for dear life. Duluth, MN, February 14, 2026.

    “You cannot wear those,” my friend giggled, tears forming in her eyes from laughter. I gripped the grand piano in her living room, tip-toeing, struggling, transferring my hands to the couch, the kitchen island– anything I could get my hands on. The black stiletto heels slid across the floor, barely managing to support my wobbly frame. 

    I was also laughing as my palms patty-caked on the kitchen island, pausing to catch my breath. “Just for the pic,” I said, exasperated, making my way defiantly to the fireplace mantle.

    “You look like the Ballad of Baby Doe in those heels,” she continued, referring more to a literal deer than the historical figure featured in the mid-century American opera. And I really did. Helpless, clumsy, legs everywhere. Not “Margot Robbie on the ‘Wuthering Heights’ Press Tour-Core,” which is what I was going for. 

    In the end, I opted for a more reasonable pair of heels for the opera gala– it was the 6th anniversary of breaking my ankle and I didn’t need a repeat of that journey. I was reminded of College Light Opera Company all the way back in 2014 when I played Hedy LaRue in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. While I had the look and the personality the director was going for, I couldn’t walk in high heels to save my life. The assistant director literally had to work with me every day leading up to the show on how to walk in stiletto heels. Apparently, there’s a statute of limitations on that ability. 

    A baby doe. A fawn. That’s how I felt; how I feel. Wobbling everywhere, waiting for the next person to help me, tell me what to do, save me. Pick me back up again when I have inevitably fallen down. I seem to fall a lot. 

    I don’t know how to do my taxes, so I ask for help. I don’t know how to get my life in order to return to Europe again, so I’m asking for a lot of help from people who have done it before. I don’t know where to live after I break up with my boyfriend, so I ask my family and friends for help. I have a spare bedroom waiting for me in New York City, and braver souls before me who had the courage to up and leave the United States. But I’ve been too wobbly. My parents, my ex-boyfriends, my friends– they’ve always been there to save me. To keep me from truly failing.

    I expressed this to Jodi, this shame I have in asking for so much help and advice all the time. “I really am wobbly like a baby doe,” I started, “and everybody is always there to pick me up again.”

    “Well,” she started as I walked into school to teach, “I would argue that it’s always still been you picking yourself up.”

    I thought I’d known when I’d “made it,” and if I’m being honest with myself, I haven’t yet. I also said I’d quit if I hadn’t “made it” by 30, but amid a pandemic, a vocal injury, a relationship that would always inevitably tie me to Minnesota, that just wasn’t realistic. Furthermore– I didn’t want to. I thought I’d want to. Somewhere along the way, I lost the plot. I forgot that I got myself into this mess because I just love singing and performing THAT MUCH. Keeping that at the center has been key. It’s made me less wobbly. You can’t wobble AND breathe AND phonate– it doesn’t work.

    So I pivot. And I pick myself up. And aren’t I lucky to have so many people in my life who want to lend me their arm? To say, alright Victoria, on the count of three, we’re standing up. And we do– every time.

    I was wrapping up a phone call with a friend and colleague in Prague. She’s the same age as me, we’ve worked together, but her courage and tenacity brought her over to the EU permanently, and her career is flourishing. As we finished our conversation, I thanked her profusely, and said I hoped I could be the person she’s being for me someday. She said I would.

    I’ve been told more than I’d care to admit that I’m selfish. It’s hard not to be when wobbling about, trying to keep your own legs coming out from under you. Sometimes, folks are joking, but other times, like when it’s lobbed at me from my ex-boyfriend, I know they mean it. I am self-centered, self-involved, self-preservationist. Basically every singer I know is. It’s why we’re so loathsome at times. 

    But I know I haven’t fully gone to that dark side. I saw what that looks like in December, and I didn’t like it. People in my life have given so much to me– what have I given them? 

    I’d like to believe I’ve been a listening ear. The friend you can tell anything. The fun one who can talk to strangers at parties. The one you count on to go to a concert across the country on a whim. Willing to put the work in to get a joint artistic venture off the ground. A flexible, creative, and trustworthy collaborator. Good at advice, bad at living it out myself. And one day, I’ll be able to do more. 

    It’s hard to enjoy anything anymore in such a politicized world. Today Explained, a Vox podcast, recently released an episode about the exact subject. My mom wanted to watch a new show written by the creator of Yellowstone, and I could barely make it through the episode because of the obvious conservative pandering and propaganda. 

    Love is Blind, my favorite reality TV show, is fully MAGA now. Smack dab in the middle of the season, Ashley, whom Nikita and Justine from 2 Black Girls One Rose call “Megyn Kelly,” brings her fiance, Alex (who can’t stop talking about stoicism and The Alchemist– two big red flags!) to dinner with her parents. Her dad absolutely demolishes Alex, which is satisfying for the audience because of our hatred of Alex, but he also asks the homeless, jobless loser who he voted for. Alex explained he didn’t vote because he was out of the country, but that he would’ve voted for Trump.

    Self-proclaimed Daddy Dum Dum, a loud and proud MAGA patriarch (he even referred to himself as a patriarch), became a hero of the season. Alex’s villainy, which included tracking Ashley’s period since she’s not on birth control (another conservative calling card), was overshadowed by Chris, an obvious red-pilled manospheric loser who purposefully fumbled a leftist doctor after he was intimidated by her incredible house. I don’t think I’m some fabulous prize, but if most of my dating pool has been poisoned by the right, I guess I’m just not interested anymore. I’d rather be alone. Been there, done that.

    I haven’t really been single since I was 23. My first real boyfriend was a divorced sous chef in his 30s with a 4-year-old daughter whom I met while waiting tables. Sure, you could call me a late bloomer, but I really dove in hard to being a girlfriend. I like being a girlfriend. I like already being in a relationship. It’s no wonder all of my relationships have been with men I already know– they’ve been vetted and approved in my mind. A reality show would call their motives “for the right reasons.” I could trust them because they were my friend first.

    Dating is foreign to me. It does not appeal to me. How do I explain myself to a stranger? I’m really cool on paper and then I’m also a walking red flag. Too selfish and too unstable for a relationship. Always going to put myself first. The only men I can relate to are other singers whom I can’t stand. 

    I think I used to lean on men like I leaned on the couch, the piano, the island at my friend’s condo in Duluth. Wobbling around, I knew I could always take their arm and keep the stilettos on even though I couldn’t walk in them. Really, the solution was just to change into a different pair of shoes and walk by myself. No more Baby Doe.

    It’s a little scary to search for the perfect pair of shoes in my life, but I feel less wobbly these days. A concrete plan is a chunky boot, a checkmark on my to-do list is a trendy pair of sneakers. Margot Robbie looked amazing in her Gothic-inspired look, and while I couldn’t fully pull it off, I could do the Victoria version. And while I may have to ask for directions along the way, I really can walk all by myself. 

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  • Manifesto, maybe

    but only if you like it

    “Why can’t we just create for the sake of creating?”

    A friend posited this question via voice memo recently after asking for advice on how to write grants and secure funding, and my response was a little more prickly than I’d like to admit. “You can just create to create,” I began, “you’re just not gonna get anybody to fund your project. That’s your answer. We live in a capitalist society that ultimately doesn’t value art as a commodity, so create to create, but nobody’s gonna give you any money.”

    What a ray of sunshine I was on this Tuesday morning in Minnesota, the center of hell in the United States of America! It’s hard to be in a good mood when ICE seems to be lurking around every street corner. “Cinderella made me nice for two weeks,” I told Jodi today. “Maybe I’m just an ingenue with a bit of spice.”

    But I’d actually already like to amend that statement because that’s simply not true. Taylor Swift creates all the time, and she’s a billionaire. So does James Cameron, who just released the third Avatar film. And don’t forget Andy Cohen creating drama every week on Watch What Happens Live (just kidding on that one, but I think you get my point.)

    Plenty of folks make plenty of money creating art all the time. Not THAT kind of art, Victoria, I hear you thinking. Just because it’s mainstream doesn’t make it not art. It just means it makes more money because more people see it, like it, and consume it. Popularity doesn’t make something better, but obscurity doesn’t make something better, either. I’d like some of y’all to read that again.

    Artists, especially performers, are naturally selfish people. We’re sort of forced to become that way to survive. We have to spend as much time as we’re able to tolerate honing our craft, becoming obsessed with it, consuming every aspect of it, then we have to promote ourselves and constantly put ourselves out there to get hired and rehired forever and ever (amen.) 

    It used to bother me that I was a self-absorbed person, but I’ve mostly made my peace with it at this point. I’m a self-absorbed person, and so is every other serious musician I know. However, some level of self-awareness comes with the most interesting and forward-looking industry folks I know, and I’ve tried to model myself after them. 

    Therefore, I try to tell myself that writing this blog should be the most self-serving thing I do at this point. Period. I don’t write this for anyone but me. It’s humbling and terrifying that anyone still reads it. So if this is the most self-serving thing I do, then why am I so obsessed with singing Caro nome? Who’s that supposed to be for?

    The gift is that I get to take myself there every day when I work on the aria, but the key is that I have to do it hundreds of times so that I can never do it wrong. That’s something I wish I had truly internalized earlier. Nobody ever taught me how to practice. For a long time, I was good enough to just get away with not practicing, studying, you name it. But everybody reaches a point at which they must try. Now, practicing is my favorite part of the day. I go, “Ooh, I get to practice now.” What a privilege. This week as a Minnesotan has reminded me of how privileged I truly am.

    “Singing Gilda is like being a mosquito,” Virginia Zeani, operatic great, once told my teacher. And she sang perhaps the most gorgeous Gilda of all time. It’s a shame more people in the States aren’t aware of her– actually, it’s a shame on our operatic education system, but that’s not what I care to write about today. Anyway, I can’t think of a finer Gilda. So I’ve become obsessed. It’s like she’s walking a tightrope. And I realized I don’t want to walk that tightrope so I, Victoria, can sound so amazing. It’s because if you, reader, are showing up to see Rigoletto, I know you want to be transported somewhere when I sing. And I want to take you there. Take us there.

    I start working on Caro nome, and I get pissed off at Verdi. Why in the ever-loving fuck would he write a recit beginning on an E natural?? Right in the passaggio? “Verdi clearly didn’t know anything about writing for the soprano voice,” I thought for a split second before laughing out loud. What an arrogant and verifiably false thought. Verdi. Who wrote some of the best soprano roles ever. Best music ever.

    Alright, so I’m wrong. Let’s assume, then, that Verdi knew what he was doing, hanging his Gilda out to dry on an E natural. “Gualtier Maldè,” she sighs dreamily. I get it! I can be such a thick-headed dolt! Exposed, delicate, a little dangerous. How smart! How perfect. What a pathetically perfect aria. Like how the Duke has to win Gilda, I have to win this aria. “Like a mosquito,” I hear Zeani’s voice in my ear, though I never heard it in real life. I wish I could have met her.

    It’s not about whether Victoria Erickson sings the role; it’s about who’s going to deliver the best performance for the audience. I’m a performer, so pragmatically, I’d like that to be me. You’d best believe that on a Wednesday at 9 a.m. I’m singing Gualtier Maldè 100 times in a row, so I can’t get it wrong, and one day I’ll be the person who gets to sing it. 

    But…skipping that step is what’s compelling about the singer/songwriter role– see the Taylor Swift or, more recently, the Audrey Hobert complex. Taylor Swift isn’t as good a singer as Beyoncé, but she rose to fame due to her compelling songwriting ability. Audrey Hobert is a little awkward and fine as a vocalist and performer, but her songwriting and production are top-notch. What reaches people? You can absolutely create all you want, but if nobody cares, that’s not their fault.

    I believe that The Miller’s Daughter was a project that meant something to Jodi and me, but I also know it brought artistic value to the art form of opera/lieder at large. I know this empirically because at the end of this season, the work will have been performed by eight different universities and professional companies, two of which I performed in, the rest I ostensibly have nothing to do with. Quantitatively, I can share the results of the audience survey of the performance with Opera Athena in September 2025. Anecdotally, I’m sure we can all agree more folks would enjoy sitting through The Miller’s Daughter than watching one tenor sing Schubert’s Die schöne Müllerin in full, even with translations. 

    Similarly, I think a lot of people would get bored sitting through me singing Frauenliebe und –leben or the other art songs we’re highlighting in Du, meine Welt!, or even musicians whose eyes glaze over in their Song Literature classes or whatever, and now here we are bringing Clara and Robert and Johannes Brahms to life— they were real people. Just like we are now. I’m not saying everyone is going to like it, but I think enough people will. And you do, whether you like it or not, have to think about that as an artist. Who is your art for? Is it just for you? Because that’s ok, if it is. That’s still valid. But art is entertainment.

    Where is the line? Do I want to learn something, or do I want to be entertained? Does it need to be one or the other? I do feel, somewhat strongly, in the modern context, that composers are trying to teach their audience something. Does there always have to be some big, overarching message? 

    Let’s go back to Rigoletto for a second. Yes, you know I always bring things back around. I don’t think Verdi was trying to hit his audience over the head with feminist themes or draw parallels to fairytales like Rapunzel, but that’s what I glean from the story. Rigoletto tries to protect his daughter from the world, and in doing so, he doesn’t give Gilda the tools to understand the manipulation of others. The audience sees this horrible tragedy play out, but nobody leaves going “WOW WHAT AN AMAZING LESSON I’VE LEARNED ABOUT FEMINISM AND SEXISM AND AGENCY” unless, of course, that’s a message I’m already primed to receive or that’s a choice made by staging directors. That’s a much more compelling story and choice to me. Audiences aren’t stupid and they don’t need to be hit over the head by messaging in order for it to be effective. 

    Listen, I tend to prefer serious art- I think that still falls under the umbrella of “entertainment.” I love a good comedy sometimes, but when I look at what I prefer to consume in terms of classical music, music theater, TV, movies, and popular music, I guess I do prefer something serious that maybe has a sprinkle of humor throughout. That wasn’t always the case– growing up, there was this fabulous renaissance of all these amazing comedy shows like Arrested Development, 30 Rock, and The Office– my fellow Millennials know what I’m talking about– but I just don’t have those same proclivities anymore. My love for reality TV I will keep separate for the purposes of this conversation (but please I want to talk to you about reality TV please I am begging you.)

    Why do I say all of this? 

    Well, I create, but I also consume. So, what kind of media and music do I like to consume– and how about you, fellow artist? I love Taylor Swift. Why do I love Taylor Swift? Why do I love Audrey Hobert, or Virginia Zeani, or Kiri Te Kanawa? Why do I prefer Rigoletto over La traviata (other than the fact that I love a fuckboy)? Why do I think Don Giovanni rocks but La clemenza di Tito sucks? 

    I feel like I have a lot of thoughts all the time about everything. Maybe that doesn’t make me special. Maybe it does. I can tell you it’s exhausting, as a bass-baritone once told me, but I can also tell you it’s exhilirating. It makes me excited for the future in a world that feels really scary right now. I’m not saying that every idea we’ll ever have as artists will be great, but I do think that if our hearts and brains are in the right place in terms of our creative energy– like what will actually serve this art form– we can’t actually go wrong. So create, create, create. 

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  • Cucumber Salad

    Saying goodbye to 2025

    Cinderella or Frasquita? December 18, 2025, St. Paul.

    Earlier this year, I found a chicken cucumber salad recipe on the NYT cooking app. After making it one time, I became so addicted that I ate it for lunch (and sometimes dinner) every day for over three weeks. Over time, I realized I could just make it with cucumbers as a snack, and this dish became synonymous with my very presence in the choir room, theatre, or practice room. Smelling strongly of the nuttiness of sesame oil mixed with acid and salt, “eating cucumbers like they’re cereal” became my calling card during tech week of directing the fall musical at Chaska High School for the second year in a row. At one point, kids started imitating the snack themselves. It’s the coolest I’ve ever felt.

    I was making yet another half-baked attempt to memorize the Act 1 finale of Così fan tutte one afternoon while ambling around the choir room and crunching on my cucumbers when I received a totally unexpected email asking if I’d consider singing the role of Cinderella in Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Cinderella with a theatre company I’d never heard of in St. Paul. In a month. 

    At first, I thought the email must be fake, but a quick scan on social media and the company’s website revealed a small but absolutely legit company in the Twin Cities area that wanted an opera singer to perform the role of Cinderella. I’ve never done musical theatre professionally. The last time I meaningfully performed MT was Hedy in How To Succeed in Business Without Really Trying and Rapunzel in Into the Woods at College Light Opera Company, after which point I dedicated myself entirely to classical music. Of course, I said yes.

    The last time I did MT. Falmouth, MA, August 2014.

    What ensued was one of the more whirlwind months of my entire life at the end of a particularly turbulent year. The director was made aware of my absence in New York for several days at the beginning of December and wanted to hire me anyway. Did she know I was tall? Did she know I didn’t look like a frail and lithe little princess? Did she know I was…an opera singer?!? Surely, she saw everything I was and still decided I was her Cinderella. I was beyond flattered.

    I came back from New York particularly disillusioned and hardened towards opera, more so than I’ve felt in a long time. It was an uncomfortable feeling, deeply embarrassing, shameful, insecure, and unmooring. And then Cinderella rehearsals were just so…easy. Affirming. Validating. Don’t get me wrong; learning the entire script, dances, songs, and staging for a show in which I had several quick changes and a dress with its own ZIP code onstage provided its own challenges, but so much of it came so easily that it made me wonder why I gave it up so long ago.

    I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun working on a show. Everyone was so kind, supportive, playful, talented, and dynamic. I could make inappropriate jokes. I was able to be myself. I was a workhorse in rehearsals– I never wanted to take breaks, and I never needed to because the singing was just so so so much more forgiving and free. Screw bel canto. I could phrase everything however I wanted because I wanted to play with the words. Screw legato. The music actually served the story, and the dialogue felt real. And it was in English. And it was a story people actually wanted to see. 

    And the dancing. Oh boy, the dancing. But our choreographer was so patient with me and even gave us extra rehearsals to make us comfortable. I actually gaslit myself into believing I wasn’t the worst dancer and maybe I could do this (with more training and some serious hand-holding, but still.) I’m not as cranky about opera as I was a week ago, but perhaps this was the cleanse I needed to make that love and devotion to my craft return. 

    I caught a cold at the tail end of my eye-opening trip to New York. It’s hard enough as a singer to realize you’re spiraling mentally, but getting sick in the midst of a show is almost worse. While I thought I could fight it off, my body was in terrible shape, and I finally woke up on my birthday, unable to get out of bed. Not every birthday can be good, and if there was ever a year for a crappy one, it was this one. 

    Starting on December 10, I began a pattern of sleeping all day until rehearsal, waking up in time to steam and eat some soup, giving everything I had at rehearsal, and coming home to repeat the process. It was intensely lonely. I missed my students. I recently found out they made me a cake for my birthday, only to discover I couldn’t make it in. The sweeties even sent me a video of them singing “Happy Birthday” in four-part harmony. That made me feel a little less sad.

    I lived for rehearsal. I’m not sure if I’ve ever looked forward to anything more than showing up to work on Cinderella every night for the past few weeks. The feeling was surprising but not shocking; I’m most myself when I’m working on a project and performing. But I was totally engrossed in a way I didn’t expect. At my lowest, this production reminded me I had something to offer, and I was the only person who could offer it in the exact way I do things. My Cinderella was mine– as my friend Anna says, I’m allergic to being boring onstage. If you’re going to give me an ingenue role (Cinderella and Zerlina this year!), I’m always going to do it my way. Nobody seems to complain.

    Cinderella is the most beloved and ubiquitous fairytale in the Western world. The idea of an impoverished and disenfranchised girl getting a magical makeover and skyrocketing to royalty and lifelong happiness seems to inspire hope in generations of audiences. I let that story get to me, too. Hope is my kryptonite, after all. I’ve never learned to distance myself from the characters I play; even in a short rehearsal process, I tend to immerse myself. I didn’t think I’d relate so much to Cinderella. That was foolish.

    We live for a bootleg. December 19, 2025, St. Paul.

    Rodgers & Hammerstein divide their telling of the beloved tale into three acts. In the first, Cinderella wishes to attend the ball, and her godmother appears, revealing herself to possess magical powers. She gifts Cinderella a magical dress, carriage, and horses, warning her to return home before midnight. Act 2 is the ball– Cinderella captivates the prince; they dance and profess their love for each other in the garden, when —oh no! The clock strikes midnight. However, Act 3 is my favorite. Cinderella asks her stepmother and stepsisters about the ball, then “imagines” what it must have been like, enjoying a shared moment of happiness with her evil stepfamily before getting her hopes dashed again. 

    Of course, after this scene, the prince tries the shoe on every young maiden and eventually comes across Cinderella, and they live happily ever after. But I feel my story cuts off at “A Lovely Night.” This amazing show with beautiful and kind people happened, and it was all real, and now it’s just all over. There’s a certain grief that comes with the realization that I played a character who did relatively little, and all her dreams came true. But I’m still just Victoria.

    But so many fabulous operas, concerts, and recitals happened this year. I don’t think I ever had more than a few weeks “off” in 2025, with some shows even overlapping. This time a year ago, I was flying out to Savannah for The Miller’s Daughter and The Eleanors at NOA, after which I jetted up to NYC for Zerlina in Don Giovanni. I never could have imagined I’d end my year as the most iconic fairytale princess in my first truly crossover role ever. The surprises in my life are unimaginable and endless. 

    “The universe giveth and the universe taketh away,” I texted a friend tonight, only half joking. I needed another sign to keep going, that I was doing the right thing, that this was what I’m meant to be doing. I don’t know what I believe in much of the time, but I believe Cinderella came into my life to give me hope. To remind me of my value as an artist and storyteller. To remind me that I deserve to be treated with respect and kindness. To show me my worth, my talent, my inner light and goodness. At the end of the day, I don’t want to be this hardened, embittered person. I want to be kind. I feel like I received that over the past two weeks, and I actually think I deserved it. And I put on a hell of a show.

    Most people talk about the liminal space between Christmas and New Year’s with a sort of restless reverence; seemingly satisfied to keep stuffing themselves with snacks and ignoring responsibilities while becoming increasingly entrenched in a feeling of deep existential doom. Welcome to my world, I say– welcome to why I keep so many gigs on the books, have to look forward to the next thing, have to gear up and get excited and overinvested in everything I do– that is just the worst feeling to me. And it happens any time I live in that in-between. I’m so uncomfortable there, between the proverbial and endless Christmas and New Year’s.

    The universe gave me Cinderella– literally dropped a fairytale in my lap– and now it’s over. But that’s okay. That’s one of the many beautiful things about being an artist— these contained experiences are so precious, so special, so inimitable– so temporary. They can’t be ruined because there’s an ending. My next project was delivered into my inbox yesterday, signaling the true end of my unsatisfactory fairytale. 

    The salad in question. December 27, 2025.

    Real life had to return eventually. After three weeks of canned soup, crackers, and holiday foods, I realized today that I really missed my cucumber salad. I stopped at the grocery store on my way home and picked up the necessary ingredients, carefully chopping and tossing the pieces in sea salt. One tablespoon of sesame oil, one tablespoon of rice vinegar, one teaspoon of soy sauce, and red pepper flakes. Eaten like it’s cereal. Everything and nothing has changed since I last had my cucumber salad a month ago. Awaiting the new year, I enjoy the consistency of the crunch, crunch, crunch. 

    Onwards, upwards.

    Victoria

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  • Good Enough

    Good Enough

    There is no final boss in singing

    I don’t fully relate to perfectionists. I eyeball most ingredients while cooking, which is probably why I’m a slow and infrequent baker, as that requires actual measuring. My laundry is suspiciously and hastily folded, and I’ve only recently begun steaming my clothes when they look unacceptably wrinkly. The car is practically a war zone, my mascara is sometimes a little smudged, my handwriting is unnecessarily loopy and inconsistent. Far from perfect.

    So, no, I can’t call myself a perfectionist. Even as a musician, I usually know when to call it– knowing when something is as good as it’s going to be for that particular rehearsal or performance. I can “let go” in the moment, but know that it wasn’t good enough. I also don’t spend forever editing my writing– any writers (or I guess just native English speakers who know how to read, I don’t know) have probably noticed that.

    I think it was Renee Fleming who said she’s had maybe three perfect performances. Or was it Joan Sutherland? Beverly Sills? I can’t remember. I know it was a woman because men always know they’re good at things, or they’re just better at pretending they are.

    “I’m sorry I wasn’t enough for you,” were the last words I heard from someone who used to be really important to me. “No…” I began, but he had already walked away. He was right.

    I don’t know what to call my problem. Let me describe some recent examples as I try to put a finger on this particular ailment.

    • Getting hired to sing in a major opera chorus isn’t good enough because it isn’t solo work.
    • Successfully music directing a high school musical two years in a row isn’t good enough because the music isn’t artistically fulfilling, isn’t classical music, and isn’t performing.
    • Running a voice studio of nearly 30 high school students isn’t good enough because I’m not teaching at a university or professional-level students. (It’s also a sign that I’m not a full-time singer because then I wouldn’t need to teach, and then I would also need to admit that I really love teaching)
    • Writing and starring in my own opera isn’t good enough because, of course, I got cast in it. I wrote it.
    • Getting asked to jump in for a musical theatre role isn’t good enough because it isn’t opera.
    • Having a full season of performing opportunities isn’t good enough because many of them are non-traditional, and I have yet to sing mainstage at a major opera company.

    I wish I could tell you that’s the end of the list, but it’s simply not. I downgrade every compliment I ever get, not because I’m humble (I’m not) but because I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed that you would compliment me for something so insignificant. But I would be more embarrassed if you didn’t compliment me at all.

    Which is, of course, crazy. So what is this “not good enough”-ism? -Itis? -Osis?

    It feels good to put this thought to paper. My thoughts are a little dangerous when they swim around in my brain; cancerous little cells multiply and take over what was, at first, an innocent thought. Isn’t it a wonderful thing as a singer to have this fire pulsing pulsing pulsing at all times, pushing me to achieve bigger and better things? 

    “What’s next?” the fire says, never taking the time to cool off after a success. When fires cool off, they die. Everybody knows that.

    “You must truly get comfortable with the idea of being uncomfortable,” a career consultant told me a week ago as I prepare for a major life shift next year. 

    It’s an interesting concept because, in a certain way, I am never truly comfortable in my life. That little fire says, “What’s next?” at every turn, barely giving me a chance to breathe. If I stop, I’ll quit, and I can’t quit. On a practical level, if I stop, I might not have a job in a few weeks or months, or a year. All performing artists know this.

    What’s next, you ask????!? March 26, 2026, 7:30 pm, ISU. Be there.

    In another way, I chase comfort. I stayed in a relationship for far too long because it was comfortable. I like being close to my family and friends and having all the resources I need, and having enough money to go out and drink wine and eat steak. I like not having to keep the house cool in the winter because I can’t afford the exorbitant heating bill, and having a gym membership. Come on, who doesn’t? 

    And you know what else? I liked vocal music directing High School Musical. I was proud of it and proud of the kids. They worked hard, many of them study voice with me privately, and they are endlessly fun. Being around them reminds me I haven’t lost my imagination, my naive hopefulness, my drive. I hope they don’t lose it, either. I think that energy fades away for most people. Artists are lucky that way. We can’t lose those things.

    For a while, I sheepishly admitted to fellow artists that I was vocal music directing such utter drivel, and you know what? High School Musical is not artistically fulfilling. But it was fulfilling in a different way, and that’s worthy too. I don’t think it made me less of a classical singer. And I’ll say this: I can’t remember the last time I performed to a completely sold-out crowd. It behooves us as artists to sing works that people actually want to see.

    A sold-out performance of HSM at Chaska High School. This was a video, but WordPress wanted me to upgrade to premium, so you’re stuck with a blurry photo. November 21, 2025.

    “You’re quite an extraordinary young woman,” a mentor recently told me. “I don’t think you realize that.”

    Extraordinary. It was some sort of professional equivalent of “You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful.” In a way, I agree. I am a baller. At the same time, it can’t be true. If I were extraordinary, I would already have the standard operatic career I once dreamed of, I think to myself. Not good enough.

    Don’t get it twisted; I’m not insecure. “All singers are insecure, remember that,” a voice teacher told me. When I think that, regardless of level of success, perceived ego, or attitude, all singers are insecure —that makes me way more secure. Why should I be any more insecure than anyone else?

    And what if it were true? What if it’s true that I’m extraordinary for all the things I’m told I’m extraordinary for (I originally listed a bunch of things here, but decided it’s beside the point)? Would that be good enough?

    My messily made bed, questionable organizational skills, and lackadaisical workout routine: all good enough. Anything related to my own singing? Never, ever, ever.

    Maybe that’s beautiful. How wonderful it is, as professional musicians, to get to constantly improve and grow. You can always study the text further, listen to the greats more, crisp up your diction, and find more legato in the line. There is no final boss in singing. It’s an endless spire with innumerable levels to slay.

    I guess I happen to be writing on Thanksgiving, but this isn’t a Thanksgiving blog, per se. That being said, I do have a lot to be thankful for. I’m grateful for my drive, perseverance, passion. My students who give me a renewed sense of curiosity and joy. My family and friends who grant perspective and ground me. Today, all of those things are most certainly good enough for me. What a gift it is to be enough and strive for more at the same time.

    I hope today’s holiday exceeds your expectations.

    Victoria

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  • The Life of a Showgirl

    You’re only as hot as your last hit, baby

    Still chasing that perfect cateye. October 3, 2025.

    Merry Swiftmas to those who celebrate.

    Every time I embark on my official, non-negotiable ranking (™) I get a little more concerned I’m not the right person for this job. I’m really just here for the music, but I’m not a real critic. I leave the poetry to Taylor and write in a much more straightforward manner than the reviews I read (after I write my own, of course)– and I’m reminded why nobody pays me for this. I keep my parasocial relationship with our “mother” to a minimum and rarely go searching for Easter eggs. I’m not qualified to analyze the production quality, and I have no interest in showing off my music theory skills for you. Luckily for us, Taylor is rarely cryptic with this one and paints exactly what she means with every lyric. 

    If you read my primer this week (see: Ophelia), you’ll know this album had me worried. Would it be an insufferably sweet album glistening with the veneer of a Swift so sickeningly in love? Lover suffered, in my opinion, from a pastel sheen that tasted of stale Cadbury eggs months after Easter. The best music always has a bit of torture in it, and our girl is still a mess, as Jodi pointed out to me this morning. Taylor seemingly has it all. She achieved her dream career, unimaginable fortune, a man who seems to kiss the ground she walks on–but with every superstitious lyric, she communicates to the world her greatest fear: it could all be gone in an instant.

    I was delighted rather than disappointed. Taylor ends Lover by narrating, “I want to be defined by the things that I love, not the things that I hate, not the things that I’m afraid of.” On The Life of a Showgirl, she’s defined by it all, and the peppy beats underscored with self-doubt and revelry brought me back to life, a little. That’s the incomparable magic of Taylor Swift.

    Taylor first began to pull back the proverbial curtain on the life of a performer on Midnights with the hit single “Anti Hero.” We all compare ourselves to Taylor in various ways–it’s part of her unexplainable power–but I find myself increasingly gravitating toward the songs that speak to her experiences as an entertainer on and off the stage. I can’t pretend to know what it’s like to sell out stadiums–I’m out here fighting for my life, singing Mozart and Puccini in stuffy audition rooms in Midtown Manhattan–but I do know what she means when she says, “I’d sell my soul to have a taste of a magnificent life.”

    In the final track, Taylor meets a fictional showgirl, Kitty. Admiring her glamour at the stage door, Kitty warns her against the perils and loneliness of a life on the stage, saying, “Hey, thank you for the lovely bouquet; you’re sweeter than a peach. But you don’t know the life of a showgirl, babe.”

    Despite knowing what lay ahead, Taylor’s ambition and hustle got the best of her, and she chose it every time. The Life of the Showgirl was always the one for her, she declares on this album, and she’ll take everything that comes with it. Because one day, it could all be gone.

    Let’s hop to it.

    12. Wi$h Li$t- Fine. Confirmed: Taylor wants babies. Is she sure she wants them to look like Travis Kelce? 

    Favorite lyric: “Have a couple kids, got the whole block looking like you” Taylor exactly how many kids are we talking here the whole block what do you mean WHAT DO YOU MEAN WHOLE BLOCK?!???

    11. Opalite– Listen, there are no skips on this album. But let’s just say this one is not a repeat. Nice “Haunted” reference from my favorite, Speak Now.

    Favorite lyric: “Failure brings you freedom”

    10. Actually Romantic– Alright, so is this about Charli? Between the coke reference and Charli’s track “everything is romantic” from Brat, it has to be, right? Or is Barbie a Nicki Minaj thing? I’m not up on my Nicki lore, but this seems to reek as strongly of Charli as she must of cigarettes. Even better…could this POSSIBLY be about our current president?? Is it possible?? I don’t think so, but let me know what you think. Taylor’s diss tracks aren’t always my favorite, but I still like this and it’s still a bop. Can’t wait to hear what the Gaylors will do with this one. Second track on the album with blatantly sexual references in a dirty way rather than an effervescently romantic way.

    Favorite lyric: “I mind my business, God’s my witness that I don’t provoke it; it’s kind of making me wet” WTF TAYLOR ARE YOU KIDDING ME EXCUSE ME???? What will Andrea say?!?!?!?

    9. CANCELLED!– I was really hopeful for this one and I really think it is good BUT kind of like “Eldest Daughter” it didn’t blow my mind. 

    Favorite lyric: “Did you girlboss too close to the sun” is just diabolical and I love it 

    8. Eldest Daughter– Track 5 wooooooo! Now I will say I wouldn’t call this a “banger” but that’s ok–after listening to this album I think Travis might have meant something different when he said all these tracks were bangers…(SOS) but!!! In terms of track 5s, it ranks pretty low for me. I’m prepared for this piece to grow on me, but it just didn’t hold a candle to “All Too Well” or “Dear John,” for example. And I’m an eldest daughter. Lyrically, Taylor proves she always has her finger on the pulse of culture– this might contain some of her most Gen Z-coded lyrics yet.

    Favorite lyric: “I have been afflicted by a terminal uniqueness; I’ve been dying just from trying to seem cool”

    7. Ruin The Friendship– Abigail!!!!! I first discovered my love for Taylor Swift when I was a senior in high school in the wake of the Speak Now release. After I wore out the CD, I put Fearless on repeat. I enjoyed all of her references to high school and her redheaded bestie, especially on tracks like “Fifteen.” This song was so Fearless coded but also contained the sad whimsy like “Last Great American Dynasty” on folklore. I don’t know what happened to Taylor’s friend or who he was, but the grief beneath the pulsing beat on this track was really beautifully rendered. The lesson here: kiss who you want to kiss because you never know when they’re going to die.

    Favorite lyric: Taylor, did you scan my brain for this one?

    “And my advice is always answer the question, better that than to ask it all your life”

    6. Wood– Dickmatized, right? She’s saying…dickmatized? Redwood tree? The…biggest tree? Tallest? Sabrina Carpenter is supposed to be the funny pop girlie, but this was really playful and hilarious and fun. After “Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” this is umm…quite a departure. Good for you, girl, go off, I guess. 

    Favorite lyric: “Girls, I don’t need to catch the bouquet to know a hard rock is on the way” made me spit out my coffee in the car that was so funny omg

    5. Father Figure- Wow wee!!!!!!! I wasn’t ready for this one!!!! I try very hard not to consume any fan theories until after my review because I don’t want to taint anything, but I did see that indeed, there is an homage to George Michael in the song. What I’m not entirely sure about is why. Did she just want to use the same song title? And who is this about??

    This is where I get scared because I’m not as diligent as most Swifties–could this be about her masters? I imagine it’s about getting mentored by producers like Scott what’s his face Bruschetta or whatever and Sydney Sweeney’s boyfriend and then betrayed by them but GUESS WHAT??? TAYLOR SWIFT’S DICK IS ALWAYS BIGGER THAN YOURS!!!! Great piece. Not to throw it back to Lover again–but this is way better than “The Man” and has similar themes. Thanks!

    Favorite lyric: “You made a deal with this devil, turns out my dick’s bigger” obviously wins this one

    4. The Fate of Ophelia– This song is corny as hell and I was sold on it immediately. This is the girl who brought us “Love Story,” “Today Was a Fairytale,” and “Teardrops On My Guitar”–I think we would be right to remember that sometimes, especially in the wake of her mature and folksy songwriting from folklore and beyond. Our moody girl was always going to compare herself to Ophelia–I don’t own that comparison (I’m not special. My Swiftie-ness always reminds me of that.) This is a bop for sure. The simple piano and percussion entry was surprising– I was expecting something more like “Welcome to New York”–but everything about this song was a pleasant surprise and really primed me for the ride that is Showgirl.

    Favorite lyric: “I swore my loyalty to me, myself, and I right before you lit my sky up”

    3. The Life of a Showgirl– “Clara Bow” vibes!! I really love Taylor’s comparisons to past stars and old Hollywood– I prefer this to when she tries to act like a normie (we all know you can have basketball hoops at all your houses, easily, if you don’t already.) Despite all the warnings, Taylor couldn’t help but crave everything that came along with stardom. And now she has everything she could ever want. 

    Favorite lyric: “I’d sell my soul to have a taste of a magnificent life” hits a little close and rings a little true

    2. Honey- This made my cry and tbh I’m not ready to say any more about it at this juncture thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

    Favorite lyric: “You could be my forever night stand, honey”

    1. Elizabeth Taylor– This really is the initial fave. The danger of writing and posting the official, non-negotiable ranking (™) so early on is that this is sure to switch, but I’ve gotta commit. I don’t consume *a ton* of Taylor/Travis content, (I still haven’t listened to the podcast and probably never will) but I believe his favorite piece is “Blank Space.” Aside from taking the second slot on her poppiest album since 1989, the Blank Space vibes in Elizabeth Taylor are undeniable. Between the relentless pop beat underscored with self-depricating lyrics and the infectious melody, this one has hit single written all over it, IMO. Again, I am careful not to “girlboss too close to the sun” and compare myself to either Taylor Swift or Elizabeth Taylor, but I, too, relate to craving a deep and often unreciprocated romance, always wondering when it will come crashing down. Like Swift, Elizabeth Taylor’s love life often eclipsed her artistic genius. A 10/10 piece.

    Favorite lyric: I really love every lyric in this one. But if I must…

    “You’re only as hot as your last hit, baby”

    Where does The Life of a Showgirl fit in my official, non-negotiable (™) ranking? (Eagle-eyed ranking fans will find this is ever-changing)

    12. Taylor Swift

    11. Lover

    10. Reputation

    9. The Tortured Poets Department

    8. Midnights

    7. evermore

    6. The Life of a Showgirl

    5. Fearless

    4. folklore

    3. 1989

    2. Red

    1. Speak Now

    All said, the album sort of sounds like yacht rock with way better lyrics (don’t cry your eyes violet– I obviously still love it) and benefits from Taylor’s established fandom, what seems like a genuine romance with a football star who is unlikely to pull an Aaron Hernandez on her, and an endless internal dialogue that compels her to write like she’s running out of time. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a rehearsal to get to. Life of a Showgirl, baby.

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  • Ophelia

    “I Do What I Want To, Want To”

    I’d like to set a few things straight from the start.

    First off, I’ve been pretty into orange for a couple of years, and I’ve certainly always been tied to the color teal. My friends once made me a basket of items in my “color scheme” (various shades of Tiffany Blue, turquoise, and dark teal) in high school. I love this color so much that I made it a theme for my 30th birthday party. So now that everyone’s into teal and orange, let me just say: I’m not just jumping on the Taylor bandwagon.

    And one more thing—I’d like to talk about Ophelia.

    The famous Ophelia painting. You’ve seen it.

    I don’t know what The Fate of Ophelia—the lead single off of Taylor Swift’s new album, The Life of a Showgirl—is about, but I’m just not in a Swiftie mood these days. Hamlet’s Ophelia has always been a little precious to me, eliciting something I couldn’t quite explain in my fragile and malleable teenage brain. High school is often the first time we encounter Shakespeare deeply, and Ophelia is presented as this ethereal, haunted, tragic figure. Her drowning was so…pretty. Romantic. She’s doomed by her beautiful madness. Did she drown herself, or was it a tragic accident? As a teenager discovering myself, it was only natural that I’d be drawn to that aesthetic.

    But Ophelia also made me deeply angry. Hamlet couldn’t give one single shit about her. Not a single one. And she drowned for him, really. For them. She was failed so many times in her life while the men around her dedicated themselves to bigger and more important problems than her small, feminine life.

    Hamlet and Ophelia’s relationship saddens and enrages me because it’s framed almost entirely through his lens. We never get to hear her inner world in full—only fragments. Hamlet claims to love her, then cruelly rejects her, possibly as an act, possibly not. Either way, her worth in the play is contingent on his moods, not her own choices. That imbalance is frustrating because it feels so incredibly unfair, and as a young woman, I saw it clearly for what it was. And I wrote about it. A lot. I wrote about it an awful lot for a virgin who never had a boyfriend. I didn’t want to let a boy into my life—not then, not ever.

    Tragically, Charli XCX’s 2017 single “Boys” spoke a little too closely to my heart, and that wouldn’t be the case forever. Against my will, I have too many times centered men in my own life. But when I wasn’t allowed to sing Die schöne Müllerin on my master’s recital, I turned toward Ophelia Lieder instead. I was maybe a little too sturdy to sing those songs as intended, but I didn’t care. I liked to imagine Ophelia as a strong woman whose will was broken by a string of careless men. We’ll never know, because Hamlet isn’t ultimately about her.

    Not exactly a subtle nod.

    And now we have Taylor Allison Swift—billionaire, poet-in-chief, arbiter of culture at large (whether one likes it or not)—fashioning herself after Ophelia on the cover of her new album, The Life of a Showgirl. The Fate of Ophelia is the lead single on her short collection of self-proclaimed “bangers,” a reaction to her achingly long Tortured Poets Department. Still sounds pretty English teacher to me.

    The Ophelia trope is present throughout much of literature up to the 21st century: a tragic female figure dies, fragile, weak, misunderstood. Or simply ill and beautiful (see What if everything really is tuberculosis for more on this one). Our female protagonist could’ve taken on the role of Ophelia in The Miller’s Daughter, but we took a different approach.

    The ending of The Miller’s Daughter is purposefully ambiguous. The Wanderer’s death is predetermined: his drowning is the crux of the original Schubert cycle. It’s the narrative that drew me to Die schöne Müllerin in the first place, not the music, though I made the Circle of Fifths connection later on. How could this delusional man drown himself over a woman he barely knew? The first incel, I called him—but I didn’t hate him. I pitied him. I think that’s expressed pretty well in mine and Jodi’s reinterpretation of the piece.

    Post-dress rehearsal. September 11, 2025.

    I felt myself distancing from The Miller’s Daughter more this time than the first time I performed the role. Feeling a little raw and unmoored, I worried that if I went too deep, my singing would suffer. It’s always a balance.

    Everyone in this show exists in a cycle of trauma, constantly churning, repeating itself as the wheel at The Mill turns. The Miller, unable to remarry after the death of his wife, lives in endless monotony, surrounded by young men he can’t imagine running his life’s work after he’s gone. The Hunter lives out The Daughter’s dream of adventure and freedom, but when he has a real opportunity to build a life with connection and stability, he can’t bring himself to give up his total autonomy. The Wanderer’s tragedy is obvious and becomes a compelling parallel to that of The Daughter. The Brook is just a Brook. It doesn’t experience tragedy. It comes and it goes.

    The Daughter’s tragedy lies in her deep loneliness and lack of opportunity. Surrounded by men who want to marry her only to inherit The Mill (she also happens to be hot, I guess), she loses herself in fantastical stories about adventure and love. One day, a hunter shows up, eager to show her that life, but it’s still not what she expected. One day, shortly after, a man she barely knows drowns himself over her—the pinnacle of romance (see Werther). She definitely didn’t want that either.

    Our stage director’s audience exit could’ve read as corny, but I think it worked. In a show like ours with a simple set, imagination is key. Stage right was The Mill. Stage left was The Brook. And the audience, including those in the balcony, was out—past the forest; beyond the horizon.

    The Daughter finds the green ribbon next to The Wanderer’s body in The Brook and prepares to head inside to grieve in her bedroom. Suddenly, she looks at his lifeless form. The ribbon. Out. She’s seen the great wide somewhere with The Hunter, of course, but now she is alone. One last look at The Mill, and she goes. During staging, Anna said, “She doesn’t know if she’s going for a day, an hour, or forever, but she is getting the fuck out of there.”

    GTFO. Dress rehearsal, September 11, 2025.

    I don’t normally get emotional during staging rehearsals (all business, baby), but hearing the rolling lullaby of Des Baches Wiegenlied and feeling everyone’s eyes on me as I just walked—in my rehearsal clothes—out the door, I became aware of how perceived I was and was overcome with grief. I quickly wiped my eyes and ran back in to stage the curtain call.

    “That ending really got me,” I told Anna, our stage director, later.

    “Why’s that?” she asked.

    “I think,” feeling the waterworks return, “it’s because I fucking did that. I fucking did that.”

    The Wanderer can have the role of Ophelia. I don’t need it.

    I worry sometimes I have more in common with the teenagers I teach than people my own age. They bring their entire selves to my studio, and some days I feel more like a wizened therapist than a vocal technician. Sometimes I relate to their problems a little too closely—Why did he say that? Does he even like me? I’d know, right? Was that thing I did yesterday embarrassing? What do I want my future to look like? I give them advice, and I feel like I’m talking to the mirror.

    I’m just not sure I have that much in common with a billionaire in her mid-thirties who’s spent her entire adult life in the spotlight and recently got engaged to a boring-ass football player with the intellectual depth of a teaspoon. I feel a closer parasocial kinship to Gracie Abrams’ lifelong bestie Audrey Hobert, who just dropped an absolute lyrical coming-of-age masterpiece for quirky girls everywhere.

    What does it mean to come of age, anyway? Will I know when it happens to me?

    I’ve been targeted by memes online expressing the difficulty of getting excited about The Life of a Showgirl when the broader cultural mood is still so Tortured Poets right now. I’m cranky at the moment, but I know I’ll love it. And that will annoy me, too.

    “How could she possibly even get Ophelia,” I think to myself, angry at a singer I’ll never know.

    If her songs are any indication, Taylor knows what it feels like to dedicate herself to a person who couldn’t care less about her pretty well. She did it over and over again because she knew she had a lot of love to give and was willing to get hurt to find that person. We all listened to, obsessed over, and memorized those lyrics because we felt that way too. If the man who could actually give her the love she dreamed of was a braindead professional athlete, then maybe there’s a lesson in there for me.

    I’ll be wearing my planned orange and teal outfit on Friday, aggressively mainlining the new album in the car while preparing for The Fate of Ophelia in theaters that night. Taylor chose something different for herself, and so did my protagonist. That’s something worth celebrating.

    See you next week for the official, non-negotiable ranking.

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  • august

    august

    Choice is a current, ebb and flow, give and take

    Nella in Gianni Schicchi. Rochester, MN, August 2025.

    August. Where to begin.

    ​Gianni Schicchi closed on August 3. My parents came. After dinner, I got in the car, driving east after a full weekend of shows. I drove until I got sleepy, which, admittedly, was a little sooner than I had been hoping. But I love to drive. I especially love it because my ex used to talk about how I was a bad driver. That’s probably true. I don’t care.

    ​To be fair, the solo road trip wasn’t completely spontaneous. After the first weekend of Schicchi, I decided I needed to be really alone and really away. I was itching to drive. I’d been consistently dreaming of Seagle, the young artist training program where I spent the summer of 2021. Not to be too “woo woo,” but I decided to follow whatever my subconscious was trying to tell me. Tom Cipullo’s new opera, Mayo, was premiering the following week, and I was eager to meet him and see the show anyway. I texted the folks at Seagle asking if I could visit and began my 20-hour drive.

    ​

    Made it. Seagle Festival, Schroon Lake, NY, August 2025.

    I’ve been writing this post in my head for the past month. I often do that. I’ll form whole paragraphs, but when I go to write, they’re not nearly as clever or insightful as they were in my head. Sometimes, they never get written. But, like my Seagle dreams pulling me to the mountains, I’ve felt an inexplicable desire to get this one on metaphorical paper.

    I wonder again who these posts are really for. I think they’re mostly for me. But I check my stats on WordPress, and I am certainly not even close to the only one reading them. So I write, if only to feel some manufactured camaraderie.

    ​

    Many of you know I love podcasts. No, no–not those podcasts, the ones aimed at MAGA bros and disillusioned men– the ones about true crime and pop culture and American history and all my other little distractions masked as fixations. As I neared the Adirondacks, I got an ad for a podcast called Liberty Lost, an exposé on the Liberty University godparent home exploiting young, single mothers and forcing them into an adoption. In a post-Roe world in which women are increasingly forced to choose between raising their own children and adoption, it begs the question: “How ethical is adoption?” The answer is oftentimes “not very.”

    I became momentarily obsessed with the idea of turning Liberty Lost into an opera– it certainly had all the ingredients. It encompassed a topic I’m passionate about, social commentary, a love story (I’m missing love stories in new operas, honestly), and a complicated ending. Jodi and I already have two projects in the works, so I’m probably in over my head. But I can’t get Liberty Lost out of my head— Abbi and Nathan’s saga, T.J. Raphael’s gripping reporting, the grim shadow of Jerry Falwell and the other cronies who ushered in the bleak era of looming Christian Nationalism we now find ourselves operating under.

    Did you like that little breadcrumbing about Jodi and me? You’ll just have to wait.

    Hanging with Kemp and Nancy. Schroon Lake, NY, August 2025.

    Anyway, Seagle. A rainstorm hit the mountains less than an hour from Schroon Lake, and I had to pull over into a stranger’s driveway. Everyone knows I’m a weenie when it comes to the rain, but this was different. While it eventually let up, it did make me late to seeing two of my favorite Seagle patrons, Kemp and Nancy. Sitting on their porch, hearing about their grandkids, and sipping a crisp white wine, I really felt that I did belong at Seagle. Kemp and Nancy have been two of my biggest fans since leaving the mountains four years ago, and seeing them again in person began the healing process I was hoping to get.

    Dinner was chaotic. There were so, so many people on the hill. It was electric. I couldn’t believe how hot and sweaty and full of life it was in there. Immediately, a deep sadness fell over me. I was at Seagle in 2021, and due to COVID restrictions, only half the company was present at a time. I didn’t realize how empty it was because it was all I knew.

    Mayo moved me more than I was expecting. I think I was just especially fragile emotionally by the time I got to August because I had spent months preparing myself to be strong, and I was running out of courage. Cipullo’s story, exposing the deeply disturbing history of mental institutions in the United States and its ties to eugenics (remember, the Nazis got it from us), reminded me of Liberty Lost. Timely, shocking, moving, vitally important. I was so glad I got to see the dress rehearsal and opening night. I would’ve happily watched it a third time.

    Between the two performances, I spent time with Rosemarie Trainer, a Seagle patron I never got to know when I was actually at Seagle. Her late husband, John, cared for all of the pianos around campus. Darren obviously knew what he was doing there– Rosemarie is German, and she switched to speaking in her native language with me to help me practice. Big surprise: I’m rusty. She seemed relatively satisfied with my attempts to speak and understand, so I’ll take that as a win.

    ​

    The view from Severance. Schroon Lake, NY, August 2025.

    Sitting on a porch with a cup of coffee in the middle of nowhere with a relative stranger was what I needed, somehow. I finally left for my hike (I wanted to climb a mountain), but after talking to Rosemarie for hours, I had to make it short. Mount Severance is just outside of Schroon Lake and is a quick but satisfying little hike. I remember taking that hike with the girls of Diva Den the day before the program began. Four years ago, I was insecure, nervous, and felt like an imposter. Those feelings came back in August.

    There are Seagle alums who have sung at the Met, won numerous competitions, gotten into prestigious YAPs (Young Artist Programs), you name it. All of the sudden, the fact that my career has taken a different path made me feel incredibly small and stupid for coming back.

    It turns out that feeling doesn’t go away. I had a couple of surprising conversations this month with singers I told myself in my head were infinitely more successful than I was. But they feel the exact way I do. Unsure. Anxious. Narcissistic tainted with a drop of self-loathing. Confused as to why I thought I was less successful than them. Seemed to have their own equivalent of listening to podcasts all night to help them sleep. 

    Shooting the shit with young artists I may never see again, drinking cheap beer, hearing nothing but the hum of bugs outside, and seeing nothing but complete and total darkness, I realized I was feeling, at long last, profound grief. Sadness that I didn’t return to Seagle in 2022, yes. Heavy, uncomfortable sadness. Anger at my old voice teacher, who royally screwed up my brain. He ruined my experience in 2021 and convinced me not to go back. I have to let it go.

    I could live on the Trainer porch, I think. Schroon Lake, NY, August 2025.

    But the grief ran deeper than that. I lamented every “bad choice” I’ve ever made–funny enough, some decisions that most people would consider bad didn’t make the cut on this mental list–and Seagle just became the poster child for that grief.

    ​

    But.

    ​

    If I had returned to the mountains in 2022, I never would have gone to Madagascar, which means I wouldn’t have met Jodi. That means I wouldn’t have reached out to Jodi to play the Met comp for me in Iowa in January 2023, which means I wouldn’t have stayed up until 2 am drinking red wine and creating The Miller’s Daughter.

    Don’t get mad at me for getting all cliche, but everything happens for a reason, yes?

    The Miller’s Daughter saved me. I’m not sure if I’d still be singing if it weren’t for her, for it, for us. In YAPs, they always tell us we need to have something to really say. I didn’t have anything to say when singing Musetta or Donna Elvira or Marguerite, as it turned out. Not then. Instead, I helped make this precious little opera where I really had something to say. It helps when you model the main character after yourself, I guess.

    Our ending of The Miller’s Daughter is intentionally ambiguous. Spoiler alert for a song cycle written 200 years ago: The Wanderer drowns himself in The Brook, just as he does in the original Schubert work. In our ISU 2024 version, The Daughter chose duty. She grieved The Wanderer’s death and made the safe bet: giving up her dreams to stay at The Mill. But she doesn’t have to. I’m not sure she’s going to make that same choice this weekend. We’ll see.

    ​

    The hustle is endless. If you’re in Minnesota, come to MD!

    “The best singers are fearless,” my voice teacher likes to tell me. Any singer whose shell I’ve broken through doesn’t seem that fearless to me. But maybe I can do it.

    ​I started this blog (diary?) in October 2022 after I was diagnosed with a vocal polyp. Overall, my voice has actually been pretty good since then. Normal.

    I started to notice my voice was declining in July. Of course, anyone with a brain would correlate this change with my breakup. I also had heavy rehearsals for Schicchi during this time, and I felt intermittent periods of hoarseness or dullness in my upper range.

    “Oh God,” I consistently thought, “It’s happening again.”

    Well, I saw a laryngologist this week, and it’s decidedly not happening. The doc reminded me, though, that my cords just kind of suck, and that’s a bummer, but not insurmountable. The blood vessels on my cords are super close to the surface, which basically means my vocal cords get tired more easily than other people’s. It’s also how I hemorrhaged last time— I self-medicated with ibuprofen to reduce swelling, which thinned my blood further and then…polyp. But you can see these little red dots (ectasias) on my folds. It’s not *really* a big deal, but I certainly don’t have cords of steel, let’s just say.

    This is the part where I remind you that the photo below IS OF VOCAL CORDS. Mine, specifically. MY *VOCAL CORDS.* Got it??

    You see those little red dots and the fact that my vocal folds have a lot of red lines? Those blood vessels are just too close to the surface. Minneapolis, MN, September 2025.

    “Am I just not built to be a singer?” I asked the laryngologist and SLP (Speech-Language Pathologist), fighting back tears.

    “Well,” the SLP laughed, “you’re doing it, so it doesn’t really matter.”

    ​Against all odds, I remain a singer. Solidly. My entire income is derived from singing and teaching other people how to sing. It is my job, and I’ve worked hard for it.

    August was a fever dream. I hopped in the car on a dreary morning in the Adirondacks after sitting in on audition class and saying my goodbyes. It started to rain. Rosemarie left me a sweet note on the counter. I desperately didn’t want to leave, to return to my life, to figure things out, but this place wasn’t mine anymore. It was time to go.

    Thank you, Rosemarie. Schroon Lake, NY, August 2025.

    ​The funny thing about not having a sense of place is that you belong nowhere and everywhere at the same time. There was a part of me that lived at Seagle, and I feel like I sort of reclaimed her, somehow. Sometimes, you just have to get in the car and drive.

    I took a break from filling my head with podcasts on the way home to call Jodi, Anna, and Shelley. I told them about my week and mused on my newfound fixation with Christian fundamentalism in America. I spat out facts about Jerry Falwell and Jack Hyles and Bill Gothard and all the other cronies who planted the seeds for Project 2025 and present-day Christian Nationalism and how this was all planned and how Margaret Atwood warned us 40 years ago!!! They all patiently listened.

    It’s a distraction, sure. But I think it’s a little more than that. I can finally think the thoughts I’ve been repressing and say them out loud again. Like Rumi in KPop Demon Hunters (yes, I’m going there), I have to fight my demons and break damaging patterns in order to find my voice again. Otherwise, I have no shot at fearlessness.

    I started taking back what I had lost over the past few years, the pieces of me that I scattered along the smooth path towards certainty, security, and safety. Production week for The Miller’s Daughter starts tomorrow. I thought September would never come, and now, it’s suddenly here. I’m back at The Mill. And I really, really hope it works out for The Daughter this time.

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  • Too Much

    The red romper in question. Asheville, NC, September 2018.

    When I lived in North Carolina, I met a fellow singer with whom I carpooled to gigs. I was in a relationship at the time, but I found him somewhat charming if not a little odd. Or maybe he was just off-putting. Anyway, a couple of months after the ever-inevitable breakup, I suggested (because I am always the one to suggest– perhaps I am too eager or hate to waste time or worry if I waited around forever, no man would actually ask me himself, insert general lack of patience here) that we go to a local brewery. Two of my friends met us there; they’re now married, maybe he felt that self-imposed pressure. I wore my red romper with the bandana pattern. I wore my hair in braids. I haven’t worn that romper in a long time. Probably it’s not even trendy anymore.

    Anyway, I asked if he wanted dinner or something, and he started to look a little far-off, wary, wouldn’t look me in the eyes. I attributed it to the beers. He told me he wanted to go home. Sure, fine. Presumptuous of me. “You’re just,” he stuttered, “exhausting to be around.” I think I even kissed him goodbye. Can you imagine? Here’s a slap in the face, he said, and I met him with a kiss. I’m basically Jesus.

    My ex told me once that equating harsh words to a slap or a punch in the face was stupid because getting punched was obviously worse, and that I had obviously never been punched. He was always saying things like this. Like everyone else was an idiot; sort of like the authors of self-help books you buy at the airport. I actually wondered sometimes if I was. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not stupid. But I’d forget how to speak. How to think. If I spoke, we’d break up, and I couldn’t. 

    He was right that I’ve never been punched. I was never a rough-and-tumble kid. I’m not dismissing physical violence, and definitely not domestic violence, but a single slap hurts in the moment and fades– his words and the words of my exhausted friend play over and over in my head, forever. I’d maybe take the slap. 

    I’m sure it comes as no surprise to my fellow sad girl millennials that these interactions pinged in my overactive brain when I made the demented decision to watch Lena Dunham’s new show, Too Much, in the wake of a huge personal shift. Like Meg Stalter’s character, Jess, I related a little too deeply to feeling like I was, indeed, a little too much. Exhausting, even.

    Exhausting after one date? Imagine being me!

    I think most women have been told at some point that they’re too much– but frankly, it’s not our fault men are only taught to feel two emotions. What is it like to only ever be horny or angry? I would say it sounds sad, but that’s not within the acceptable emotional purview. You want to talk about weakness? I think it’s weak to have the emotional width of a teaspoon. Overcoming emotion, it seems, is an admirable feat, because emotions are feminine, and femininity is worse than masculinity, but if you’re a woman and try to act like a man, that’s not natural, and you need to be proud of your feminine traits that will always be looked down upon by men because they are not masculine. Know your place in the natural order of things, little lady.

    I just don’t think it’s too much to be me. I should know– I’m the one doing it, after all. An old, conservative man once told me I was “one of the most reasonable women [he’s] ever met.” Give me the blue ribbon for hiding the alleged crazy despite the pink hair, which, as we all know, is completely unhinged. No, seriously– I want someone to make me a blue ribbon that simply says, “#1 reasonable woman.” When I die, my tombstone will read, “Here lies a reasonable woman.”

    If only I were funny.

    It’s been awhile. I try to be truthful in my writing, though I know nobody’s holding their breath waiting for my next blog. I guess it’s been over six months. I’d like to tell you that I’ve been busy, but the truth is, I didn’t have anything honest to say. So I didn’t say anything at all. 

    I started this blog because of the vocal polyp. I kept it going because I was trying to show my career was really, truly going somewhere! Really! And everyone loves a travel blog. And then…why? Tell me– why do you read my writing? If it’s as self-serving as I think it is, I’ll just keep a diary. Maybe. (Thanks for buying me a journal, Kayla. I haven’t used it.)

    I really didn’t want to embarrass my friends without their permission, and this is the only solo photo I have from Kat’s infamous birthday party. Trust me, I am wearing a child-sized Belle dress here. Northfield, MN, May 2008.

    During my freshman year of high school, my friend Kat hosted a princess party for her 15th birthday. Yes, we were very cool. Anyway, the only official Disney Princesses at the time were Snow White, Cinderella, Aurora, Ariel, Belle, and Jasmine. Naturally, she would be Sleeping Beauty, but she had to assign the rest of us characters. She wanted to make me Jasmine, but I said I was Belle, and I refused to come unless I was allowed to be Belle.

    Too much. Also, see the fact that I was 15, not 5. 

    Belle was aspirational. She was quiet and ok with being strange. She was brunette, and thin, and kind. She wasn’t too much at all. She dreamed of adventure in the great wide somewhere; so did I. We both got our big ideas from books and felt a little out of place. The only difference was that I was loud about it.

    Come to my show, or whatever.

    The Miller’s Daughter is a little over a month out from a performance in my hometown, which feels oddly poetic for our Daughter. I’ve spent some time with the text and translation again, and I shake my head a little at how close she comes to Belle sometimes. “The Daughter of Waters,” her main aria, may as well scream, “I want adventure in the great, wide somewhere.” And yet, Belle is locked up in a castle and ostracized by her community. Only her kindness and willingness to raise her beau like a child win her a royal seat and a happy ending. I think I’d rather stay a peasant.

    I’ve faced a fair amount of pushback regarding The Daughter’s character arc. I’ve been told she’s not feminist enough. She should tell The Miller to fuck off and run to the forest (with no money and no prospects, I might add!). It’s a stronger choice, I heard from a well-respected composer, to make her truly in love with The Hunter. 

    But she’s not in love with him. The Daughter doesn’t merely exist to have some baritone’s babies. She’s in love with the idea of freedom, of adventure. The Hunter offers her that, if only for a moment, as she says. That was a choice The Hunter got to make. She’s tied to the mill. The mill is a black hole– The Wanderer is pulled into the mill and doesn’t make it out alive. 

    I said in my librettist’s note at the original ISU performance of The Miller’s Daughter that it’s difficult to discern where I end and The Daughter begins. She’s embarrassingly autobiographical. I’m reminded of all my favorite Disney heroines at once– “duty’s path, or the Hunter’s call,” might as well be Pocahontas choosing between the rough or smooth current. “Should I marry Kokoum? Is all my dreaming at an end?” She chose exploring what was around the riverbend. Just so, in fact.

    The Daughter’s fate remains ambiguous at the end. And what did the Disney version of Pocahontas gain from her choice anyway?

    The Mill, April 2024.

    The Miller’s Daughter was an unintentional Hail Mary (yes, I know what a Hail Mary is.) Now, no matter what I do, everything returns to it. To her. To this piece getting done around the country at universities, and yes, at professional companies. I am proud and amazed all at once. I really needed this win, and ironically, she gave me the confidence that undoubtedly led to more work. Jodi says that once her score is published, it’s no longer hers. I don’t know if I can feel that way about The Daughter. But maybe I can share. Maybe I’m not the only one who feels like her.

    In Too Much, episode 5, Jess delivers a heartbreaking monologue to her ex, Zeb. She ends by crying, “I used to feel so special about me. And I really don’t. You just want to beat me into submission. Maybe not with your fists, but with your words and your lack of love.”

    Unlike Jess, I still feel special about me. I might be too much, but I like that about me. Too loud, too dramatic. Dreams too big and failures even bigger. It’s an honor to be too much. I don’t find it exhausting in the least.

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  • What if everything really is tuberculosis

    Uh oh, I’ve been reading again.

    Everybody knows I love my plague lore, so when esteemed author (ever heard of The Fault In Our Stars?) John Green announced he was writing a non-fiction book about tuberculosis, it piqued my curiosity. I only became more tickled when I saw it would be titled Everything Is Tuberculosis. Everything comes back to the plague. I get it. Disease is a forgotten history maker.

    I first encountered John Green as a junior in high school, when one of my favorite teachers used Green’s YouTube video about The Catcher in the Rye as part of our book discussion. These were in the early days of YouTube and vlogging, and I was thoroughly drawn in by the fast-talking author. This high school English teacher was one of many instructors who heavily impacted me during my youth, sparking my interest in Ophelia and the feminist lens through reading Hamlet and the feminine narratives in Canterbury Tales.

    John White Alexander “Repose” (1895) , oil/canvas 53 X 63 in, Metropolitan Museum of Art, courtesy of Artblog

    As John details in his book, tuberculosis was once a fashionable disease that inspired a laundry list of artists and literary giants, though the illness has existed in humans for about as long as we’ve been keeping track of disease. In fact, tuberculosis, which slowly crumbles the lungs, depriving its host of air, spread rampantly around the world before massive colonization of Africa and the Americas even began. Tuberculosis, or consumption, as it was colloquially known, consumed the host and human societies en masse.

    Sunken eyes, pale skin, and a waif-like figure characterized a person suffering from consumption, and red blood on handkerchiefs signaled the end for more than one struggling artist. The romanticization of the disease ran rampant through 18th and 19th-century literature and artists, even eliciting an association between disease and great creators of the time. According to Green, upwards of 25% of deaths in London during the 19th century could be attributed to tuberculosis.

    Violetta tragically dies from consumption in Verdi’s La traviata (which, in turn, inspired Moulin Rouge), as does Mimì, Puccini’s heroine from La bohème. Tuberculosis is a poetically operatic disease, consuming its heroines’ lungs as they unrealistically screech out their final high notes. Plus, it’s way more aesthetic than pooping oneself to death, à la cholera.

    John gives a chronological timeline of the history and biological understanding of tuberculosis that is both engaging and easy to follow for those of us who don’t have years of medical training. However, his strength as a narrative-weaving giant is on full display through the story of a young Sierra Leonian boy, Henry. It is through Henry’s journey that we, the readers, learn that despite there being a cure for tuberculosis, over a million people still die in lower to middle-income countries from the illness every year. “The cure is where the disease is not,” Green muses, “and the disease is where the cure is not.”

    Last week, I drove down to rural Iowa to give a guest recital with Jodi and Chad as part of a yearly scholarship concert by the Franklin County Arts Council. In addition to the recital, we led a school outreach initiative in the area, culminating with a masterclass for high school students preparing for Solo and Ensemble Festival. Many of these students had never heard an opera singer before, considered what a music career could look like, or even taken a voice lesson.

    It is an honor to perform with friends. Franklin County, Iowa, March 22, 2025.

    The amazing educator who runs this annual concert and outreach mentioned to the kids that I also grew up in a small town in Minnesota. While this is certainly true, the privilege and access to the arts in Northfield were atypical of a similarly sized community. Northfield has 20,000 people and two private liberal arts colleges. Meanwhile, Franklin County has a population of less than 10,000 across various rural communities.

    My voice teacher was my next-door neighbor who also happened to be a retired opera singer and my best friend’s mom was a flute professor. When I started making up plays with my friends, Mom easily found a summer theater camp I could attend. I certainly had an interest and talent in music that was noticed by adults in my community, but I also had family and teachers who were able to support those endeavors.

    The choir directors in Franklin County are doing a fabulous job building a love for music and singing in their students, but they can’t possibly do it all. Some hold K-12 music positions with the expectation to teach everything from elementary school music to middle school band and high school choir. I can’t say for sure, but I’m guessing there aren’t many trained singers teaching voice lessons in this part of rural Iowa. I imagine this reflects a similar pattern around the country, especially amid continued budget cuts and a lack of emphasis on arts education.

    I often return to my childhood experiences and think about who I would’ve been if I hadn’t grown up in Northfield. Would I still have become a freelance classical musician, clawing my way through the pandemic, refusing to give up on an increasingly distant dream? When I was in elementary school, I wanted to be a 2nd grade teacher. Once I started going to St. Olaf Band concerts, I figured I could easily become the first chair flute player in the New York Philharmonic. In middle school, I decided that perhaps I would make a good dentist. A friend at the time laughed and said being a dentist would be so boring. I hear she does stunt work these days.

    Man, I’d have SO much more money if I were a dentist. I’d do snow angels with 100-dollar bills in my backyard. I’d laugh in the face of your cavity filling!

    But I think I would have lost something in my dentist life. I wouldn’t have the feeling of working myself into a trance in Schubert’s Gretchen am Spinnrade. I wouldn’t have the laughter of the audience when I yell, “Well, Mister Snow…HERE I AM!!!!!” I wouldn’t have a shared moment of onstage Gesamtkunstwerk with Chad and Jodi, singing, “I’ll remember that when you’re gone, she’s the one who helped me watch you go,” choking back tears on a whispered, “Hush.” 

    You can hear my voice start to waver just a bit in the measures before the sad, little hush. I’m not quite sure why I almost started to cry for realz. It definitely caught me off-guard. Maybe it’s because Jodi’s music is just that beautiful. That’s certainly true. Maybe it’s because I can’t imagine what it’s like to not know whether the love of my life will die on foreign soil. Maybe it’s because I was so grateful to be singing with such great friends. Maybe I was just honored to be singing at all. Being rejected over and over, working through a vocal injury, almost quitting more times than I can count. Maybe every time I’m hired to sing post-pandemic it feels so precious, like a “fuck you” to everyone who ever doubted me. Fuck you for ever, ever doubting me. Nice try.

    Probably all of the above. It’s all there in that “hush.“

    Those raw moments of real, unabashed emotion are so special (and scary) in music. We were locked in together at that moment, as the kids say. I don’t know, maybe dentists feel that way sometimes, too. Maybe a really solid root canal will get you right in the feels.

    “Maxie, don’t cry–”

    “I’m not.“

    Oops.

    And when I looked out into that audience, I didn’t look at the main group of adults in the middle– I looked at the high school kids in their choir robes. I saw the way they looked at me. Like I was impossible. I imagine it’s the same way I longingly stare at the singers during bows at the Met. 

    Accessibility to the arts gave me my entire life. Maybe I would’ve been an elementary school teacher or a dentist, or maybe I would’ve been something else. Those would have been worthy endeavors (shout out to dentists). But a singer? Without all the community and familial support I received? Definitely not.

    Back to tuberculosis. Lack of accessibility to life-saving drugs and healthcare has a more grave outcome than a life without the arts (obviously). Millions die, according to John Green, because poorer countries can’t afford the expensive testing and subsequent treatment for an all-consuming, debilitating disease. It must be so frustrating to be a doctor and not be able to treat your patient, knowing there’s a cure, but it’s somewhere else. Somewhere that doesn’t need it so much.

    I worked with a girl on approaching the octave leap in a well-known Italian aria during our masterclass with high school students in Franklin County. She had a beautiful and compelling raw voice despite her relative inexperience. I threw some of my favorite exercises at her, and she took everything in stride. I don’t know anything about her, but I imagine her parents are immigrants. I don’t know what she wants for her life. I could be making assumptions, but I don’t know if she’s scared of deportation or if her family’s status in the United States is secure, whatever that means anymore. She’s just a regular girl, laughing with her friends in the hallway and enjoying choir. All I know how to do are technical exercises. I’m not out here curing tuberculosis or fighting for immigration rights. I’m just a girl! (Insert bow emoji here.)

    I’d like to think these little things matter, though. The technical suggestion, the encouraging hug, the inspiring performance. I’m not fixing people’s teeth or increasing childhood literacy, I’m just an artist. And if that means being the tiniest cure in seemingly innocuous moments, then that’s what I’ll do. Everything really is tuberculosis: we have the tools to help others, but we keep the solution to ourselves. We’re greedy. We’re elitist. But that’s not what I want opera to be, and it’s not who I want to be. Everything might still be tuberculosis, but sometimes, in music, the cure can be where the disease is.

    Maybe nobody in that audience is still thinking about that concert. Even I moved on to a completely different performance last weekend, shifting gears as I always do. But if anyone is, and I made any difference at all, whether it be with my tiny “hush“, tried and true technical exercises, or something else entirely, then this is all worth it. I doubt my high school English teacher even remembers showing us that Catcher in the Rye video, but it stuck with me, for whatever reason. It led me to Ophelia, to Ruth Bader Ginsburg-inspired recitals, to The Miller’s Daughter, to the next idea. Forward, forward, forever.

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  • Forward, forward, forever.

    Welcome to 2025.

    TW: Sexual assault

    Backstage bootleg from Anna. Zerlina, Off-Brand Opera, January 18, 2025. NYC.

    Save your words, we know what’s true.

    “La ci darem la mano” from Mozart’s Don Giovanni is one of the more famous duets in standard operatic repertoire. This is largely due to its frequency in university opera scene programs and its undeniably catchy melody. Don Giovanni, fresh from his attempted sexual assault of Donna Anna and subsequent murder of her father, Il Commendatore, Don Giovanni sets his sights on a peasant wedding between the beautiful Zerlina and Masetto, her fiance who is, admittedly, “just a guy.”

    His seduction is swift. Zerlina can’t imagine a handsome man of a higher class could ever be interested in “little old me”– until Donna Elvira, one of his (presumably many) scorned lovers, swoops in to rescue Zerlina and admonish Don Giovanni. Zerlina realizes how badly she’s hurt Masetto and attempts to dig herself out of the hole she dug herself. Don G, however, won’t let his newest romantic quest go unfulfilled.

    During the ensuing party at his estate, Don G drags Zerlina away from the crowds and attempts to rape her. Luckily, she escapes. In the Off-Brand Opera production, Leporello is the one who saves the day, pulling Giovanni away from the terrified bride. Always quick on his feet, Don G quickly blames Leporello for the altercation.

    In our English translation, Zerlina kicks off the rousing Act 1 finale by singing, “Save your words; we know what’s true,” followed by the rest of the principals in quick succession. In short: Everybody believes Zerlina.

    The principals, in the OBO English translation, sing: “Your depravity and lies are finished, every one of us is a witness.”

    Ready for a totally normal wedding. NYC, January 2025.

    How controversial this show is in 2025! Conservatives would even call it woke. But she was flirting with him earlier, they would cry! Was she drunk at the wedding? Was she leading him on? Is she after his money? He is a powerful, famous, and rich man after all– she probably just wants the attention and financial kickback. Powerful men always attract women launching false accusations. This is why men are afraid to approach women in bars anymore. This is the liberal agenda at work. Why can’t we let men just be men anymore? Don G’s masculinity is under attack! 

    But no one says any of that. Everyone, even the men, believes Zerlina. By defending her, they know that they will certainly never get invited to Don G’s lavish mansion for a party ever again. It could even bring them political ruin. Amazingly, Don Ottavio and Masetto don’t feel the need to cry “Not all men” before they vow to protect the women in their lives and ask how they can help them.

    Zerlina’s no angel; she nearly slept with a stranger on her wedding day. That’s for Masetto and Zerlina to figure out. Do they work their marital issues out through Zerlina singing an aria about the prospect of Masetto beating her? Yeah. But Mozart knew he wouldn’t actually do it, ok?!

    This is probably a good time to say that Mozart wasn’t exactly known for being especially gracious to the female characters in his operas. To be fair, he lived in the late 18th century and was thoroughly consumed by Masonic beliefs, many of which are espoused in his last opera, The Magic Flute.

    He also wrote an opera about how women, left to their own devices, will always cheat on their men, titling the piece Cosi fan tutte, or “Women Are Like That.” But even Mozart did better than Americans today: he wrote an opera about an unrepentant rapist who is dragged to hell for his sins. In 1787.

    Just a bunch of Eleanors

    Cast photo shoot at Leopold’s Ice Cream. January 1, 2025, Savannah, Georgia.

    January is often a crappy month, especially for a Minnesotan. Perhaps due to the distance from my frigid home state, or perhaps due to artistic endeavors, I had a comparatively great beginning to 2025. I started the month in Savannah, Georgia, enjoying a scoop of ice cream at Leopold’s while wearing 1940s period costumes for a photo shoot.

    The Eleanors, with music and lyrics by Jodi Goble and lyrics by Michael Ching, tells two stories. One is a love letter to Savannah, incorporating the story of Greek immigrant Mister Pete, who started the legendary shop in 1919. The other is of Jodi’s grandmother, Maxie, and her two friends, Lillian and Ramona, as they navigate life during World War II. 

    At the midpoint of the opera, a Curmudgeon enters the shop, hearing Lillian’s own Catalogue Aria modeled after Leporello’s famous list from Act 1 of Don Giovanni. Her friends might await their husbands’ return from war, but she’s busy dating every single man in the county.

    As the women call out, “Carry on! We salute you, Queen of Hearts,” the Curmudgeon can’t keep quiet any longer. “Carry on?!?” he snorts, continuing, “Who do you think you girls are, carrying on like that in public?” 

    And then, the punchline of the entire opera:

    “You’re just a bunch of…Eleanor Roosevelts.”

    After recovering from their confusion, the women reject his insults. “Who cares?” Maxie scoffs. “Eleanor’s brave, Eleanor’s kind, and Eleanor’s got a brilliant mind; WE could be Eleanors.”

    As First Lady, Eleanor certainly was special. First Ladies were largely relegated to social events, but Eleanor’s burgeoning feminism was born out of the suffrage era, only as old as Pete’s bright and cheerful ice cream shop. Just over 100 years ago. How soon we forget how hard women had to fight for a voice; how we renew our fervor a century later.

    “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent!” the women cheer, working themselves into a frenzy.

    It was a special opera to be a part of for many reasons. Seasoned readers of the blog will recall my work with Jodi, a stalwart collaborator and friend. I began receiving drafts of The Eleanors while I was in Germany, each revision more beautiful than the last. I laughed at Lillian’s twist on the famous Catalogue Aria, enjoyed her ode to The Andrews Sisters, and cried at the beauty and pain in Maxie and Cal’s duet, largely inspired by the story of Jodi’s grandparents during World War II. Ramona’s aria complaining about her overbearing mother-in-law was an opera in and of itself. So when I got a role offer from Savannah VOICE Festival, it didn’t take long to respond with a resounding, “Yes!”

    The cast and creative team were so talented, supportive, and dynamic. Every part of the process felt like a giant hug. And, during our final, sold-out performance, the audience leaped to their feet before we cut off our final note as an ensemble. It was, as they say, a hit.

    We all come; we all must go

    She’s a presenter. That’s right. January 7, 2025, Savannah, Georgia.

    Luckily for me, I didn’t have to experience the inevitable post-show depression for long. Jodi, Chad Sonka, and I presented and performed a preview of The Miller’s Daughter at the National Opera Association and National Association of Teachers of Singing conference two days later. Assisted by students and faculty from Iowa State University, we got to share a slice of our special project with industry professionals. It’s Jodi’s era, and we’re just living in it.

    Early in our creative process, Jodi and I discussed the feminist angle of our piece pretty thoroughly. I hate slapping the audience in the face with a vision for a piece. I also roll my eyes at a show that seeks to “teach” the viewer something. No one likes to be preached to, and even saying The Miller’s Daughter was a feminist take on Die schöne Müllerin felt cringeworthy and didn’t paint a full picture of what I intended. The Miller’s Daughter’s story needed to run parallel to that of The Wanderer; two tragedies intertwined into one. 

    Female characters before the 20th century (and hell, still after) usually aid a man in his hero’s journey rather than embarking on their own. They are either a Madonna or a whore. If they are given a goal, it’s almost always to bag a man in the end. Even in newer media, most movies fail the Bechdel test. A movie only passes if two women have a conversation that isn’t about a man. 

    Hell, The Miller’s Daughter wouldn’t pass the Bechdel test unless you consider The Brook a female character. That’s certainly a choice the director could make, but we view her as an amorphous being whose morals aren’t dictated by human proclivities. The Brook’s clear waters reflect the thoughts, desires, and impulses of those who visit its deceptively calm shores. “You’re always here,” The Miller’s Daughter muses, “though you come and you go.”

    “We all come; we all must go,” The Brook responds in one of my favorite lines. I’m pretty sure Jodi wrote that one. The Miller’s Daughter wants to go. But will she? The Miller’s Daughter, bound by duty and her societal role, might not drown, but her dreams die just the same.

    The Miller’s Daughter becomes a feminist tale by giving the muse a voice. Making her a person rather than an idea to idolize. In a time where “tradwives” and misogynistic podcast hosts creep into the cultural zeitgeist, that matters. A story about female friendship enduring through difficult times matters. A tale about the lower and upper classes working together to bring a bad guy to justice matters– even over 200 years later. They’re all surprisingly relevant.

    A final thought

    A dream team. January 5, 2025, Savannah, Georgia.

    A famous Eleanor Roosevelt quote for today:

    “Surely, in the light of history, it is more intelligent to hope rather than to fear, to try rather than not to try. For one thing we know beyond all doubt: Nothing has ever been achieved by the person who says, ‘It can’t be done.’”

    “It can be done,” Maxie, Ramona, and Lillian respond. 

    Forward, forward, forever.

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  • This one’s for all my “smart girls”

    This one’s for all my “good girls”

    -Charli XCX, Probably

    Where my dance career began and ended. Northfield, MN, 1997.

    Growing up, I was always told I was smart. Not in the proud parent way, though they definitely seemed proud of my perceived intelligence. Everyone else seemed to notice it, too. Like many of my fellow millennials, I was always placed in Gifted and Talented groups and excelled with little effort in school. It was a descriptor I held dearly, making friends with the other “smart girls.” Now, all the other “smart girls” were thin, and about half were also amazing dancers, so I was still in last place among the smart girls in my mind. Chubby, but really quite bright. That was me.

    Most Americans think they’re smart. According to the NIH, 65% of Americans believe they are more intelligent than the average American. The study, published in 2018, also noted that men are more likely than women to believe they’re more intelligent than most of the country. While average typically has a negative connotation, it literally just means the middle. Average isn’t inherently bad. But in a culture that values rugged individualism, average is the kiss of death. Average is a slap in the face. Yet, most of us are painfully average, including in our smarts.

    For the record, I’m part of the 65%. I do think I’m smarter than the average American. And I’m sure you do, too.

    As a kid, it was easy to measure my intelligence in grades. I aced everything. I was also loud. I wanted you to know that I knew the answer, and I knew it before everyone else did. I sure as hell couldn’t kick a soccer ball, dance a pirouette, or rock a cute little crop top, so I had to take what I could get. My piano teacher told my mom I was uncommonly good at the instrument and had a highly developed ear, but that didn’t matter to me. Music was easy. I had to beat my friends’ scores on the math test. Math was harder. But I couldn’t actually try; otherwise, I wasn’t smart– I was just hardworking. Way worse. “Anybody can work hard,” I thought.

    Family vacation to Duluth, MN. I’m guessing 2001?

    I grew up in what I now understand to be a unique community, Americana-wise. Those who follow the blog have heard me speak of my idyllic upbringing in Northfield, Minnesota, a small, largely liberal town less than an hour south of the Twin Cities. The town, hovering at around 20,000 inhabitants, is flanked by two of the most prominent private liberal arts colleges in the state: St. Olaf College and Carleton College. My classmates were made up of the children of esteemed professors and arts professionals. I studied piano with a professor five minutes from my house. My flute teacher was also my friend’s mom, who played professionally with orchestras around Minnesota and was on the faculty at St. Olaf. When I decided to take voice lessons, the choice was easy: my next-door neighbor was a retired opera singer. I didn’t have to try and find music– it found me.

    Alright, so we have a small, liberal community. On top of that, the town is in Minnesota. While Minnesota has turned more purple over time as the Iron Range population in the north and bougie suburbs began to reject the Democratic party, we have a long-standing reputation of being a blue state among a sea of red. In 1984, every other state in the U.S. voted for Reagan. Minnesota still turned blue. I made a little flag that said “Al Gore” in blue marker and sat with my mom, eyes glued to the TV for the 2000 election. She let me stay up late. I didn’t know who Al Gore was. I just knew that’s who my parents wanted to be president. 

    Mere months before my liberal bubble popped. Northfield, MN, 2016.

    I voted in the Democratic primary in 2016 in Northfield because I lived with my parents before moving to North Carolina for graduate school in July 2016. The Democratic primary was held at Northfield Middle School, built in 2004 and significantly larger than the high school. The giant parking lot was completely full, and cars were parked for a mile on the street. It was a party. Meanwhile, the Republican primary was held at Northfield High School. I couldn’t help but notice that there was only a smattering of cars in the much smaller parking lot. Republicans, quite simply, didn’t exist to me.

    I voted in North Carolina for the 2016 election. I stayed up all night. I sobbed until four in the morning. “Who are these people?” I thought. “They’re obviously idiots. I am so much smarter than them. Why do I have to pay the price for the vote of uneducated fools?”

    Mere hours before my liberal bubble was popped. Greensboro, NC, 2016.

    Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be smart. Do education and intelligence actually go together? According to the NIH, they do. In a study published by who I only imagine to be highly educated individuals in the field of psychology who benefit from believing education and intelligence are correlated, researchers found that “Intelligence test scores and educational duration are positively correlated. This correlation could be interpreted in two ways: Students with greater propensity for intelligence go on to complete more education, or a longer education increases intelligence.” The study is behind a paywall, so I guess we’ll just have to draw our own conclusions. Anecdotally, of course.

    Republicans are terrified of higher education. Kids go to college, and they become more liberal. The woke mind virus infects their malleable brains! How dare they become more thoughtful about the diversity of the world around them! While this phenomenon feels especially topical today, conservatives have been railing on higher education for years. Take Peter Thiel, the founder of PayPal and failed lawyer turned conservative libertarian pundit; he’s been sounding the alarm on the liberal bubble of higher education for two decades. Never mind that he went to Stanford University, which hosts a prominent right-wing think tank, the Hoover Institute, though they claim to be non-partisan. Never mind that Peter Thiel ultimately benefitted financially and professionally from his Ivy League education. Like the failed screenwriters and comedians of the Daily Wire, as Robert Evans pointed out in his Behind the Bastards podcast, Thiel’s own disillusionment and failure in the field of law pushed him to the graveyard of all disenfranchised and disappointed young men: conservative politics.

    Educated individuals vote for Democrats, and uneducated individuals vote for Republicans. That’s what I always thought, anyway. Looking at exit polls from the 2024 election, however, refutes this stereotype. Only 56% of Americans with a college education voted for Kamala Harris, at least according to PBS. In contrast, 42% of college-educated Americans voted for Trump. So that’s just plain wrong. It’s not as uncommon or special anymore to go to college; in fact, in many circles, it’s expected– around half of all Americans have a college degree. So the idea that Republicans are dumb or uneducated– which also don’t necessarily correlate– is a weak argument.

    This brings me to the other stereotype in my mind: Republicans are stupid. But what is it to be stupid? Is it someone who didn’t go to college? Someone who doesn’t pursue life with curiosity and questioning? A person who doesn’t think thoughtfully about cultural and social issues? Someone bad at math or spelling? Does stupidity lie in willful ignorance, misinformation, or both? How can we tell when something is misinformation other than “this goes against what I understand to be true and right about the world”? Have we all forgotten about primary and secondary sources?

    I think there are probably folks out there who, if they met me or read this self-serving blog post, would think I’m a liberal elitist who is ultimately pretty stupid. I mean, I disagree, obviously. But I know I would struggle with many things that blue-collar workers can do easily, such as operating heavy machinery, safely using a firearm, or harvesting fields, for instance. I have zero survival skills, and my usefulness is only valuable when I discuss intellectual subjects, provide entertainment, or teach someone how to sing. I obviously think I offer value, but is what I can do the only type of intelligence considered “smart”? 

    The older I get, the more I realize I know nothing. I had to look up what a tariff even was. If you asked me yesterday, I would have said that tariffs are taxes on foreign goods. That’s all I would have said. I can vomit out parroted words and ideas because I listen and process information quickly. That’s probably why I was a smart kid. But when it comes to defending my values and ideas, I often come up short. I actually have no freaking idea what I’m talking about. Maybe I am actually the stupid one.

    Trump’s proposed tariffs, by the way, would hike up prices on goods imported from abroad, saddling us, the consumers, with higher costs. I pulled this information from AP News, which is considered to be a largely non-partisan news source.

    “Trump insists that tariffs are paid for by foreign countries. In fact, its is importers — American companies — that pay tariffs, and the money goes to U.S. Treasury. Those companies, in turn, typically pass their higher costs on to their customers in the form of higher prices. That’s why economists say consumers usually end up footing the bill for tariffs.”

    Back to intelligence. Is it simply the ability to process information quickly? Growing up, I felt like my brain was a little computer that committed facts to memory without much effort. But was that me, or was it the school system I grew up in? Minnesota has one of the best public education systems in the country. I didn’t know anyone who went to private school. Was it the fact that my mom read books to me night and day for the first years of my life? I entered kindergarten reading chapter books. Was it intelligence or privilege?

    Because I have to tell you, as an adult, I don’t feel so smart anymore. I can hear something profoundly racist about immigration and think, “That doesn’t sound right to me,” but I don’t seem to be able to commit facts to memory like I used to. I can listen to a podcast detailing the exact reasons why Trump could pose a threat to American democracy, but I can’t repeat it back afterward. It’s like the little computer in my brain is broken. I’m not sure what it means to be smart.

    Information is widely available at our fingertips, but it’s increasingly difficult to tell what’s true and what’s not. Half the country believes the mainstream media is feeding them lies. Half. They get their news from unverified sources on X and highly biased pundits on Fox News (but CNN and MSNBC’s pundits are biased against conservatives!) and other conservative news outlets. Mainstream media leans liberal because I’m not sure how they’re supposed to be reasonable when Trump (as posted by ABC News) says things like, “I’m gonna do it whether the women like it or not, I’m gonna protect them.”

    But it’s out of context, the conservatives cry! The liberal news media wants to make him look bad! Sure. He continued: “I’m going to protect them, I’m going to protect them from migrants coming in. I’m going to protect them from foreign countries that want to hit us with missiles and lots of other things.” Never mind that we all know he’s talking about reproductive rights. Never mind that the NIJ reported that U.S.-born individuals are significantly more likely than immigrants to commit crimes.

    In the age of misinformation, anyone can find anything to back up their opinions with perceived fact. And it’s difficult, if not impossible, to argue with anyone who says any credible media sources are filled with fake news. The argument or discussion ends there. And my brain hurts. 

    I feel so stupid.

    Just imagine the stench in this room.

    Come along with me, someone who is definitely not a historian, for a brief interlude to my blog post. Let’s have some fun. Hear me out: America was built on a conspiracy theory. I’m a bit of an American Revolution nerd, fueled by Liberty’s Kids, the American Girl books, and the Dear America diaries I devoured as a kid. What I believe we take for granted as Americans is how wrong the creation of this country could have gone. I mean, look at how the French Revolution went wrong. Democracy as we know it today is revolutionary. The Founding Fathers were sweating their balls off in Philadelphia, making up laws and rules with no roadmap ahead of them. But way before that, there was Samuel Adams (of Boston beer fame!), the Sons of Liberty, and the Boston Tea Party.

    By 1773, three years before the Founding Fathers declared independence from Great Britain, British government had imposed a series of taxes on the colonies, including the Stamp Act of 1766 and the Townshend Acts, to raise revenue. American colonists argued these taxes were unfair because they had no representation in Parliament—a sentiment captured in the slogan “No taxation without representation.” Sound familiar? This is also where those “don’t tread on me” snake signs later adopted by the far right appeared. Most of these taxes were eventually repealed, but the British government kept a tax on tea.

    To complicate matters, the British government granted the financially struggling British East India Company a monopoly on tea sales in the colonies, effectively making it the only source for legally imported tea. This move bypassed colonial merchants and reinforced the unpopular tea tax, angering both merchants and consumers.

    Ok, on to our guy, Sam Adams, future president John Adams’ cousin and a member of resistance group Sons of Liberty. He used the tea tax to rally colonists. Sam argued that accepting any British taxes without representation would set a dangerous precedent. However, according to the Smithsonian, the tea tax would actually lower taxes for colonists. 

    “Consider, for instance, the claim that the Tea Party was a revolt against higher taxes on tea. In truth, the protest centered on the Tea Act, a corporate tax break passed by the British Parliament that actually lowered the price of tea for American colonists. The real underlying issue, says Benjamin L. Carp, author of Defiance of the Patriots: The Boston Tea Party and the Making of America, was the possibility that this price cut would ‘“seduce the colonists … into buying taxed tea, which would give up the principle of no taxation without representation.’”

    Sam and his boys stirred public opinion against the British and organized protests, boycotts, and other forms of resistance. By framing the tea tax as an example of British tyranny, he gained widespread support for more radical measures.

    Sam and his fellow Sons of Liberty made the tea tax issue into a crisis to galvanize colonial resistance. Although Sam was not some conspirator in a secret plot, he and his associates certainly worked to shape public opinion. The Boston Tea Party wasn’t a conspiracy in the modern sense but rather a carefully organized act of protest designed to resist British authority and push for greater autonomy. 

    In short, we are a nation built on conspiracy. And it worked. So, I think shaking that questioning aspect of the American psyche is both fruitless and unwise. We were born to think we know better and our information is more correct than our neighbor’s. What the hell are we supposed to do with that?

    Smart girl being smart I guess. Greensboro, NC, 2019.

    Ok, back to intelligence one more time. I spent my whole life thinking I knew better because I grew up in an educated community. I, myself, am highly educated. Granted, they’re two music degrees, but I do have a Bachelor’s Degree and Master’s Degree in Voice. I will go on record and say my graduate degree didn’t make me any smarter. I also don’t think I got much better at singing during that time. I’m grateful that I got a full scholarship.

    Education remains vital, but it’s become obvious that it isn’t going to save us. Information isn’t going to save us. Unfortunately, I’m not smart enough to know what will. The computer in my brain is so overloaded that I have to fill my head with reality TV to disengage. My ability to process and respond is stunted. Maybe this means I’m not as smart as I thought I was.

    My social media is filled with Democrats lamenting about election loss and what caused it. Armchair analysis from everyone. I’m not going to add much to it because I’m just a self-employed classical musician trying to hustle my way to my own American dream. I’m not a political expert, I don’t know anything about economics or business, and I’ve never worked a 9 to 5 job. In many ways, I am not an average American, and believe me, there are pros and cons to that existence.

    Growing up, I relied on my intelligence because it was all I really had. But I have so much more now. I know I’m a great singer and teacher, a social butterfly, and I’m trying daily to cultivate a kinder and more understanding heart. The more I try to know, the more I don’t know the solution. I will always chase the truth, but I honestly just wish I could go back to my liberal bubble. Unfortunately, none of us can. Not after 2016, and certainly not after a decisive Republican victory in 2024. I don’t have an answer yet, but when my brain turns back on, I’ll let you know.

    Victoria

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  • Hope is the thing with feathers

    I could never get tired of this skyline. Chelsea Market, NYC, June 2024.

    I gingerly hop into the water and immediately begin kicking my little legs like a duck, arms over top, propelling myself across the lap pool. It’s cold for the first 50 yards or so. Kick, pull, inhale, exhale. Humming on the exhale. Deep breath from the bottom of my lungs. Breathing for swimming is like breathing for singing, except in singing, it’s important to sing on the inhale. Appoggio. In swimming, it’s the exhale. I have to get rid of my air. So, sometimes, I hum into the water. I guess it’s the opposite of singing, then.

    I don’t even know where to start since my last blog entry in May. A few precious days were spent with my best friend in New York before she started a brand-new, big girl job. I traveled to Peru for an unforgettable week. I competed in my first triathlon, and I didn’t even get last place. I received several more performing and teaching opportunities for the 2024-25 season, some of which I can’t tell you about yet. Sorry, folks.

    Don’t worry– I’ll still try to do a Peru blog. Machu Picchu, July 2024.

    I actually got to go to New York twice this summer, and I’m certain I’ll be there again this fall. But I’m not sure which one changed: New York or me. My triumphant return to the city came after years of pandemic, an unfortunate professional and personal situation that culminated in a vocal injury, and running away to Germany, which kept me from one of my favorite places for nearly five years. Predictably, the romance of Manhattan, reeking vaguely of hot garbage and stale piss in the beginning weeks of summer, wasn’t quite as all-consuming as I experienced years ago. I was 26 years old the last time I spent weekends in the fall and winter flying back and forth between Greensboro, North Carolina, and New York City. 26. I didn’t realize that. 

    My 7th grade English teacher in Northfield, Minnesota, started every class with a journal prompt. One day, we were encouraged to write about where we would want to live when we grew up and why. Some kids gushed about their dreams of moving to Key West, Florida (where I also visited this summer), while others dreamed of life in Paris or Milan. “This is ridiculous,” I thought. “None of these people are going to leave Minnesota.” As a little realist sitting up concerningly straight in my scoliosis brace, I wrote that I would be fine living in Apple Valley, Minnesota. The zoo was there, and it seemed nice. And it wasn’t as embarrassing as staying in Northfield forever, much as everyone in my hometown seems to think there’s no better place on the entire planet.

    I didn’t share my journal entry that day; I merely silently judged my classmates for believing they’d live in Japan just because they liked anime. I’m not sure when I shifted from a cranky little realist to a romantic dreamer– surely it wasn’t in 9th grade when I argued in my advanced English class about the ridiculousness of Romeo and Juliet while secretly loving the Baz Luhrmann rendition of the story. And I wondered why nobody wanted to go out with me.

    But something did happen in 9th grade. My grandma spent her retirement years traveling around the United States and Europe, doing all the exploring she put to the side when my grandpa was alive, and she worked as the head of the English department at a rural Minnesotan high school. She was the kind of woman who got an entire write-up in the newspaper when she finally retired. Grandma was known for being a “tough cookie” and loved to read as much as she wanted to live the stories in her favorite novels. 

    One of these days I’ll dig through my mom’s photo albums and get a pic of Grandma and me in New York. For now, here’s this photo from my sophomore recital. Concordia College, 2013.

    My sister, Kayla, and I were the only grandchildren. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were spoiled, but we were certainly doted upon. Grandma said that when we got into high school, we could pick anywhere in the country, and she’d find one of those old people tour bus situations for us to go on. You know what I’m talking about. Anyway, I wasn’t really sure where I wanted to go. But I had gotten into musicals and started taking voice lessons after years of playing piano and flute. I harbored misguided dreams of singing on Broadway. You know where I’m going with this– the little musical theatre nerd chose to go to New York with her grandma and a tour bus full of people over 65. And it was awesome.

    This trip came when I was rehearsing for my first high school musical, On the Town, with music by Leonard Bernstein and book/lyrics by Betty Comden and Adolph Green. First performed on Broadway in 1944, On the Town tells the story of three sailors on leave for 24 hours during World War II. Leonard Bernstein is having a moment right now, but in case you haven’t heard of him, he was the first American conductor to lead a major orchestra. Additionally, Bernstein was an incredible mid-century composer, with his most enduringly popular work being West Side Story, also famously set in New York City. On the Town is an underrated work with incredible music, dance, and storytelling. It’s also a heartfelt homage to New York, a place I had increasingly romanticized in my mind since I was 14 and continuing to this day.

    I’m glad I got to do all the touristy stuff in New York with my grandma. It was fun, inspiring, and a little cringe-worthy. I cried when I saw the skyline for the first time. It was embarrassing, but luckily, all the old ladies thought it was sweet.

    Despite the romantic dreamer creeping up in me, the harsh realist was still there. I passively wanted to be on Broadway, but I lacked certain essentials:

    • I wasn’t a great belter (despite my best efforts)
    • I was a terrible dancer (I could have started training, but I didn’t– I think many people can relate to these passive desires that we don’t actually do anything to achieve)
    • I was not the body type cast on Broadway (This is not a pity party to me but rather an observation, one I took more action on than the dancing and culminated in lifelong body dysmorphia and periods of eating disorders)

    The little realist in me put dreams of performing behind, and I threw myself into choir, attending the same college as my high school choir director and choosing to become a vocal music education major. Unfortunately, I realized I hated choir despite loving singing. Eventually, I discovered opera. With opera, I didn’t have to belt, I didn’t have to dance, and I didn’t have to be tiny. And I was good. I was actually pretty good. I wasn’t amazing, but there was potential there.

    Hope.

    I lacked hope in my 7th-grade journal entry and when I went to college to become a small-town choir director who never left Minnesota. I didn’t have hope. 

    Out in Falmouth, Massachusetts after opening night of How To Succeed In Business Without Really Trying, 2014.

    It’s been ten years since I spent the summer performing at College Light Opera Company in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, a time I have come to acknowledge as the beginning of my career. I still refer to it as the best summer of my life. It would have been my coming-of-age story if my life were a movie. Maybe it’s some main character energy creeping in, but I think my life so far could make a decently interesting film.

    I would return to my favorite city to audition for the first time in November 2016, after I had moved to North Carolina. The 12-year-old who was going to live in Apple Valley now lived across the country and regularly flew to New York to sing in tiny rooms for mostly unfriendly faces. In those days, I knew I wouldn’t get the job. I was just happy to be there. Eventually, you kind of want to get the job. It grew tiring.

    But every time I walked through midtown New York in full makeup and hair, sweatpants over my tights, heels in my purse, listening to my moody music, and audition binder in hand, I felt it again and again.

    Hope. And this time, I was reminded of my favorite Emily Dickinson poem, with whom I share a birthday. 

    ““Hope” is the thing with feathers –

    That perches in the soul –

    And sings the tune without the words –

    And never stops – at all -”

    I was supposed to move to New York in the summer of 2020. For various (likely obvious) reasons, I decided not to. During the pandemic, I built a beautiful life back in Minnesota. I don’t live in Apple Valley, but I do live in Eden Prairie, another suburb of the Twin Cities. It appears my 7th-grade prophecy has proven true. 

    Nevertheless, I felt it again when I arrived at my friend’s apartment in West Harlem. Hope. There’s something about New York, man. It makes you feel like your dreams are possible, and you’re part of this unspoken coalition of people making things happen for themselves. As an artist, I imagine you have to hustle to pay rent prices in this city. The artists there must have a lot of hope or delusion or have become entirely embittered by the whole thing. Maybe a bit of all of it.

    Getting a quick reprieve from an 85 degree day in Manhattan. Financial District, August 2024.

    But it wasn’t the same. I didn’t feel this undying pull to upend my entire life to live here. The energy was different. Were the subways always this dirty, or are the ones in Germany incomparably clean? Did it always smell like pee? Did men always shout at me on the street? I forgot. In Germany, people just stare at you. In New York, they stare AND talk. Besides, I have a whole life in Minnesota now.

    Shelley asked me, “Would you ever want to live here?” and I paused for a little too long. The answer was no. I was brought back to 7th grade. “Not anymore.”

    I was recently hired as the Vocal Music Director for the fall musical at the high school many of my students attend. They’re doing Annie. While everyone remembers songs like “Hard Knock Life” and “Tomorrow,” I teared up during the read through because of one song: “NYC.”

    “NYC

    What is it about you?

    You’re big

    You’re loud

    You’re tough

    NYC

    I go years without you

    Then I can’t get enough.”

    I’m holding on to that hope the city gives me, and I’m grateful I never decided to live there so the romanticization of New York would wear off. It could never. What’s more beautiful than giant rats scurrying through the subway station? 

    Where the blog was written today. Nisswa, Minnesota, 2024.

    But today I’m not in New York. I’m not in Peru or Germany or any of the other places highlighted in the blog. I’m in Minnesota. I’m sitting in a brat green Adirondack chair, sipping coffee while staring out at the lake. It’s beautiful. When I leave Minnesota, I romanticize my home state. The ice isn’t so slick and the winters aren’t so frigid in my homesick imagination. It’s all swimming, exhale, and sunrises over the water. Exhale. Not singing on the inhale. This quiet, serene morning is what I picture. And this place gives me hope, too.

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  • I like airports and airports like me

    “Just me and my thoughts”

    Just before boarding my first flight to Germany. Greensboro airport, July 2017.

    Airports make me cry. Sure, one time, the tears flowed because I miscalculated the time I needed to fly home to Minneapolis for Christmas from Charlotte, North Carolina. Luckily, I invoked my mom’s birthday to guilt disgruntled passengers into letting me pass them in security, but I applied for TSA precheck after that. These aren’t the tears I’d like to focus on today.

    Poor holiday travel planning aside, airports really do make me emotional. I love the airport. Granted, my home airport is Minneapolis/St. Paul, widely considered one of the best airports in the country, but I love any old airport. It means I’m going somewhere. I don’t care where I’m going. It just matters that I go.

    As a disclaimer: I realize I have the luxury of traveling without small children and am usually alone. I imagine those who travel consistently for work and spend their days staring out an office window once they arrive also find airport travel a dull nuisance. But not me. I love it.

    First, I embark on an airport walk. Comfort at the airport is critical. Because I have yet to learn the art of packing light, I’m usually saddled with an overpacked carry-on and a stuffed purse, but it doesn’t stop me from walking the whole airport. This was made easy in a small terminal like San Jose, where I write these words. However, this endeavor took much longer at O’Hare in Chicago, where I walked many times. Running shoes are essential.

    The universe blessed me with the whole row to myself from Charlotte to Paris in January 2020.

    Agh, the airport!! Everybody is going somewhere. Isn’t that exciting? Today, I had plenty to keep me busy in the airport. I worked all morning writing articles for my side gig and had to check out of my Airbnb by 11 am. As my flight continues to get delayed, I’m not stressed. I got two hours of work done on a grant that I hope will bring The Miller’s Daughter beyond the Midwestern plains. I did some score study. Now I’m here with you, writing about how much fun I’m having by myself in the airport. Have I expressed that I’m having a great time?

    I’ve always enjoyed traveling but became increasingly comfortable with airports as I auditioned for young artist programs during and after grad school. I lived in North Carolina at the time and would trek up to New York City multiple times each fall, hoping the companies would pick me, choose me, and love me. Most of them didn’t, but it still felt like I was “doing the thing,” as singers like to say.

    Inspiration for today’s blog comes from the 1975’s “I like America and America likes me” and this selfie, taken on the way to the airport after a couple of auditions. NYC, December 2018.

    I used to waste time at the airport. However, I’ve noticed a marked change in airport behavior over the past few years, highlighting how much my life has shifted. Due to my writing career and constant “hustle tasks,” (perhaps I should do a blog on those. Does writing a blog on what I mean when I say “hustle tasks” make you roll your eyes? Please let me know.) I have so much more to do at the airport. The audition is only part of my quest each time I step foot in that security line, a massive American flag hanging in the background. I have a dozen other things on the docket to support my artistic career outside of singing at strangers for less than ten minutes.

    The airport, man. I love all the giant windows everywhere, light streaming in. It’s the only place where it’s not a little weird to sit by myself at the bar. There’s an automatic conversation starter:

    “Where are you flying today?”

    And every time I answer, I add, “I’m an opera singer.” People are so impressed by that. “Wow, no way,” they say, “That’s amazing. An opera singer. I’ll remember you when you’re famous.” I won’t be, and they won’t. But it’s the same every time.

    Even the biggest opera stars aren’t famous in the mainstream way. Most of us just want to create, sing, and feel like we’ve “made it” in some capacity. The stranger at the restaurant or the coffee shop in the airport doesn’t need to know I’ve received countless rejections, have a depressing savings account, or don’t know what my next gig is. I’m an opera singer. Isn’t that just so cool? Airport magic. I love the airport. I’m whoever I say I am in that moment.

    I’m not talking to anybody today. I probably look pretty unapproachable typing away on my little tablet, eyes squinting at the screen. But I feel that airport magic all the same. 

    All smiles in a charter plane after a gig. Washington D.C., March 2018.

    When I started The Shifting Soprano, I didn’t realize it would actually change me. I just wanted something to do while my vocal polyp healed and I dealt with the fallout of an unfortunate career situation. Now, I spend hours per day writing. Hours. I just type and type, whether for my side gig, the blog, or grants. Writer’s block doesn’t exist for me. If you’ve ever thought I talk too much, imagine how much more is happening in my head. It never stops.

    But time stops in the airport. I see people drinking a Bloody Mary at 5 a.m., and businesspeople typing furiously at 10 p.m., brows furrowed. I don’t stop. I can be whoever I want in this liminal space between locations, realities, and experiences. Isn’t that freeing? Airport magic.

    I used to shy away from admitting that part of the reason I enjoyed auditioning was because of the fun of travel. I love to see new places, eat at restaurants, and walk around town. Hiking mountains and eating ice cream potatoes. Talking to an older couple in matching Boise State gear at the bar. “You remind me of when I was young- you’re sitting here at the bar, eating a ribeye steak. You don’t need a man. You don’t care. I love that. You’re just being you.” The steak was fabulous, by the way.

    The ice cream potato in question. I knew you’d have questions. Boise, Idaho, May 16, 2024.

    My mom used to call me an energizer bunny, and I suppose that’s true. I don’t stop. But I also can’t handle silence. Maybe that’s another reason I love the airport– there’s always an underlying bustle, even during less busy times. I hate silence so much that I often play a podcast while writing articles. My headphones incessantly play when I run, walk, do chores, or drive. Sometimes, I even play podcasts I don’t care about when I sleep. God forbid I have a thought.

    But I still have thoughts. I have a million of them. I’ll never forget when my dad drove across the country to pick me up at my depressing apartment in Greensboro, North Carolina, in March 2020. My ankle was broken, and nobody knew how bad the pandemic would get, so he scooped me up and brought me back to Minnesota since I couldn’t drive.

    “What did you listen to on the way down?” I asked, kicking my giant boot onto the dashboard.

    “Nothing,” my dad answered. “Just me and my thoughts.”

    My dad drove 17 hours without turning on the radio. That sounds like my worst nightmare.

    Being alone, just me and my thoughts, started to wear on me in Germany. While I relished the solitude, it sometimes became too much. I wasn’t ready to sit with myself—the silence, the thoughts. But I also loved the bustle of public travel, even when the weather was bad or the train was late. There was always something exciting about going somewhere– that airport magic.

    In America, I’m only alone for the few hours per day I work from home. Even then, I’ve got Herbie, my happy Samoyed mix, to keep me company. As I stepped into the airport, I cried because familiar feelings hit me: the excitement of auditioning, the relief of being alone, and the anticipation that comes from traveling somewhere new. I was ready to be alone again, just for a little while.

    I don’t do well staying in one place for too long, which is why the airport is comforting. There’s undoubtedly something fun in store when I have to go to the airport to get there. While being home has been amazing, continuing to travel for my job is a part of what makes me happy. I have a less than 10% chance of getting the job at any given audition, so enjoying everything that surrounds the few minutes I spend in front of artistic and casting directors has been vital to my journey as an artist. 

    May the universe bring me back to the airport soon.

    Victoria

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  • The Miller’s Daughter Blog

    Sometimes, you have to go to Madagascar to go to Germany to go to Iowa. Right?

    Peep that standing ovation. From left to right: Jodi Goble, Jonathan Sturm, Julie Sturm, Chad Sonka, Victoria Erickson, Mario Arevalo, and Craig Irvin.
    Simon Estes Music Hall | Ames, Iowa | April 25, 2024.

    In June 2022, I had one truly unforgettable day. I even declared it at the time. “This is one of the best days of my life,” I said that evening, slamming another $2 glass of red wine while laughing over our increasingly chaotic games of Uno. We arrived at the lodge in what felt like the Malagasy wilderness but was only 40 miles outside the capital of Antananarivo, colloquially known as Tana, the evening before.

    Mantasoa Lodge is a series of quaint cabins surrounded by garden paths known for its proximity to Lemur Island. For those concerned about the ethics of such a place, it’s not a zoo: Lemur Island is a natural habitat where lemurs rescued by the illegal pet trade go to live out the rest of their days in peace. However, they are also very used to humans, leading to interactions like this:

    The best day ever. June 11, 2022.

    Or this:

    He told me which photos were Insta worthy. Lemur Island, June 11, 2022.

    After spending the morning getting crawled on by lemurs, we had lunch overlooking the lake. After Shelley and I got massages in our cabin, we spent the rest of the afternoon playing terrible games of tennis on the sunny courts, getting increasingly creative with how we fished rogue tennis balls out of the tall hedges.

    Happily sweaty from tennis. Lake Mantasoa, June 11, 2022.

    Finally, we found Anne and Jodi lounging in Adirondack chairs by the lake. Jodi found inspiration to write her latest songs, and Anne blissfully enjoyed a Malagasy beer. The four of us sat together, watching the sun set over Lake Mantasoa as we prepared to go inside for a wine-soaked evening of Uno, tasty new dishes, and a twisted ankle (so it wasn’t a PERFECT day.) 

    I received some pushback at the time for going to Madagascar. I needed to focus on getting my vocal technique flawless and being launched into stardom. Going to Madagascar certainly wasn’t going to help my career! What a waste of time unless I wanted to treat it like a vacation. But it would be better to stay home and practice, I was told.

    What a complete and total lie.

    Anne, Shelley, and I arriving to Mantasoa Lodge, June 10, 2022.

    Sure, the magical day at Lemur Island and the Mantasoa Lodge was certainly a vacation. We had no concerts, masterclasses, or outreach performances that weekend. But alongside my best friend Shelley, who I wouldn’t even know without Basil, the founder of Really Spicy Opera, I spent the day getting to know two new colleagues and friends: Anne, who grew up in the States but has lived and worked as a singer in Vienna for years, and Jodi, a fabulous (dare I say Grammy Award-nominated) composer and pianist who lived just down the road from me in Ames, Iowa. And it wasn’t a deliberately schmoozy networking situation; it was just a hang. You know, the fun kind of situation.

    The Shifting Soprano

    Shelley doing an impromptu performance with students at a Malagasy orphanage. June 18, 2022.

    Fast forward. Long-time readers of the blog know the name, The Shifting Soprano, comes from a shift in goals and mindset I was forced to adopt when I was diagnosed with a vocal polyp in October 2022. However, I’d like to think the nuggets of this shift were planted in June 2022 when I had an unabashedly good time with a group of artists with no strings attached. We were just hanging out. 

    The story I’ve told before bears repeating here: the following day, Basil asked me in my post-wine haze what project I would do with grant money. Unlike the previously perfect day, it was raining on the lake. My head ached. We prepared to depart. Somewhat annoyed, I answered, “I’m not creative. I just want to have a standard career.”

    I was determined to develop an idea by our next meal. I thought of something I had mused on in 2019, back in graduate school. “I think it would be cool to do a version of Die schöne Müllerin that focused on The Miller’s Daughter,” I mused, “maybe as art songs, but it could also be an opera, with a different singer for each of the characters in the cycle.” And that was it, for the time being. I just wanted to give an idea so I didn’t look like an idiot.

    Another fast forward. Basil had me writing grants for all kinds of ideas: a Fulbright, multiple DAAD grants (one of which I got), and artist grants in Minnesota. Grant writing was a new muscle I was working out, but I was lucky to have ample guidance along the way. I started writing grants in October 2022, when The Shifting Soprano began. Writing gave me a purpose when I couldn’t sing, when I was grappling with where I had gone wrong, and when I had to figure out what the hell to do next.

    From Madagascar to Iowa

    Pangur was very helpful in making jewelry and developing ideas for The Miller’s Daughter. Hubbard, Iowa, January 15, 2023.

    In January 2023, I decided to do the Met competition for the last time since I had just turned 30 in December 2022. Turning 30 was a massive failure for me. I told anyone who would listen that I would quit if I hadn’t “made it” in opera by the time I turned 30. I was unwilling to hear folks who said that “making it” in the way I anticipated only happened for less than 1% of working singers and that there was more than one way to have a career. “Maybe for you,” I stupidly thought, “but I have failed.”

    The trouble with turning 30 was that I didn’t actually feel like quitting singing. I thought I’d feel worn out and ready to leave the arts behind, but I didn’t. I still wanted it more than ever. What 30 allowed me to do, slowly, painfully, was open up other ideas of what it meant to be a musician, however resistant I was initially to those ideas.

    I didn’t want to do the Met competition in Minnesota for a laundry list of reasons, but I did want to throw my hat in the ring one last time. My next choice was North Dakota-Manitoba, but my stalwart coach from undergrad was playing a recital the weekend of the Met competition. Then, I remembered Jodi from Madagascar: didn’t she always play the Met in Iowa? Didn’t she say that?

    Jodi and I hadn’t spoken since June 2022, but I sent her a careful text asking if she’d be willing to play for me. I booked a hotel in Ames, Iowa, preparing to spend one night in the campus town and head out right after the Met. However, days before the competition, I received an audition for the Lyric Opera of Kansas City, just another three and a half hours down the road from Ames. The Met competition was on Saturday, and the audition was on Tuesday. “Just stay with me after the Met,” Jodi offered, “we can make beaded jewelry and wintry soups and just hang.” Hang. Like we did in Madagascar. No obligations, no schmoozing, just fun.

    I didn’t know Jodi well, but I liked her. I knew she treated me like a colleague rather than a student or a client, which, as a singer, I still wasn’t used to. I took her up on the offer. I didn’t win the Met on Saturday or get a contract in Kansas City, but I did get a conversation started as I opened the second bottle of wine.

    “I always thought Die schöne Müllerin should be a chamber opera,” I mused, taking a bite of chocolate alongside another swig of wine. I gauged Jodi’s response. She agreed, expanding on the idea. We talked through the songs and imagined what it would look like as an opera from The Miller’s Daughter’s point of view.

    “If I wrote some grants and we got money, would you compose it?” I asked, maybe a little too straightforwardly. But Jodi agreed. If we could get money, we’d do it.

    I didn’t know I would go to Germany until April 2023 and had frankly forgotten about my DAAD proposal; this grant-writing business was just a hail Mary for my dying creative endeavors. We applied for various grants, and finally, in July 2023, I got a phone call from Jodi just after getting new headshots done in anticipation of my travels to Germany. We had gotten the grant to produce The Miller’s Daughter. I was going to Germany and premiering a show. It was happening. We just had to do it.

    The Miller’s Daughter

    The only photo I ever took of the road from Hamburg to Berlin even though I coached there nearly every Tuesday for close to six months. What a pity. October 24, 2023.

    A little idea born out of haste in the Malagasy countryside and developed on a cold winter’s night in Ames, Iowa, became The Miller’s Daughter. Jodi wrote and orchestrated devilishly fast; by late 2023, the score was complete. I learned my vocal lines on the bus to Berlin every Tuesday, some of which I had written. I always teared up as I listened to the godforsaken MIDI file while looking out the window at the bright green German landscape to “The Daughter of Waters,” Jodi’s incredible aria for soprano. “How am I going to get through this?” I thought. One famously cannot cry and sing.

    Spoiler alert: I did not cry and sing. Simon Estes Music Hall, April 25, 2024.

    But I am also the daughter of waters

    Your winding river flows in me

    Past the forest, beyond the horizon (this movie moment gets me every time. Dang it, Jodi.)

    On to the vast and boundless sea.

    I would float like a leaf on your current

    Bound for adventure

    Flung far from my tree

    Bold as a siren (crying again)

    If only for a moment (please don’t look at me on the bus)

    For just one last summer

    I long to be 

    Free.

    I said in my program note that I wasn’t sure where I ended and The Miller’s Daughter began, but here I was, on my own adventure, unsure of what came next. I didn’t know I would spend six months in Germany, the birthplace of this song cycle, when Jodi and I wrote our grant. But here I was, living out the fruits of my labor on a bus between Hamburg and Berlin. Flung quite far from my tree.

    Bold as sirens after our Miller’s Daughter preview in Munich. Reaktorhalle Concert Hall, March 15, 2024.

    Returning from Germany was weird. I had successfully performed multiple concerts throughout the country, aided heavily by my amazing colleagues, many of whom I met in or because of my time in Madagascar. I made friends and saw amazing sights. But I wasn’t catapulted to traditional stardom, as some of you may have noticed.

    I received positive, we’ll-keep-an-eye-on-you type feedback; I was told some of the worst things a singer could ever hear after an admittedly lousy audition. I heard repeatedly that we have enough lyric sopranos on our roster, but we’ll keep you in mind. I was told my German was good for an American. I was also told my German was terrible. I got my hopes up and dashed within days of each other.

    Between the work I did with German colleagues and coaches, organizing my own concerts, and performing The Miller’s Daughter, something happened to me that is worth everything. No, I am not signed with any German agencies. I have not been chosen for any fest contracts (yet??). But somehow, after doing my own thing and receiving nothing but positive feedback from everyone involved, I actually started to believe in myself. Like actually. For the first time. For real.

    Performing in a new music showcase in Munich. March 14, 2024.

    So when I stepped onstage in my sage dirndl purchased in Munich just weeks beforehand, I didn’t feel nervous. I was just excited to share what Jodi and I had made (with ample support from Schubert, of course!) My mom told me afterward that it was the freest she had ever seen me onstage. That I sounded and looked at home. And I was. I didn’t have anything to prove because I knew I would sound fantastic and was proud of what Jodi and I created together. There wasn’t a question in my mind.

    I might be biased, but I think what we did in a Midwestern town was special. The few hundred audience members at our little show seemed to feel the same way. I’ve been asked when this will happen again, and I refuse to let The Miller’s Daughter become a one-and-done situation. So, we’re going to make it happen. I have a few ideas up my sleeve. I’m not intimidated by my ideas anymore.

    Don’t you want to see this crew in action again?? Della Viti Wine Bar, Ames, Iowa, April 25, 2024.

    The Miller’s Daughter may have ended in tragedy, but it marks a new beginning for me. Like The Miller’s Daughter, I’m not sure what comes next. Living with the uncertainty is part of this crazy career. All I know is that my entire world was turned upside down because of one little idea from a gig I was told not to take. Because of lemurs, cheap wine, and Uno. Because I enjoy traveling to new places. Because I chose to follow what was fun instead of what I was supposed to do. Because I just like to sing, and it doesn’t matter if it’s Puccini or an unknown student composer’s music.

    Thanks to everyone who supported The Miller’s Daughter so far. I passionately hope our one performance wasn’t the end.

    Victoria

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  • TPD Official Ranking

    How much sad do you think I have in me?

    She said, “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart,” and she wasn’t kidding.

    I will never have the privilege of listening to The Tortured Poets Department (and its subsequent Anthology) for the first time again. When I woke up to 31 new songs, I immediately began cramming– I even woke up to multiple messages asking when my ranking would be posted. However, after days of listening to this album nonstop, I regret jumping in with stress rather than curiosity and joy. There’s a weird amount of pressure I couldn’t have anticipated when I posted a casual (but decidedly non-negotiable) ranking after Red, released in 2012. It was fun, playful — unserious.

    But I take Taylor Swift very seriously. If you’ve been waiting for this post, you do, too. There are infinitely more Swifties who are intimately more ravenous, meticulous, and observant than me. You’ve been scouring the internet for memes, hot takes, and reviews since early Friday morning– I know you have. I didn’t bother to avoid them this time. And yet– here you are. Waiting for my stupid ranking.

    I give my opinion as a human who feels more than a musician who thinks. I give my opinion as a woman who tends to romanticize and catastrophize. I give my opinion as someone who thinks what Taylor Swift has to say about the human experience is poignant and valid. Taylor has given a voice to the female experience, yet her words aren’t limited to that large and diverse group of individuals. I can’t imagine what it’s like to hold that weight. It seems Taylor isn’t sure what to do with that weight, as evidenced on TPD.

    Even as she sings breakup songs, it’s never really about the breakup. If you can’t hear that, you’re right: this music isn’t for you. It’s ok.

    It might be self-indulgent to release 31 songs. Taylor has a lot to say. I understand that– I also have too much to say. I have so much to say that I became a writer in addition to a singer. Writing trims away the fat from my endless stream of consciousness in conversation– I tend to throw spaghetti at the wall to see what sticks when I speak. In writing, I can take the time to find what ends up stuck to the wall. I imagine Taylor might feel the same way, except this time, she kept the spaghetti that fell to the floor. For example, “I Hate It Here” did not stick, but it still offers a valuable window into a woman who has profoundly shaped the psyche of millions worldwide. This endless creativity comes from a woman who infamously relies on her mother and the quill of her tortured pen (or perhaps the abandoned typewriter) for therapy, making the manic messaging in TPD unsurprising.

    Some say this album is a failure. This album is the ending of a long chapter– there’s nothing left, as she hinted at in “The Manuscript.” I’m not sure where Taylor will go after this, but if we get a whole album of “So High School” or “The Alchemy,” I will be profoundly disappointed. Taylor Swift writes best when she is self-referential, scorned, and adequately inspired. I wish her all the happiness her billions and Travis’ puppy dog demeanor can buy her, but as a tortured poet, I wonder if she feels most herself when she’s a little bit sad. Regardless of what this album represents (I personally think it paints a picture of a woman who hit her emotional and mental rock bottom, but like any good Taylor Swift fan, I may be projecting), Taylor is still clearly communicating her lyrical genius. To say anything else is laughably incorrect.

    I don’t think this album deserves the misguided ire of critics. The only musician Taylor is competing against is herself– by choosing not to edit, she has allowed her dearest millions of fans to stare into her soul if they so choose. This is what she does best. It’s not a hot take to dislike Taylor Swift. I pity that you’re unable to access the feelings she’s offered me through her music, including a great majority of this album.

    I hope she’s telling the truth when she says this chapter is closed– it’s time for Taylor to close the folklore/evermore/Midnights/TPD era and move on to whatever is next. Jack Antonoff, thank you for your services, but we need a break. However, we all know that when it comes to Taylor, nothing is ever really over, as exemplified in “thanK you aIMee.” That woman can hold a grudge. I would say Kim Kardashian must love that she lives in Taylor’s head rent-free, but I really don’t think she cares.

    But you’re not here to read the intro to my ranking. You want me to get to it. Very well. It’s going to be quick and dirty because 1) there are 31 songs and 2) I’m in tech week for a show. However, as usual, these rankings are OFFICIAL AND NON-NEGOTIABLE. Thank you for your time.

    Oh, and one more thing. As I started writing more professionally, I tried to be more critical, thoughtful, and intelligent in my Taylor Swift reviews. However, I’m tired, and I’d like to have a bit of fun. For those who have begun to take my writing more seriously, I apologize and will be back with commentary on The Miller’s Daughter next week. For those of you who enjoy my quick and dirty stream-of-consciousness rankings: welcome.

    31. Robin- who?

    30. Peter- sir?

    29. Cassandra- ok this is getting ridiculous

    28. Chloe or Sam or Sophia or Marcus- who are these people

    27. The Albatross- I kind of like the beat in this one. YOU’RE IN TERRIBLE DANGER me @ all times

    26. Guilty as Sin?- is this about masturbation? I read somewhere it is. Please discuss. 

    25. The Alchemy- if this is what a Travis album will be I’m not in but I will still be supportive

    24. I Hate It Here- listen, I know she’s getting flack for that 1830s line. I think we all know what’s going on here: Taylor Swift watched Bridgerton.

    23. The Bolter- I’ve seen this one is pretty popular, so maybe it’ll be a grower, but so far, she’s not a shower

    22. So High School- After the midnight release, one of my friends said, “I’m so glad she’s done talking about high school.” Fast forward to 2 a.m. I’m glad she and Travis are happy you go bb

    21. The Prophecy- it’s fine!

    20. imgonnagetyouback—HEAVILY 1975 CODED. I’m not going to point it out every time it happens, but from the song title styling to the fact that the instrumentals sound like Looking for Somebody (To Love), No, really. Listen to the intro to the 1975 song and then this one and tell me they’re not the same song. Do it. DO IT.

    19. How Did It End?- it’s nice, and I’m vibing more as I listen.

    18. The Manuscript- Thank you for the gift of 31 songs, Taylor. Really. Now, please never do this to me again. 

    17. thanK you aIMee- I really can’t believe she isn’t over this yet? But I love knowing how savage Andrea is. Thank you, Kim, for truly giving us the renaissance of Taylor Swift. She is the gift that keeps on giving.

    16. Fortnight- the best part of this song is when I really thought she and Post Malone were going to make out in the video. Would’ve scored higher if they did.

    15. Fresh Out The Slammer- did she really call Matty right after breaking up with Joe? I know we don’t like Matty anymore, but y’all know we have history and I just…I would die knowing this, so I’m going to say yes

    14. The Tortured Poets Department- it’s a bop. I honestly really like it, I just don’t think it’s the most inspired song on the album. It’s…sparkly?

    13. The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived- I’m so glad to know Matty’s…manhood…is disappointing.

    12. loml- she’s got to be KIDDING ME WITH THIS LOSS OF MY LIFE NONSENSE I hate her

    11. Florida!!!- this is a weird song. And I love it.

    10. I Look in People’s Windows- hear me out: this song is amazing. She be creepin’!

    9. My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys- now we’re GETTING SOMEWHERE!!!!!!!! This is such a jam. Thank you, Taylor, truly. Her vocals are almost a little Lana in much of this album, including this bop. Would we be surprised if Taylor binge-listened to Lana during her heartbreak? Not at all.

    8. I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can)- is that a bit of TWAAAAANG I detect? A bit of country???? I love this song and, unfortunately, relate quite…intimately.

    7. But Daddy I Love Him- Taylor calling out her fans for driving Matty away is so delicious I can’t handle it AAAAHAHAHHAHAHA but outside that, it is a GREAT Taylor Swift song reminiscent of the Fearless and Speak Now eras. I’m having Matty Healy’s baby JUST KIDDING GUYS IT WAS A FUNNY JOKE

    6. Down Bad- LET’S GOOOOO!!!! Is Taylor’s use of internet slang in song titles cringe? Yes. Do they produce some of her best songs?? Also yes. I, too, have been down bad while crying at the gym.

    5. So Long, London- Track 5 in fifth place, baby! Her churchy little intro and cutting lyrics about stolen youth make this a heartbreaking diss track worthy of one of the top spots on this album. As it turns out, Taylor does not possess infinite sad.

    4. Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?- I think we all are, Taylor. 

    3. I Can Do It With a Broken Heart- This was my initial favorite. “I cry a lot, but I am so productive, it’s an art,” made me laugh out loud by myself. Then, I thought about it too much and also started to cry. Taylor Swift, baby!

    2. The Black Dog- Why wasn’t this on the original record? This piece is incredible. Plus: now we know Taylor uses Find My Friends. I hope it’s shitty in The Black Dog.

    1. Clara Bow- This one really snuck up on me. There’s something about hearing Taylor sing her own name that scratches an itch in my brain. She ended the original TPD album with this piece for a reason, and it’s much stronger than The Manuscript. I’m too tired to wax poetic on why this is my favorite, but after 31 songs, I think Taylor’s genius in this piece speaks for itself.

    Fin.

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  • The Poop Blog

    The Poop Blog

    Yes, that’s the title I settled on.

    I brought the German weather with me to Madrid, but it was still amazing. Parque del Buen Retiro, February 8, 2024.

    Nativity scenes are a common tradition in the Christian faith. As Christmas approaches, trees are decorated, and figurines of the Wise Men, Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus are dusted off. However, in Catalan tradition, there’s an additional figure among the goats and sheep: the caganer. It’s unclear exactly when and why the tradition began, but the practice has existed since the 18th century. Like families who hide a pickle in the Christmas tree, it’s common to hide the caganer within an extensive Nativity scene to see who can find it first.

    Oh, I forgot to mention what a caganer even is. El Caganer translates to “the pooper,” and the figurine depicts a peasant man with his trousers down, taking a giant dump. While the image of a man dropping a deuce in the Nativity scene could be interpreted as sacrilegious, other explanations exist for the tradition. Feces fertilize the earth, and fertilization represents new life, as Jesus did when He was born to save humanity, according to Christian beliefs.

    I bet you weren’t expecting this from my blog. Here is a traditional caganer. However, many caganer figurines are in the likeness of pop culture figures like US presidents, NBA players, Disney characters, and more.

    If I had a series of figurines depicting the past month in Germany, there would undoubtedly be a major pooper squatting in the background. I received funding from the DAAD-Respekt & Wertschätzung Stiftung to execute my project, and while this is truly my first rodeo, I didn’t know the rodeo business would be so hard! Writing the grant and receiving funding was the easy part. Securing composers, setting deadlines, giving feedback, and organizing rehearsals are just some administrative aspects I wasn’t expecting to be so difficult. 

    In Spain, I received news that three composers had chosen to drop out of my project. They had their reasons, and despite efforts to convince them to stay, I could not sway their decision. What they didn’t realize was I suddenly was left out to dry for a program I had to do because I had received funding to do so. Furthermore, I wouldn’t let my hard work and traveling halfway across the globe go to waste. I don’t fault them– the recital is my problem, not theirs. But a problem it was. There was a caganer in my Nativity scene.

    Pianist Friederike Sieber and I after our performance at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin. February 7, 2024.

    This caganer gave birth (tee hee) to new life in my performance. In addition to the fabulous Yixuan Hu, Aigerim Seilova, and Dominic Wills, I was able to bring in Really Spicy Opera’s Aria Institute composers and engage one more pianist, my stalwart U.S. Embassy collaborator, Friederike Sieber, in addition to the fantastic Joanna Sielicka and Xingyu Lu. Together with my friend and colleague Anne Wieben, we will perform the international new opera program of my dreams. Thanks to Really Spicy Opera, the DAAD-Stiftung, Professor Elmar Lampson, and my increasingly creative problem-solving skills, my caganer fertilized the earth and opened my eyes to new possibilities.

    La sagrada familia in Barcelona. February 12, 2024.

    Poop metaphors aside, the last month has been a whirlwind. When I put the roadblocks in Germany out of my mind, Spain became fabulous. My friend and I walked for miles per day through the alleyways of Barcelona and gardens of Madrid, snacking on tapas, paella, and olives along the way. We made friends in a karaoke bar on Superbowl Sunday, blasting Taylor Swift and speaking bad Spanish. Walking along the beach and revisiting high school Spanish class’ La Catrina were the icing on a much-needed cake.

    La sagrada familia was just as breathtakingly flushed with color as expected, and Spanish wine tasted better than I could have imagined. People walked more slowly and spent lazy afternoons smoking and sipping sangria in cafes. I would say it was a well-deserved break, but I was putting out dumpster fires and working while I was there. Regardless, the caganer did his job.

    What is opera, and why does it matter?

    The magical Parc de la Ciutadella in Barcelona. February 11, 2024.

    Giving singer-informed feedback and reflecting on composers dropping from my project while on the picturesque train from Madrid to Barcelona allowed me to reflect on and evaluate what opera really is and if it even matters. Those following the blog for a long time may remember my musings on whether Les Mis is an opera (it’s not), so this topic has been on my mind for a while.

    So what do I think opera is? In addition to preparing a concert of new works, I have been surveying German operagoers’ preferences and habits as audience members. While there have been varying opinions on sets, costumes, styles, and performance practice, patrons of all ages and backgrounds prioritize one factor over everything else: excellent singing.

    Operatic singing is impressive, and great operatic singing can be described as a full, consistent sound able to sing over an orchestra without amplification. While controversy surrounding modern vocal technique exists in the operatic community, even post-golden age singers continue this tradition to some degree.

    Operatic singing is characterized by vibrato in the tone, and a strictly “straight” tone with no shimmer wouldn’t be operatic singing. Straight tone can be used as a technical tool, as the vibrato should naturally come into the sound and not be forced by the singer. The use of vibrato in operatic singing is largely for acoustic reasons: operatic music is performed in a larger venue with multiple instruments. Singing styles that use little or no vibrato are either artificially amplified through microphones or require many voices singing together, such as a choir. 

    As music has evolved, so has opera. There are operas in many languages with topics expanding beyond those of heterosexual love. Contemporary opera stretches the bounds of Western tonality and instrumentation. Harmonies more indicative of jazz or musical theatre crept their way into operatic scores. These musical evolutions are welcome and exciting– opera deserves to evolve as much as other musical forms. However, operatic singing is characterized by an operatic sound.

    Groundbreaking, I know. This shouldn’t be a wild thought. Even folks who don’t regularly consume opera know what an operatic voice sounds like. As soon as modern musical theatre/pop techniques and choral singing styles are introduced, it’s not opera anymore. Classically trained singers with a solid technique won’t struggle to project in a large hall with a full orchestra. Alternative vocal techniques won’t serve singers in this setting, and it is, therefore, no longer opera.

    I’ve spent a long time learning to sing like this, and even on a bad day, it’s impressive to the untrained ear. Excellent singing is the reason people will continue to see opera. Fixing opera won’t happen by employing opera singers (some opera singers do crossover styles, so don’t come for me here) to perform in Hairspray or prioritizing an avant-garde staging of La traviata over hiring the best singers. Great singing will always attract audiences. The academization of classical singing is the biggest obstacle to the opera business. I’m not seeing an academization of Broadway. Stop treating opera like a relic in a museum and start treating it like the beautiful mix of high art and entertainment that it is.

    If opera singers can commit to their sound as confidently as Elsa in Frozen the Musical, people will come. However, opera needs to stop attempting to be something it’s not. By being precisely what it is, opera will survive. Sure, ticket prices need to come down, and the stuffiness and elitism of the industry need to be unpacked, but the actual singing makes opera great. Otherwise, we’re just crapping all over what opera is by trying to guess what the public will want. The public who consumes opera wants excellent singing.

    I came to Germany for many reasons, each more self-centered than the last. I wanted to be challenged, and I have been. I have been humbled, humiliated, invigorated, inspired, and frustrated. My patience has grown, and my creativity has soared. My commitment to opera has evolved, and I always, always carry an umbrella, even when it’s not supposed to rain. Most importantly, if there’s no caganer in the Nativity scene, there’s nothing to find, no problem to solve, no one to fertilize the earth and bring forth new life. While my travels to Madrid and Barcelona certainly didn’t constitute a break, through the caganer, the proverbial pooper, I found a new perspective. I also had a much-needed laugh.

    See you next week for more on my DAAD-Stiftung sponsored performance, preparation for Munich, and updates on The Miller’s Daughter as I enter my final month in Germany.

    Victoria

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  • The Wanderer

    My own hero’s journey, continued.

    My seat at the Staatsoper for Madama Butterfly. January 24, 2024.

    I waffled back and forth on whether to go to the opera on Wednesday night, numbering a bevy of excuses. “It’s windy,” I said to myself. Very true. The winds in Fargo-Moorhead pale in comparison to the face-ripping gales of Hamburg. “I still have time to get surveys,” I assured myself. Then I realized I had the chance to sit in the second row in one of the best opera houses in the world, free of charge. It’s incredible how quickly we acclimate to our lifestyles.

    Wind be damned, my own nerves at surveying Germans about audience engagement be damned. I headed to the Staatsoper, covering my ears at the tractors blaring outside. The farmers and transportation workers are still striking, which is a thing that seems to happen often and actually produce results in Europe. I’ll be thinking of these tractors when my hearing starts to go in forty years.

    Wandering into the Staatsoper, I hung my bright green coat (Die liebe Farbe or the beloved color) at the Garderobe and prepared my clipboard. Why did I think surveying German strangers was a good idea? Walking up to folks ready to enjoy themselves at the opera would’ve made me nervous in the United States, but engaging Germans, who are not necessarily known for their warmth, in German, which I barely speak, was a whole new level. As a professor at the Hochschule observed, “That’s very brave.” Highest praise I try to emulate, but most days, I feel like a coward in most ways.

    At the Staatsoper, I typically approach someone sitting or standing by themselves. The idea of interrupting a conversation or glass of wine is too embarrassing to fathom. So, I saw a lovely woman sitting, looking slightly friendlier than most of the German folks of a certain age. We locked eyes. I went in for the kill.

    “Hallo! Ich bin an der Hochschule für Musik und Theater. Könnten Sie bitte an einer kurzen Umfrage teilzunehmen?” I asked, meekly. It’s always a little meek. Coward.

    She responded that she would gladly take my survey and motioned for me to sit by her. After (badly) explaining the survey in (bad) German, I gave her some space to complete the questionnaire. She kept looking over at me and told me to come back. I did.

    Asking why I left, I (attempted to respond) responded by saying it was an anonymous survey, and I figured people didn’t want me looking over their shoulder (except I couldn’t remember the word for shoulder. It’s literally Schultern. So close.) Well, my new friend wanted to walk me through every answer. As we continued chatting, I shared that I was an opera singer and was here on a grant. Finally, she interrupted me. “Just speak English,” she said, “Your English is much better than your German.” Embarrassed, I conceded. Then, she asked me if I drank wine. I laughed. Of course, I do. We proceeded upstairs, where she ordered us each a glass of wine for intermission and told me to meet her there. I asked her name, and she introduced herself. I did the same. 

    “Don’t you have more surveys to do?” she asked.

    I was dismissed.

    After Act 1 of Puccini’s Madama Butterfly, I met my new friend at the designated spot. She stood her ground as a big German man began to encroach on our space. “This is our place,” she declared in German. He backed off. I loved how bold she was. A resident of Hamburg for fifty years, my new friend has traveled the world, mostly by herself, working for a well-known international company. I have so many questions left to ask her. We exchanged contact information and are going to dinner next week.

    Some days in Germany are mundane, like the one I detailed in my blog post from a couple of weeks ago. But some days are electric. I didn’t even want to go to the opera on Wednesday. However, if I hadn’t gone, I wouldn’t have met this amazing patron. I just had to push myself.

    Observations from a curious American

    Spaetzle is more of a Bavarian dish, but I found a place in Hamburg. Score! January 22, 2024.
    • This observation includes a question to those who are European or have lived in Europe. My food does not stay fresh very long here. I wonder if this is because food is treated with fewer chemicals and preservatives or if refrigerators are less cold. Alongside not wanting to carry heavy groceries from the store, which is a 10-minute walk from my apartment, this difference contributes to my bi-weekly trips.
    • There are so many language observations I’ve made, but I won’t bore you all with the details. For example: the word einfach means “easy.” But it can also mean simply, plainly, just, or straightforward. Think of how many English words mean two completely different things: for example, piece can mean a slice of cake or a song.
    • I went to Miniatur Wunderland on Monday, the world’s most extensive model railway system. My favorite part was looking at the entire city of Hamburg in miniature, but it also featured scenes from Austria, Switzerland, Scandinavia, other parts of Germany, Italy, and even the United States. Apparently, the German idea of America is McDonald’s semi trucks, Mount Rushmore, the Western desert, and Las Vegas. Love that for us.
    Behold: A German impression of America. January 22, 2024.

    Die schöne Müllerin meets The Miller’s Daughter

    Mein Schatz hat’s Grün so gern. January 27, 2024.

    As I prepare for The Miller’s Daughter in April, I’m excited to share more about how Schubert’s original work interacts with mine and Jodi Goble’s interpretation. If you missed last week’s blog post, I would suggest going HERE first.

    I rehearsed for my upcoming recital (unrelated to The Miller’s Daughter, but hear me out) with an incredible Liedpianist in Hamburg on Friday, and I was shocked at how much learning (some) of the language and working with a German pianist makes a difference in Lied interpretation. It’s a lot to ask young singers to learn French, Italian, and German. We can only do so much.

    However, actually knowing some German on a practical level has been unbelievable. I don’t have to write in so many translations with German Lied or opera– I just understand it. Singing “Er, der Herrlichste von allen” yesterday just felt…right. It made me want to sing Frauenliebe all over again, just like I did at my senior recital. Would 22-year-old me have guessed I’d be singing excerpts from my (second) favorite song cycle in Germany less than a decade later? I don’t think so. I’m so honored.

    This renewal in my excitement for German Lieder coincides perfectly with the premiere of The Miller’s Daughter. If you know nothing, don’t let this scare you. They’re just songs. Let’s dig in together.

    The tracklist for Die schöne Müllerin by Franz Schubert:

    Das Wandern (Wandering)

    Wohin? (Where to?)

    Halt! (Stop!)

    Danksagung an den Bach (Thanksgiving to the Brook)

    Am Feierabend (After Work)

    Der Neugierige (The Curious One)

    Ungeduld (Impatience)

    Morgengruß (Morning Greeting)

    Des Müllers Blumen (The Miller’s Flowers)

    Tränenregen (Shower of Tears)

    Mein! (Mine!)

    Pause

    Mit dem grünen Lautenbande (With the Lute’s Green Ribbon)

    Der Jäger (The Hunter. I bet you didn’t know Jäger means hunter. So Jägermeister = hunter master)

    Eifersucht und Stolz (Jealousy and Pride)

    Die liebe Farbe (The Beloved Color)

    Die böse Farbe (The Hateful Color)

    Trockne Blumen (Withered Flowers)

    Der Müller und der Bach (The Miller and the Brook)

    Des Baches Wiegenlied (The Brook’s Lullaby)

    My mind groups the first three songs together, so let’s hop to it.

    In Das Wandern, Wohin?, and Halt!, we are introduced to The Wanderer, the main character in the original song cycle. The Wanderer comes across a mill and a brook, which he quickly personifies.

    Oxford Dictionary Translations:

    Das Wandern

    To wander is the miller’s delight;

    to wander!

    A poor miller he must be

    who never thought of wandering,

    of wandering.

    We have learnt it from the water,

    from the water!

    It never rests, by day or night,

    but is always intent on wandering,

    the water.

    We can see it in the wheels too,

    the wheels!

    They never care to stand still

    but turn tirelessly the whole day long,

    the wheels.

    The stones themselves, heavy as they are,

    the stones!

    They join in the merry dance and seek to move still faster,

    the stones.

    O wandering, my delight,

    O wandering!

    Master and mistress,

    let me go my way in peace,

    and wander.

    Wohin?

    I heard a little brook babbling

    from its rocky source,

    babbling down to the valley,

    so bright, so wondrously clear.

    I know not what came over me,

    nor who prompted me,

    but I too had to go down

    with my wanderer’s staff.

    Down and ever onwards,

    always following the brook

    as it babbled ever brighter

    and ever clearer.

    Is this, then, my path?

    O brook, say where it leads.

    With your babbling

    you have quite befuddled my mind.

    Why do I speak of babbling?

    That is no babbling.

    It is the water nymphs singing

    as they dance their round far below.

    Let them sing, my friend; let the brook babble

    and follow it cheerfully.

    For mill-wheels turn

    in every clear brook.

    Halt!

    I see a mill gleaming

    amid the alders;

    the roar of mill-wheels

    cuts through the babbling and singing.

    Welcome, welcome,

    sweet song of the mill!

    How inviting the house looks, 

    how sparkling its windows!

    And how brightly the sun 

    shines from the sky. 

    Now, dear little brook,

    is this what you meant?

    For your listening pleasure:

    Bonus points if you can name the painting.
    I didn’t want to post ALL JONAS, but he actually sings in the OG keys, which is vital. More on that in a later post.
    Do you hear the mill wheel turning?

    In The Miller’s Daughter, “Das Wandern” sets the scene for the drama. Some of my favorite musical introductions, such as “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof and “Belle” from Beauty and the Beast involve a straightforward intro to the cast of characters with a rousing chorus, and that’s what we did here. The audience first meets The Wanderer, followed by the chorus of fellow Apprentices, an imagined addition to the original song cycle. The Brook, voiced by a soprano/alto chorus, interrupts the Wandern tune with original music by Jodi, clearly establishing her as a main character in our tale. Finally, The Miller’s Daughter introduces herself, craving adventure, love, and autonomy. It’s very much an “I want adventure in the great, wide somewhere!” moment. 

    Jodi Goble + Victoria Erickson’s Das Wandern lyrics:

    THE WANDERER

    I love to wander everywhere, to wander! 

    To move myself from here to there, I wander.

    To search for what I have not seen and find out what my life may mean,

    I wander, I wander.

    THE APPRENTICES (TENOR/BASS CHORUS)

    The mill wheels make a mighty crash!

    THE WANDERER

    Like thunder!

    THE APPRENTICES

    Like thunder! They beat and break and cleave and clash and plunder!

    THE WANDERER
    Such wonder!

    THE WANDERER + APPRENTICES

    They grind the grain beneath their tread,

    They crush the wheat to bake the bread. 

    They raise the roof to wake the dead from slumber!

    THE BROOK (SOPRANO/ALTO CHORUS)

    And we are the waters that turn the wheels,

    Quiet and fluid and pushing them on.

    We are the waters, the daughters.

    Always behind them but already gone.

    THE MILLER’S DAUGHTER

    I’d love to wander everywhere this summer!

    Beyond the trees, beyond where I’ve discovered!

    I’d wade into that field of green,

    I’d find a land to crown me queen.

    That’s new, exciting, fresh, unseen.

    BOOM! Transition into “Wohin?”.

    Our version of “Wohin?” is a duet between The Brook and The Wanderer, solidifying their friendship and encouraging The Wanderer to obtain a job at the mill. In “Halt!,” we are introduced to The Hunter, who catches The Miller’s Daughter’s eye while searching for adventure past the mill where she grew up. Unbeknownst to The Hunter and The Wanderer, The Miller’s Daughter struggles with her own demons as the men sing in unison, “She is meant to be mine.” After The Hunter and The Wanderer declare their intentions, The Miller’s Daughter sings her original aria, which I will premiere in Berlin on February 7.

    Hero’s journeys are usually confined to men, but our Miller’s Daughter gets one, too. To be continued.

    Victoria

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  • The Miller’s Daughter: A Soprano’s [Borrowed] Manifesto

    A feminist expansion on Schubert’s “Die schöne Müllerin”

    “Focus more on doing what is really, really fun instead of doing all this stuff you hate because it’s what you’re supposed to do.”

    The Miller’s Daughter. Art by the incomparable Jodi Goble.

    I’m going to take good advice from my best confidante, so this blog post is going to be a little different, or rather, it will hearken back to Feminist Fridays because I’ve got something really, really fun to share. Pour yourself a glass of wine and put on your music history hats, folks. This is the blonde soprano version of Ms. Frizzle from The Magic School Bus.

    My favorite song cycle of all time is Die schöne Müllerin by Franz Schubert. To maximize our enjoyment of this Lieder lesson, let’s momentarily go to a vocab corner:

    Song cycle: related songs intended to be performed as a complete set, tied together by narrative. In this way, I suppose an album like The Decemberists’ The Hazards of Love or, arguably, Taylor Swift’s Midnights would be good examples of a modern-day song cycle. Think of it as a concept album where performing the songs in a different order or omitting pieces would totally destroy the narrative.

    My guy, Franz.

    Franz Schubert (1797-1828) was a prolific Austrian composer of the late Classical and early Romantic eras. You’ll notice he only lived until age 31– yikes! That means I would die this year if I were Schubert. However, he allegedly died from syphilis, for which we now have a cure. Phew! Unlike me, he composed over 600 Lieder (art songs) in his lifetime, for which he is most famous. However, saying he just wrote some art song is an understatement. The man revolutionized German art song and ushered in an era of musical romanticism that changed music forever— he basically invented the song cycle. Schubert also composed seven complete symphonies, sacred music (you’ve heard his Ave Maria at half the weddings you’ve attended), piano and chamber music, and even operas. 

    Lied (singular) and Lieder (plural) mean(s) art song(s). It’s strange to hear Germans talk about their favorite pop songs because they’ll say, “Oh, das ist mein Lieblingslied!” and I’m just like…“Lied? Mein Lieblingslied ist ‘Eifersucht und Stolz’ von ‘Die schöne Müllerin.’” 

    Incel: We haven’t gotten to this yet, but I’ll just give a definition now. The term incel, short for involuntary celibate, is used to describe an online subculture of dudes who identify as unable to find a romantic or sexual partner despite desiring one. Incels often express frustration, anger, resentment, and self-pity over their perceived inability to attract women, often shifting this blame onto those ladies who have rejected them. Many incels also hold misogynistic and violent views, exacerbated by sharing their experiences and feelings with each other on online forums and chat rooms (Reddit, anyone?). Incels often blame women for their lack of success in dating, and they may hold extreme views about gender roles and relationships. Some incels may even engage in online harassment or violence against women.

    Next time a man mentions how emotional women are, just bring up Werther.

    Werther: Not essential information, but I’ll give a quick background. The text of Werther is an entire blog post in itself. Werther is a fictional character from the novel The Sorrows of Young Werther (1774) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. Goethe also deserves his own post, but I don’t want everyone to stop reading now. Please keep reading!!!!! Werther falls in love with Charlotte, a woman already engaged to another man. Werther’s unrequited love and his  ~romantic sensitivities~ lead him to despair and eventually suicide. There were lots of dudes driven to tragically end their own lives after the publication of the novel. For more on this: Werther effect or Copycat suicide.

    Ready to really dig in?

    The next question is what Die schöne Müllerin means. The title of Schubert’s groundbreaking song cycle, completed in 1823, usually translates to The Fair Maid of the Mill. Schubert expertly set 20 poems by Wilhelm Müller, who, interestingly, lived from 1794-1827, nearly identical to Schubert’s lifetime. In the Romantic period, it was typical for song composers to set established poetry to music. Thus, the period of literature and poetry usually preceded musical tastes. However, in this case, Schubert set a contemporary text. Müller also wrote the text for Winterreise— meaning Winter’s Journey– another of Schubert’s most famous works.

    ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAAAAS IS YOUUUUU!!!! BABYYYY! (Please message me if you get this reference. Thank you.)

    Die schöne Müllerin tells the story of a man who lives in my mind as The Wanderer as he comes upon a mill. He decides to inquire about employment, drawn in by The Brook and her beautiful surroundings. Nature is a pervasive theme in Romantic-era literature, art, and music, inspiring Schubert (and me) to cast The Brook as a character in his song cycle. Luckily for The Wanderer, The Miller seeks another apprentice and hires The Wanderer (an imagined part of the narrative, but stick with me) as an employee in his mill. Ah, to live in the 19th century. If only there weren’t so much cholera and racism, it would be perfect.

    The Wanderer confides in The Brook, but his newfound work isn’t his only focus: The Miller also has a beautiful daughter. Schubert’s protagonist is completely transfixed by her beauty and how she says goodnight to him…and all the other apprentices. Driven mad with love (à la Werther!) he convinces himself that The Miller’s Daughter is also in love with him despite their forgettable interactions. In fact, The Miller’s Daughter only has one line in the entire original song cycle: in track 10, Tränenregen, she speaks: “The rain is coming. Bye. I’m going home.”

    The Wanderer finds salvation in that one line: “She’s mine,” he sings triumphantly. Unfortunately, she’s been seeing The Hunter, unbeknownst to The Wanderer. When he finds out, she’s a slut. A whore. The Hunter will take her honor, surely! He doesn’t get her like he does. Girls never go for the “nice guys,” do they?

    Jealousy and pride. The stupid green ribbon The Wanderer gave The Miller’s Daughter by The Brook. She took his ribbon. That beautiful color. That terrible color. Maybe it’s time to take a nap in The Brook forever. That’ll show her. The Brook sings a lullaby to our tragic, original incel as he drowns himself, hopeful that flowers will sprout from his grave as a reminder of his love.

    And that’s the end.

    Next to Werther, it’s one of the most iconic stories of the Romantic era. Unrequited love? Check. Nature? Check. Death? Check. Sturm und Drang??? I would argue, check. 

    It’s a masterpiece in every sense of the word. In one song cycle, Schubert and Müller wrote an opera, an opus, a hug, a slap in the face, a hangman’s noose. It’s not being able to get out of bed during a depressive state and a triumphant first-place finish after a marathon. Die schöne Müllerin is what it’s like to experience heartbreak, delusion, love, and hope all at once. Die schöne Müllerin is what it is to live and to love and to die. It’s perfect. Don’t let the incel community get ahold of Die schöne Müllerin.

    I promised that term would come back around, didn’t I?

    The morning view from Madagascar, June 2022.

    When I was in Madagascar in 2022, the artistic director asked me, “If you could create any project you wanted, what would it be?” I answered, “I don’t have any creative ideas.” I sipped my coffee. It tasted like my own failure and a slight burning in the beans. It tasted as stale as my stagnant mind.

    Fine, let’s be honest. The coffee was fine; my brain was the problem.

    I’ve cited this moment more than once as a turning point for me artistically, but now I’ll expand. Hours later, I replied, “My favorite song cycle is Schubert’s ‘Die schöne Müllerin.’ I’ve always wanted to somehow do it from the perspective of The Miller’s Daughter.”

    I really couldn’t have imagined that just under two years later, I’d have created a chamber opera with award-winning composer Jodi Goble and Schubert himself, premiering through a gracious endowment from the Iowa Arts Council. The idea was mine, but through Jodi’s genius, my dream was written on paper. Schubert would be nary too impressed, given he wrote 600 Lieder by the time he was my age, but I have the advantage of modern medicine on my side. I’m not going to die from syphilis in the next year, mark my words. In fact, that’s my New Year’s Resolution.

    The green coat and blonde braid were an accident, I swear. November 2023.

    Over the next few weeks, I will take some time to introduce everyone to what I think is the most perfect drama ever created and the feminist twist I imagined to honor Schubert 200 years after the composition was completed. What happened to The Miller’s Daughter as The Wanderer experienced heartbreak? Jodi and I had great fun imagining— I don’t think this would offend Franz. Truly, Schubert was no incel. I’d like to remind everyone once more he died from syphilis. He was fine. The man knew how to write a Romantic song cycle, and I didn’t take that out of our interpretation. 

    Die schöne Müllerin is a tragedy for The Wanderer, so it was important to me to make it a tragedy for The Miller’s Daughter, too. The Miller’s Daughter becomes a feminist tale simply by centering a woman’s narrative. What was the most tragic outcome for a woman before the feminist movement? Was it heartbreak? Not getting married was certainly terrifying, as it significantly lowered a woman’s standing in society, but heartbreak? I think not.

    No, it was a lack of power. Agency. Choice. Our Miller’s Daughter has a choice to make, which The Wanderer was too selfish to see. Spoiler alert: the choice isn’t The Hunter versus The Wanderer– most women’s decisions are much more complicated than the choice between two men. Even in the 1800s, The Miller’s Daughter had considerable agency as the daughter of a merchant. While she wasn’t royalty, she wasn’t a pauper, either. The Miller’s Daughter craves love and adventure– just like The Wanderer. Two parallel narratives.

    The world premiere of The Miller’s Daughter by Jodi Goble, Victoria Erickson, and our pal Schubert premieres at Iowa State University on Thursday, April 25, 2024, at 7:30 in the Martha Tye Recital Hall. 

    Featuring:

    The Miller’s Daughter: Victoria Erickson, soprano

    The Wanderer: Mario Arevalo, tenor

    The Hunter: Craig Irvin, baritone

    The Miller: Chad Sonka, baritone

    The Brook and The Apprentices are sung by members of the ISU Opera Studio.

    More to come. Have a great week. 

    -Victoria

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  • Acclimation: Victoria’s Return to Germany

    The hardest part about returning to Germany? Leaving my puppy behind. Minnesota, December 26, 2023.

    When I think of the word, “acclimation,” antebellum-era New Orleans comes to mind. Hear me out. In her book Necropolis: Disease, Power, and Capitalism in the Cotton Kingdom, Dr. Kathryn Olivarius details how yellow fever shaped the economy and culture in New Orleans from the time of the Louisiana Purchase through the Civil War.

    Yellow fever, which still causes around 30,000 deaths globally per year, is a nasty mosquito-borne illness that causes flu-like symptoms with a fatal twist. For those who develop severe disease, an agonizing 3-6 days of high, hemorrhagic fever, jaundice, and uncontrollable vomiting characterized by its coffee ground appearance precede a 30-60% death rate. When the coffee ground vomit appears, death is usually imminent. However, those lucky enough to survive gain lifetime immunity.

    Yellow fever was so rampant in antebellum-era New Orleans, exacerbated by poor public health systems, that a socioeconomic structure coined by Dr. Olivarius as “immunocapitalism” began to arise. A white woman who faced yellow fever in childhood and survived had a high level of immunocapital in the marriage market, as her future husband could be assured that she wouldn’t die of fever in the summer months before she could bear him children. An enslaved black man who suffered from yellow fever and lived would be sold for more money, as his enslaver could trust he wouldn’t die from fever within weeks. A white emigrant from New York wouldn’t be hired as a law clerk until he had bravely acquired yellow fever during the summer months and survived.

    Acclimation, as it had come to be known, was key. While rich folks would flee to their country homes during fever season, the white working class and enslaved black people couldn’t afford that option. Either they would become acclimated, or they would die. 50/50 shot.

    Did I just want to talk about yellow fever? Maybe. But hear me out.

    International Reception at the Hamburg Rathaus (town hall). January 10, 2024.

    For this reason, acclimation seems a little dramatic of a term to use for my re-adjustment to my life in Germany, but I can’t help myself. Becoming re-accustomed to my life in Germany is obviously not as serious as acclimating to disease-ridden New Orleans, so please don’t come for me.

    There are acclimation factors that are easy to describe, like my inability to fall asleep before 2 am and wake up before 11 due to the time difference. Still, there are other adjustments that are less quantitative. I forgot that walking and taking public transportation takes a lot of energy. I’m struggling to form German sentences. It’s so quiet everywhere. The sidewalks are covered in ice because, apparently, those aren’t shoveled here. I guess I walk like a penguin now.

    I had become accustomed to life in Europe from October through December, but after a whirlwind Christmas holiday in Minnesota, I had to re-acclimate myself. October was filled with struggles alongside an anticipatory sense of newness. In January, I returned to my apartment in Hamburg without the naivety and with an increasing mountain of work and goals that seem impossible to attain in the time I have left. I don’t have enough hours in the day to do everything I need to get done and enjoy the fact that I live in freaking Germany. I’m mourning my departure before I’ve even left.

    Before I get out my tiny violin to play at my pity party, I’d like to shamelessly promote my schedule of performances before my departure, as this was a major question from family and friends in the United States over the holiday:

    A Celebration of German and American Classical Music
    Victoria Erickson, soprano, with Meredith Nicoll, mezzo-soprano, and Friederike Sieber, piano
    U.S. Embassy in Berlin
    February 7, 2024, 12:30 p.m.


    International Showcase of New Opera
    Victoria Erickson, soprano, and Anne Wieben, soprano
    Jazz Hall at the Hochschule für Musik und Theater in Hamburg
    March 1, 2024, 7:30 p.m.

    It’s official! Expect a livestream of this one.

    International Showcase of New Opera
    Really Spicy Opera
    Victoria Erickson, Anne Wieben, Tess Altiveros, Bree Nichols, Lisa Neher, sopranos, Jason Nichols, tenor, and Jodi Goble, piano
    Reaktorhalle at the Hochschule für Musik und Theater in Munich
    March 14 + 15, 2024, 7:30 p.m.

    There might be a couple more added, but I won’t share them here as they’re not confirmed yet! I’ve been working so hard, and having my dedication pay off feels good. I’m also so lucky to have amazing musicians and mentors around me.

    A day in my super glamorous, European life

    Yes, I bought it. Yes, it was very tasty. January 13, 2024.

    As I continue to acclimate, I’ve been thinking of the top question I was asked while at home: “What does a typical day in Germany look like for you?” It’s a tricky question because every day looks different– variety is important to me and is part of the reason I don’t think I have the temperament for a 9 to 5 job. I’m allergic to a stringent routine. However, I’ll give an example from one day this week. I imagine there will be more rehearsals, performances, and auditions over the next couple of months, but as I get re-acclimated to life in Germany, this was a week dedicated to preparation and planning.

    Thursday, January 11
    9:30- Wake up. Coffee, shower, journal, and plan my day. This one was tough as I struggled to fall asleep before 2 a.m. due to continued jetlag. I haven’t woken up before 10 since.
    10:15- Walk to the bus. There’s a transit strike in Germany, but luckily, my trusty bus route is still running.
    11:00- Meeting at the Staatsoper with the opera foundation manager. In addition to surveying patrons when I go to the opera, part of my project is interviewing donors about audience engagement, taste, preferences, and attendance post-pandemic. I will write an academic paper on my findings after the conclusion of my DAAD.
    12:30- Lunch. And more coffee.
    1- Phone call with a colleague regarding Munich residency planning.
    2- Gym time. I’m training for a triathlon in August, so Thursday was dedicated to running. My apartment building has a small gym in the basement, a huge time saver.
    3- Practice time. I’m in an apartment with many musicians, so we have a couple of practice rooms in the b a. I usually do gym time and practice time together. Plenty of singers talk about their practice routine, but since I have so much music to work on in the next three months, I plan my practice sessions on a color-coded calendar. On Thursday, I focused on Rosalinda’s aria from Die Fledermaus and worked on/memorized a section of The Miller’s Daughter, which premieres in April. A big mistake I used to make in my sessions was to try and do too much. Now, I hone in on specifics, turn my phone on airplane mode, and get nitty-gritty. I never sing for more than an hour at once.
    4- Writing time.
    7- Dinner time.
    7:30- Start round 1 feedback on the student composers’ pieces.
    9:30- Score study. Watch reality TV shows until I finally fall asleep.

    While not glamorous or exciting, that’s just one example of a typical day in my life. Regular throughlines include gym, practice, writing, and project work, but some days I might meet a friend for a walk or a coffee, attend an opera, go to my German class, or hit up a museum. I have to do the same things we all do at home: go to the grocery store, run errands, and attend appointments. There might be phone calls, meetings, or wine in the kitchen with my roommates. On Tuesdays, I go to Berlin to coach. While I try to limit my work on the weekends, I couldn’t avoid it this first week back. Every day is different, and my work is fulfilling. 

    The biggest difference in my daily life is the time allotted for travel. It takes more time and energy to go places by walking or taking public transportation than hopping in my Honda Civic. Therefore, I feel more intentional about when I go out. It’s just an adjustment. Getting acclimated.

    Back to yellow fever

    I know this is about government, but I’d prefer to think of her as a gal balancing all the different facets of her life. Just like me. Hamburg Rathaus, January 10, 2024.

    I’m quickly getting re-accustomed to my life in Germany. The stakes aren’t quite as high as those in antebellum-era New Orleans, where citizens either acclimated or died. (I’m well aware that I’m reaching with this comparison. I just wanted to talk about yellow fever, okay?) However, something must be said for adjusting to a culture rather than resisting it. Public transportation, European grocery stores, lifestyle, and constant strikes are different here than in the United States. But I’m trying to be all in. I’ve asked my mentors to speak German to me and I try my best to keep up. I’ve gained a sense of the tastes in German opera, both standard and new, and adapted to it. It’s not life or death; it’s only my happiness at stake.

    Traveling is hard before acclimation, as getting used to a new culture takes time. Keeping an openness to change and differences is key. Luckily, I’ve become accustomed to my new conditions. Like the ambitious businessmen who chose to brave yellow fever for the promise of economic prosperity, I was willing to relocate across the world to find my artistic self. Unlike these doomed businessmen, I’m feeling good about my prospective survival. While there have been difficult moments, the positives far outweigh the negatives. It’s good to be back.

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  • Der Weg ist das Ziel

    What if I got everything I ever thought I wanted?

    In case you forgot how cool I am. Zaanse Schaans, The Netherlands, November 20, 2023.

    Writing today feels daunting, as I have so much to say, but I’ll keep it short. For those of you who follow me on social media, you know my boyfriend was here, and we adventured around Berlin and Amsterdam in late November. Shortly after he left, I met my college roommate in Copenhagen, where the sun sets at 3:30 p.m., and peacocks roam around the amusement park that inspired Walt Disney. I may be a Minnesota girl, but the cold as I clutched my lukewarm latte in Nyhavn hit different. Christmas markets descended on nearly every corner, and I celebrated my birthday among new friends.

    Snapped by a wonderful friend in Copenhagen. December 3, 2023.

    Time is going far too quickly. A week from today, I will snuggle my puppy and gossip on the fur-layered couch with my best friend and boyfriend, cooking homemade pasta and sipping on overpriced wine. I’m excited to go home for Christmas. However, I say that with a touch of reluctance, as it implies I’ve made this huge mistake in coming to Germany and can’t wait to go home. At this moment, I feel quite the opposite. I didn’t give myself enough time. I only have three more months on my grand adventure. And then what?

    When starting graduate school, I put a lot of pressure on myself to audition for young artist programs despite my technique being a mess. My friend wisely advised me to focus on my singing, but I couldn’t wrap my head around it. I needed to get into a summer program. I needed to “make it.” I needed to pound my arias to death and sing myself hoarse.

    “Do you like practicing?” she asked pointedly, sipping her tea as I banged out my notes on the piano. I was struggling through Norina’s aria from Donizetti’s Don Pasquale.

    The truth was, I didn’t like practicing because I thought I sucked and didn’t know what I was doing. She always knew how to ask those direct questions. I felt prickly.

    “I think as a singer, you have to enjoy the process,” she continued, “because you’re not going to get most gigs you audition for, and there’s always going to be something else to work on.”

    “Yeah, yeah, I like practicing. I do,” I responded a little too quickly.

    “Sure, of course you do.”

    I didn’t fool my friend or myself that day. It would take years before I enjoyed practicing, and I even recently discovered it continues to cause some level of anxiety. Now, however, I relish practicing. I like it more than performing, but I’m hoping the joy of singing for others will return with every concert. The pandemic wasn’t good for my nerves.

    I started coaching with a pianist in Berlin every Tuesday. However, as you all know, I live in Hamburg, which is around three hours away by train. I’m confident there are many amazing coaches in Hamburg, but I like this one, so the travel is worth it for me.

    Most people don’t seem to enjoy traveling. Yes, they enjoy seeing and experiencing new places, but moving from point A to B irritates most folks. While my annoyance with Deutsche Bahn knows no bounds, I like to travel as long as the trains aren’t running too far behind. My mom recently told me it’s because I’m “built differently.” Maybe that’s true. When I’m on the train, I can download my favorite podcasts and disengage. I can score study. I can even moodily look out the window at the German countryside, imagining how romantic I must look to everyone else on the train.

    Tuesdays are my new favorite day of the week. I get to be alone, work on my craft for three uninterrupted hours, and be alone with my podcasts again. I would coach all day if my voice could handle it. Picking apart arias and digging in the musical garden is so artistically fulfilling. In contrast, I hate voice lessons. I think picky and overbearing teachers have scarred me for life.

    Interestingly, my technique gets better when I coach than it does in lessons. My voice frees up, and I’m able to execute phrases the way I imagined. I leave feeling like Jack Dawson in Titanic– the part before he dies, obviously. I, too, am King of the World.

    I told my coach about enjoying the process. “You know, we have a saying in German,” nodding in agreement with my previous statement. “Der Weg ist das Ziel.”

    Der Weg ist das Ziel. “Der Weg,” meaning “the way,” meets “Das Ziel,” or the goal. The way is the goal. The journey is the destination.

    I don’t know what I would do if I ever got everything I wanted. What would that even feel like? I realized over a wine-fueled dinner in Berlin with my boyfriend that nothing is, ever, ever good enough for me. My standards are unreachable. I know that sounds negative, but I find it comforting. I will never arrive, even if I get what I think I want. 

    The way is the goal. And a little bit along the way, there’s a new goal. And another, and another, until I have the most gloriously interesting, winding, unexpected road trailing behind me. 

    I don’t think the work I started in Germany will finish in March. That’s freeing. Instead, I’m wandering along my way. I’m just continuing with much more spätzle and glühwein than I may have anticipated.

    Observations from a curious American

    • Germans will not wish you a happy birthday before your actual birthday. The Germans at my birthday brunch on Sunday carefully asked me if it was my real birthday. It was. Crisis averted.
    • It’s sleeping bag season in Germany. Some of you have asked me what the fashion is like here– once it drops below 40 degrees Fahrenheit, women wear ankle-length coats that look like sleeping bags. I want one. However, I feel pretty cute in my bright green wool coat as well.
    • At Christmas markets, you pay for the glühwein itself and the cup. When the cup is returned, you get a couple of euros back. I suppose this keeps folks from stealing the cups.
    Bonus: while eggnog is delicious, Eierlikör is not. Casey learned this the hard way. St. Pauli Christmas Market, November 26, 2023.
    • I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned this yet, but it is imperative to TAKE SHOES OFF IMMEDIATELY UPON ENTERING SOMEONE’S HOUSE. They might even have some Hausschuhe for you to wear. No one wears their shoes inside.
    • Feldsalat is a tasty lettuce I had never heard of. Guess what? It’s the lettuce from Rapunzel! Sehr Deutsch!

    Thanks as always for reading, and Merry ‘Mas. The Christmas spirit is alive and well in Germany, and I can’t wait to catch up with family and friends for a couple of weeks in Minnesota. 

    Victoria

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  • Vienna, City of Dreams

    Germany Recap Week #6

    The first district of Vienna on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. November 8, 2023.

    I’m heavily affected by the weather. If you haven’t gathered yet, grey skies and constant rain aren’t really for me. When I went to Italy for a study abroad in May 2014, our chain-smoking Italian teacher mused dramatically on a gloomy day that it was “raining inside [his] heart.” Those of us studying Italian and opera in Trieste turned his words into a joke, but when it’s raining outside, it really is a little rainy in my heart. 

    Minnesota is notoriously cold in the winter, frequently reaching 20 below zero. The temperature makes a trek outside unbearable without protective gear. If you’re not leaving the house looking a little like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man from Ghostbusters due to the sheer layering of outerwear, you’re not doing it right.

    However, there’s still snow and sunny days in frigid Minnesota. As Christmas markets begin to open around Germany, the skies are a dismal grey. The weather remains warm enough for cold rain to fall rather than fluffy snow, but I still feel chilled to the bone. Perhaps the markets are a way to inspire holiday cheer amidst what would be a categorically gloomy Christmastime without the hot wine and twinkling lights to raise German spirits.

    City of music, dreams, and plague

    The Plague Column in the first district. I took this picture before knowing it was dedicated to plague victims, so I guess I’m just naturally drawn to #plaguelore. November 8, 2023.

    I can’t say the same for Vienna. The sun shines brightly in the former imperial city and illuminates the elaborate palaces of the first district. Remains of the architecture from the Habsburg Empire line every downtown street. Leopold I promised God he would build a plague column in His honor after a nasty bout of plague ravaged the city in 1679, and the glorious structure still stands today, having not been destroyed during World War II. Buildings where famous composers like Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven, Schubert, and many more worked and lived are around every corner. Vienna, the capital of classical music, did not let me down.

    Don’t get me wrong– I’m still thrilled to be in Hamburg, no matter how grey it is. Folks have asked me if I miss home, family, friends, and the United States. Without hurting anyone’s feelings, for now, my answer is no. I am having a grand adventure, and except for one especially frustrating day, I have been happy to be here. Perhaps knowing that Casey arrives in less than a week and I will visit my family for Christmas impacts my answer. Nevertheless, forty days into my stay, I am happy I chose to come here.

    Previously, I internalized the energy of the weather in Germany, but I don’t have to continue to allow some rain to affect me. The energy I put into the world is what I’ll get back. It sounds so simple, but how I criticize myself or my surroundings ultimately affects my attitude and output. Why create a rainy day when the skies are only partly cloudy?

    The sun poked out in Hamburg as if the weather was listening to me on a quiet Sunday afternoon after a whirlwind week. Maybe it will keep me company as I write to you today.

    Night train

    My glamorous breakfast after very little sleep on the night train. November 8, 2023.

    Americans tend to have a notion that everywhere in Europe is close together. While that’s true comparatively, Hamburg and Berlin are not as centrally located as some other European cities. After coaching in Berlin, I headed to the Hauptbahnhof, hoping to finish some projects before boarding the night jet to Vienna. The lack of WiFi and having nowhere to sit prevented me from working, so I treated the train station as a mall. The Hauptbahnhof bustled with travelers, shoppers, and diners.

    While I figured getting to Vienna would be no problem, it’s a twelve hour train ride from Berlin. Due to the length of the trip and the timing of my coaching, I decided to book a night train. Various options were available, from booking only a seat for the night in a compartment with five other travelers (cheapest, but not recommended) to a single bed in a lockable compartment with a complimentary bottle of champagne. For my journey from Berlin to Vienna, the one-way tickets varied in price from 65 to over 200 euros. 

    I chose to book a couchette in a female-only compartment, which featured six bunk beds with three on each side. The compartment locked from the inside, and a breakfast of coffee and brötchen with jam was served in the morning. Our train left the station at 6:52 p.m. and made stops in Poland and the Czech Republic throughout the night. Luckily, my only bunkmate was a young Slovenian woman on her way home to see her family, and the two of us shared the compartment. Score!

    While grateful for the ability to lie down, the noises of the train and frequent stops made it difficult to actually get any sleep, even with my noise-canceling earbuds. I didn’t understand why the train would honk through stations, but in Poland, this communication is required by law. I tried to doze off to various podcasts, but my sleep was intermittent at best. The train arrived in Vienna as the sun began to rise, and I groggily traveled to my friend’s apartment in the northwest part of the historic city.

    My guy, Mozart

    Tearing up at the entrance knowing Mozart actually lived here. November 8, 2023.

    After a much-needed nap, it was time to be a tourist. My friend was working, so I was on my own to explore the fifth-largest city in the European Union. I grabbed my sunglasses and headed to the nearest S-bahn, ready to travel into the first district. 

    My friend advised me to check out St. Stephen’s Cathedral and take a tour of the catacombs, which are filled with the bones of plague victims. Surprisingly, however, I wasn’t in a plague mood, and after lighting a candle for my grandma, I exited the cathedral.

    I realized the Mozart Haus was around the corner, and walking the halls of the legendary musician’s Viennese apartment trumped plague lore. A history of Vienna during the late 18th century and Mozart’s personal life alongside his prolific musical output lined the rooms of his former residence.

    Maybe it sounds corny, but being in the same place where Mozart wrote Le nozze di Figaro and countless other works was special. We often forget the composers who lived on in infamy were real people with imperfections and insecurities like everyone else. Mozart was a child prodigy whose letters were still filled with everyday issues like romance, money, and illness. His life was significantly rosier than the average Viennese citizen due to his notoriety as a prolific composer and conductor, but he still died from an unknown illness at the age of 35.

    The Mozart Haus was filled with manuscripts, household artifacts, and details surrounding the composer’s short life, during which he composed over 800 works. However, there wasn’t enough information about illness and death for my liking, so here are some disease facts about Mozart:

    • Mozart’s face was described as having a “pitted” appearance due to having smallpox as a child. The disease ravaged global populations prior to the invention of the smallpox vaccine in 1796, five years after Mozart died. Before vaccination was available, 30% of those infected with smallpox died. Most people who contracted smallpox and survived had pockmarks from the disease for the rest of their lives.
    • Nobody knows what illness Mozart died from, but he started feeling sick in September 1791 when he traveled to Prague for the premiere of La clemenza di Tito. Many illnesses were postulated to be the cause, including a streptococcus infection, rheumatic fever, mercury poisoning, and influenza. 
    • The story that hardly anyone came to Mozart’s burial is misinformed. It was not customary in Vienna at the time for people to attend burials, and five musicians, including Salieri, were allegedly present. However, there were memorial services and concerts in his honor in Vienna and Prague that were well-attended and reflected his standing in society. Mozart was very famous and beloved when he died.
    The wooden pavilion where Mozart allegedly finished The Magic Flute just months before his death at the age of 35.

    Besides skipping over the less-than-appealing facts that I find most interesting, the Mozart Haus was super. Various recordings of iconic pieces played throughout the museum, including Diana Damrau’s now-infamous rendition of the Queen of the Night aria from The Magic Flute and the “Cherubino alla vittoria!” line from Le nozze di Figaro that evoked Austrian military music of the time. The best Mozart fact I learned was that Schikaneder, the librettist for The Magic Flute, forced the composer to go to a secluded wooden pavilion to ensure Mozart finished the score in time. The Magic Flute premiered in Vienna on September 30, 1791, three weeks after Mozart started feeling ill and less than three months before his death.

    The first district of Vienna, also known as the Innere Stadt, features many historical landmarks, museums, shopping, and restaurants. I continued my touristy afternoon there searching for Sachertorte, a dense Viennese chocolate cake layered with apricot filling and topped with a delicious chocolate glaze. Although Cafe Sacher and Demel claim to be the home of the original Sachertorte, after hearing various accounts that Demel was the better cake, I got a table in their upstairs cafe. 

    Tragically, I was forced to eat both slices of delicious cake with a refreshing glass of raspberry soda. Demel, November 8, 2023.


    Refusing an English menu and choosing to struggle through the German one, I scanned the flavors in search of the original. I came up short, instead choosing to order a raspberry yogurt variety. However, my bad German betrayed me, and I ordered a slice of stereotypical Sachertorte in addition to the raspberry one. Regrettably, I was forced to eat two slices of delicious cake instead of just one.

    I can still taste this picture. November 8, 2023.

    Upon returning to my friend’s apartment, we took the bus just north of the city to an iconic Heurige, or wine tavern. Walking into one of the Heurigen with a sign indicating fresh wine was available, we ordered Schnitzel and a crisp white wine reminiscent of a sauvignon blanc. If there’s any reason for me to return to Vienna aside from its reputation as a center for classical music and being the home of a dear friend and colleague, it was this wine. Move over, France.

    Singing and snacking (my two favorite activities)

    Singing and community building all in one day. November 9, 2023.

    Thursday was an exciting day of artistry in the beautiful Kaisersaal performance space. I first connected with Soula Parassidis and Norman Reinhardt of Living Opera in 2020 via Instagram as the pandemic forced artists (and many of us!) out of work. During this time, I began to re-evaluate my relationship with classical music, taking some wild turns along the way. Still, I kept in sporadic touch with the internationally renowned opera singers through the years. Being in Vienna at the same time was a gift. I’m so happy their first masterclass was a rousing success, and I am honored that I was chosen to sing for them. 

    Meeting new singers and industry professionals who want to promote an open, supportive, and honest community of artists was refreshing and invigorating. If you’re new to the blog because I just met you three days ago, (ha) just know how grateful and inspiring it was to meet you. The masterclass and subsequent discussion are the sort of work that Living Opera facilitates and what will enable singers to lead healthy lives. Artists deserve to be real with each other and lift each other up. We owe it to ourselves and classical music.

    The skies on Friday morning looked similar to those of Hamburg, leading my friend, her husband, and me to enjoy a lazy morning of coffee and fresh-baked brötchen with cured meats and cheeses. Time for a bit of a food corner:

    • Brötchen. I know I’ve talked about franzbrötchen, the delicious combination between a cinnamon roll and a croissant found in Northern Germany, but brötchen is a big deal in German-speaking countries. Essentially, they’re little bread rolls that can be eaten with breakfast, lunch, or dinner. On Friday, we topped our oven-baked brötchen with salted butter and Lauchzwiebel, or green onions.
    • Speck. This cured meat is super-thinly sliced ham textured like prosciutto, except better. From what I understand, speck can also be similar to bacon, but what we ate on Friday was ham. Since both come from pigs, I suppose this makes sense.
    • Bergkäse. Best cheese of my life. Literally translating to “mountain cheese,” this mild, nutty slice of heaven is made in the Alps. I could have eaten the entire block, but I didn’t want to be a rude guest.

    Kaffee, kuchen, and conversation

    Prost! November 10, 2023.

    Later that afternoon, I had the pleasure of meeting the founders of Living Opera after their coaching at the Wiener Staatsoper. We settled into one of the many cafes in the surrounding area for some Kaffee und Kuchen. This afternoon cake and coffee (literally) is still common in German-speaking societies, and it was a pleasure to enjoy the practice in Vienna. While the cafe was busy, no one seemed in a hurry to leave, and neither were we. There’s something freeing about sitting for hours with a cooled coffee, talking about everything from music to spirituality and everything in between as time freezes in a bustling cafe. It’s an energy that can’t fully be replicated at a coffee shop in the United States, where the romanticism of espresso is lost in a corporate-designed, disposable coffee cup. 

    We exited the cafe into the darkened streets and exchanged hugs, at which point I spied my friend’s characteristically sparkly outfit. The two of us continued on to an iconic Austrian restaurant in the first district, Zum Leupold. While their menu featured a variety of goose dishes (gansl) I wasn’t quite brave enough to try the culinary specialty. I’ll briefly return to the food corner to describe the Austrian dishes we shared:

    Tafelspitz and Gulasch. Absolutely fab. November 10, 2023.
    • Tafelspitz is delicious beef boiled in broth and cooked with root vegetables and roasted potatoes, served alongside applesauce and horseradish. It was fabulous.
    • The Austrian Gulasch was essentially a beef stew topped with an egg and served with dumplings, or Knödel. 
    • Käsespätzle. This iconic German and Austrian dish made of egg noodles and cheese was baked and topped with fried onions. It may be one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.
    • Apfelstrudel was made at Zum Leupold in house and served mit Schlag, or with whipped cream.

    With a full stomach and heart, I prepped to leave Vienna at 4:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning.

    After traveling for 18 hours (that $40 ticket was still worth it!) and getting hassled by border control between the Czech Republic and Germany, I arrived back in Hamburg. I was proud of defending myself (in German) as I showed them my Meldebescheinigung, appointment for a residence permit, and passport. As the border agents continued to question me, I firmly said I had only been here for 40 days, as they saw in my passport. Regardless of whether I had a residence permit yet, I registered my residence and was allowed to be in Germany for 90 days on a tourist visa. They reluctantly agreed. Germany: you will not kick me out!!!!!

    This week’s thoughts from a curious American

    Trust me, you need this picture. Image taken from Reddit.
    • Body odor. While it is cheap and readily available, there are definitely Europeans who clearly don’t wear deodorant. It’s very stinky. I can’t imagine how much stinkier everyone was before indoor plumbing and the advent of regular showering. I understand this is a cultural difference, but given that people have been wearing perfume or carrying smelling salts to ward of stinkiness for hundreds of years, I don’t really understand why people would still choose to smell bad. I am excluding those experiencing homelessness or mental health issues from this rant— what I mean is when the guy sitting next to me on the train has an impeccably groomed beard and a trendy haircut but smells like a sweaty armpit, it’s a little confusing.
    • Restaurant etiquette. This behavior always throws me off in Europe. If you want your server’s attention, you must raise your hand and make yourself seen. It makes me feel super rude, but I’m getting used to it!
    • Smoking, part 2. I know I’ve already commented on smoking culture, but I’m still so baffled by it. Smoking is so normalized here. I saw a group of boys that had to be 8-10 years old smoking by the train station. It was giving child coal miner energy. 
    • Light switches. This one really confuses me. Light switches seem to always be OUTSIDE the room where I’m attempting to turn on the light. Maybe the idea is I can turn it on, and then the light is there before I walk in, but it usually leads to me smashing my hands blindly along a wall and then remembering the switch is probably in the hallway.
    • Larger paper. There isn’t a standardized paper size around the world. The 8×11 inch paper in the United States is smaller than Europe’s, which pokes out the top of my US-sized binder.
    • Poop shelf. For those who don’t like gross stuff, skip this last one. However, I think it’s hilarious. Many toilets that haven’t been updated since the mid-20th century in Austria (and perhaps other European countries as well, but I can only speak to Austria) have a pool of water in the front of the toilet rather than the middle. This setup creates a poop shelf where number two sits in its full glory before a powerful flush forces it toward the front of the toilet and down the pipes. Allegedly, this practice stems from a time when people investigated their stool to ascertain their health status. It is simultaneously gross and funny.

    Today, I’m pretty sleepy, but I love the ritual of sharing what has become my public diary with everyone weekly. I appreciate all of your responses and input, and Sundays have become a day of reflection because of the blog. I’m grateful I had the opportunity to sing, work, and explore in one of the most iconic cities in Europe. It looks to be a cloudy week ahead in Hamburg, but I feel positive energy about the work and artistry coming in the next few days.

    It’s raining outside but sunny in my heart.

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  • Germany Recap Week #5

    A rambling on patience, protestants, process, and plague

    Join me on a magical journey to a medieval city.

    I’m not a very patient person. I’d actually call myself an impatient person. I have grand ideas of how quickly goals can unfold and become easily frustrated when, either due to my own shortcomings or the difficulty of coordinating others, things take more time than I want them to.

    This character trait (flaw?) makes me a highly efficient person, but I almost always inadvertently let myself down. I didn’t get everything on my to-do list done. That technical passage wasn’t perfected. I didn’t get my workout in. The train was late, and I got home an hour after I expected. And so it goes.

    As a freelancer, I’ve gotten used to planning my days in 30-minute to hour-long chunks. The only person holding me accountable is, well, me, and someone has to do it. However, life almost always takes me longer than the half-hour blocks I plan. While I’m proud of the discipline I typically have, in getting this project started, I have been way off course.

    The energy it took to simply be a person in Germany took up more time than I was expecting. So, this week, as the composition and performance project began to take shape and I took one step closer to packing surveys fastened to my clipboard to the opera, I decided to be a person.

    Thank you, Martin Luther

    Yes, I mean, I fully fell into a woman’s lap. October 30, 2023.

    I was told before traveling to Germany that it was a largely secular country, with a vast number of Germans identifying as non-religious. However, like many Western countries, this is a recent development. The Holy Roman Empire, which today’s Germany was a part of, was the birthplace of Protestantism. I know my fellow Cobbers reading this recall the dreaded Religion 100 class we were forced to take, which detailed the treatises of Martin Luther.

    For those of you new to the blog, I’m from Minnesota. Many German and Scandinavian settlers found their way to Minnesota in the 19th century, and with them, they brought their Lutheran faith. According to a Pew Research Center study from 2015, 74% of Minnesotans identify as Christian, with 26% explicitly belonging to the Lutheran denomination. The Lutheran presence remains strong despite an increasing number of Minnesotans (and Americans at large) becoming unaffiliated with religion. Suffice it to say I was familiar with Martin Luther.

    Back to Germany. According to data from 2019 via Deutsche Welle, 55% of Germans fall under the umbrella of Christian beliefs, 5% are Muslim, 0.1% are Jewish, less than 5% belong to another religion, and 35% are non-religious. However, the influence of the Christian church remains stronger than I was expecting. For example, church bells ring at all hours, everything is closed on Sundays, and there are political parties such as the Christian Democratic Union and Christian Socialist Union, which clearly have roots in the Christian faith.

    The point is October 31 is a holiday in parts of Germany, including Hamburg, not due to Halloween but rather because of Reformation Day. This holiday celebrates the anniversary of Martin Luther nailing his 95 theses to the door of a Catholic church in Wittenberg, Germany, on October 31, 1517. In doing so, he began the ~reformation~ of the Catholic church and essentially started the Protestant movement.

    The actual point is that I had a really fun day on Halloween, and I have Martin Luther to thank.

    Glühwein strikes again

    On the Winterdeck in St. Pauli just before meeting our new friends. October 31, 2023.

    My Canadian friend and I trudged through the wind and rain to a theater near the bus station in Hamburg, where a showing of Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban began at noon. The theater, decorated for Halloween, was packed with primarily German speakers dressed in Harry Potter-inspired sweaters and scarves.

    Unfortunately, there was no Nicole Kidman commercial before the showing, but the goofy German advertisements made up for it. Whispers in the theater of iconic quotes before they occurred and cheers erupting when Hermione punches Malfoy made the showing a more electric experience than I was anticipating. Finally, I found something that made Germans visibly excited: Harry Potter.

    After reliving arguably the best of the Harry Potter films and forgetting completely about music for a blissful two hours, we headed down to Reeperbahn once again, where I accidentally gravitated toward a restaurant meant to evoke an American brewery. We fully leaned in, ordering fried chicken sandwiches and speaking English with our British waitress. So far, it was not a particularly culturally enlightening day, but it felt comfortable.

    With October 31 signifying the end of fall and the beginning of Christmas, the Winterdeck at the Spielbudenplatz in the St. Pauli neighborhood opened at 4 p.m. Under heating lamps decorated as fireplaces with family photos, we enjoyed a few glasses of glühwein. We met new friends: a French man and his Colombian wife, who met on a cruise ship and now had an adorable daughter, and a lovely German woman. We’ll probably have dinner at the couple’s house next week– stay tuned. All hail glühwein’s ability to forge new friendships!

    I’ve been so concerned with making sure I use my time to advance my professional goals in Germany that I became blind to the fact that I’m in freaking Europe. I live here. I won’t live here forever, but I certainly do right now.

    If I really thought I’d be trekking to another audition every week and have twenty surveys under my belt and two cycles of the composition project complete, I’d be disappointed. I didn’t account for real life. But under a starry sky on Halloween in Hamburg, Germany, with conversations in French, German, and English blending around me, it didn’t matter. I’m here, and I can’t have the experience of a lifetime in a practice room or on a laptop. The unexpected days off are part of the project. I have to be patient.

    Lübeck

    Standing in front of the Holstentor, the medieval gate to the city of Lübeck. November 4, 2023.

    Those who follow me on Instagram have already been regaled with details regarding my day trip to the beautiful Hanseatic city of Lübeck, Germany, but please allow me to repeat myself. After visiting Schwerin Castle last week, I decided to go somewhere new every weekend when time and resources allow. Yesterday’s trip of choice was Lübeck, a city of around 220,000 inhabitants on a peninsula in Northern Germany. From the Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, it takes around 45 minutes by train.

    Unless your train is canceled after you arrive due to a medical emergency, and you and everyone else on your platform are forced to wait another hour. 

    Luckily, I wasn’t in any hurry, so after waiting outside with an irritatingly runny nose, we boarded the regional train to Lübeck. As we approached the city, seven churches populated the skyline, adding to the medieval charm of the town. I spent all my time in the Altstadt or the old town center on the peninsula. Given Lübeck’s history as the de facto capital of the Hanseatic League, a trading and defensive coalition made up mainly of the emerging merchant class beginning in the 12th century, I was hoping for some plague lore. Similarly to author John Green’s obsession with tuberculosis, my interest in European history boils down (no pun intended, I SWEAR) to the Black Death, which ravaged the entire continent beginning in 1347.

    But first, marzipan

    Cafe Niederegger, the home of Northern Germanic marzipan. November 4, 2023.

    Cafe Niederegger is a giant tourist trap filled with sweet treats, a cafe, and a gallery detailing the history of marzipan as it relates to the coastal town. The shop was packed with Christmas shoppers and tourists enjoying slices of marzipan-topped cakes alongside a cappuccino. While I’m unsure whether I like the combination of ground almonds, sugar, and egg whites, I have some potentially exciting treats to share with my family and friends at Christmas.

    A lil lunch at the ol’ Schiffergesellschaft. November 4, 2023.

    I also visited a 500-year-old guild hall turned restaurant, Schiffergesellschaft, which was as dark and spooky as I would expect from a medieval-era pub. Though it wasn’t transformed into a restaurant until after the dissolution of the Hanseatic League, I still imagine merchants arguing over a pint in its darkened halls. 

    It’s nearly sacrilege to admit as a classical musician that I don’t particularly enjoy museums, but there you have it. Overall, museums, especially art museums, are not my thing. Visual art only interests me in how it relates to the following musical period, as music typically lags behind artistic and literary movements. However, if there’s a history museum that might detail a particular niche interest of mine, I’m in. And so, I headed toward the European Hansemuseum, the largest institution dedicated to the history of the Hanseatic League in the world. 

    I won’t bore you with too many details, but along the darkened halls and exhibits illuminated with the trade history in the Baltic Sea, I kept my eye out for years that would pique my interest: 1347-1353. Just as I was about to give up:

    PEST! European Hansemuseum. November 4, 2023.

    Not one, but TWO rooms specifically on how the plague transformed Lübeck and the trade economy of the Hanseatic League.

    Quick Black Death facts before I move on (for purposes of citation, I got all this info from the European Hansemuseum)

    • The primary years of the Black Death were 1347-1353, but there was a second wave of the plague around a decade later. Lübeck was most heavily affected in 1367 when an estimated 40% of the population was killed, including 11 of the 25 guild members.
    • Trade in the Baltic region and beyond stagnated due to the plague, causing interest rates to spike and general economic decline.
    • It wasn’t common for regular folk to write a will and testament until the 14th century. The number of wills written spiked sharply in the summer months in Lübeck during the exceptionally hard-hitting plague years of 1350 and 1367, and the practice of writing a last will has continued ever since.
    • Since wills became more common during the Black Death, survivors stood to gain significant wealth from estates and assets left to them by family members who fell victim to the plague. Society was heavily altered by the transfer of property and money in the back half of the 14th century, which contributed to the social rise of tradespeople and the downfall of the feudal system.

    There’s so much more, but I’ll end there.

    Why do I find the Black Death so fascinating?

    Like many folks, I became interested in disease history during the pandemic. While I find direct comparisons between the plague and COVID-19 to be lazy and reductive, there are no doubt some interesting similarities between the economic and cultural upheaval caused by two very different pandemics. Learning about the factors that caused the Black Death (bad harvests, ice age, trade routes, poor public health measures) and what happened afterward (economic and political upheaval, distrust in religion, Jewish persecution, technological advancements) might inform us of the future we’re facing in a post-pandemic world, too. We’re living in the aftermath of COVID-19, and there will be history books written about us. Or whatever they’re using to record history in 2100.

    If you are curious about more plague lore, I recommend this podcast episode from This Podcast Will Kill You and the book The Great Mortality: An Intimate History of the Black Death, the Most Devastating Plague of All Time by John Kelly. Enjoy.

    Grasping at straws: drawing conclusions with Victoria

    A view from one of many bridges in Lübeck. November 4, 2023.

    A historical event is only made significant by the context in which it appears. It’s sort of like singing. All the audience sees is the performance. They don’t know what came before: the auditions, the rejection letters, the hours in the practice rooms, coachings, and lessons; the time spent on planes, trains, and automobiles. What came before shapes the performance. The aftermath of the performance can also unravel in different ways– either repeating the process or sending the singer off in a completely different direction. Context is vital, whether that’s one singer’s journey or why the Black Death still matters, even though it happened nearly 700 years ago.

    Am I grasping at straws here for comparison? Maybe. But I don’t care. The actual event is the smallest snapshot of a greater picture. One of my goals in writing this blog is pulling back the curtain on the life of one freelance artist (me) and providing context for the process. The before, after, and during.

    Thanks for joining me on my trip to Lübeck, life in Hamburg, and plague rants. There’s lots to look forward to next week, including an initial composer meeting, a coaching in Berlin, and a trip for singing and fun to Vienna on the overnight train.

    Bis bald!

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  • Germany Week 4 Recap + 1989 (Victoria’s Version)

    A musing on trying on German life from an American suburban legend

    Welcome to my blog. It’s been waiting for you.

    Main character energy

    One of the best parts about writing is that all it requires is my wandering mind and fast fingers. I remember opening up a dark teal keyboard when we practiced typing in elementary school, and I was the best in the class by far. I also cheated. You weren’t supposed to hit the backspace to correct your mistakes, but it was right there. No one was watching. To this day, I type super quickly but make a lot of errors. Cutting corners only gets a little typist so far.

    Anyway, let’s get back to my point about writing. I woke up with a horrible cold, which means singing is out of the question for a few days, but writing is always there. Germany really seems poised to test me. It’s like everyone had a secret meeting before I arrived and collectively decided to make everything just a little bit more complicated and trying than I anticipated. Maybe that sounds like main character energy, but to that, I say, if I’m not the main character in my own story, then who the hell is? My musings are nothing if not a tale of a thirty-year-old woman escaping to Germany in an attempt to find herself.

    I digress. Yes, this is both a recap of my fourth week in Germany and a review of Taylor Swift’s re-release of 1989. If you’ve ever clicked on a cooking blog and aggressively scrolled past the narcissistic ramblings of the author just to get to the recipe, now is the time for my fellow Swifties to keep scrolling. But I invite you to stay. I promise it’ll all (very loosely) tie together; all you have to do is stay.

    Green (Die Liebe Farbe)

    Traveling in my glamorous, neon green limousine. October 24, 2023.

    I headed to Berlin this week for an audition. My mode of travel was the FlixBus because it was significantly cheaper than the ICE trains. Some brief online sleuthing suggested this was only a recommended mode of travel if there were no connections to catch, and this was a direct line to Berlin. Beep beep, here we go.

    The German countryside is still quite green despite the impending winter grey. I was captivated by the fields spotted with high-powered windmills and more deeply understood the musings of Schubert and other German art song composers of the 1800s. Especially in contrast to the sad grey skies, the rich shades of forest edging into the rainy clouds made everything a little more hopeful.

    Oh, and people really do drive that fast on the Autobahn. Some sports cars passing our bright neon bus looked like they were going well over 100 miles per hour.

    I had a coaching on Tuesday that made me feel like a musician with a brain and permitted me to do what I wanted rather than what I thought I was supposed to do. Even though I’ve been singing for nearly a decade, I always feel a little green– like a beginner. There’s so much to know, and somehow, I don’t know any of it. Singers are purposefully given very little agency. We’re a product to be sold, a puppet to be controlled. Intentionally green.

    I milled about a room of at least 5-6 other lyric sopranos while waiting to sing all the same arias they did. It was intimidating. I hadn’t auditioned in a while, and it’s a sport that requires repetition and practice. Green with envy hearing the soprano after me, I packed away my heels and put it behind me. I’m quick in a coaching, a voice lesson, or a rehearsal– I can hit the backspace there. Backspace, delete, try again. The voice under duress has to be quick and perfect. No mistakes. Fight or flight. In an audition, it’s always fight.

    This week’s observations and experiences from an ignorant American:

    Behold the wonder that is Glühwein. October 25, 2023.
    • Glühwein. It’s absolutely incredible. From what I understand, it’s a warm, spiced wine that includes the option of being consumed mit Schoss (with a shot) of liquor. On the way back from my audition, I walked past a stand selling it, and even though it isn’t Christmastime yet and was a balmy 50 degrees, I got myself a glass. It tastes like Christmas in a cup and I will not elaborate.
    • As previously mentioned, the Deutschlandticket is 49 euros per month and allows unlimited access for a single traveler on any local and most regional trains, trams, and buses. I was inspired by 1989‘s re-release to visit a castle on Saturday (more on that shortly) that required me to take a regional train. I was pretty sure my Deutschlandticket would suffice, and after minimal research, I decided I was set. As the Deutsche Bahn employee proceeded down the aisle scanning people’s tickets, I knew I was either good to go or headed to German prison (Mom, this is a joke. I repeat, this is a joke.) In short, I spent zero euros to see an incredible castle yesterday! One point to Germany.
    • I tossed some laundry in the wash on Friday and accidentally had the wash settings incorrect, but when I tried to change them, the cycle had already started. After attempting to stop or pause the machine for five minutes, I impatiently gave up and decided it would be fine– none of my clothes were new, so I didn’t anticipate any issues with color. Wrong. My navy blue bath towel tinted everything a dark shade of blue. Luckily, I didn’t wear many light colors this week, but the pieces of clothing I washed are all a shade darker than they were the previous week. Sort of like my mental state. (Again, Mom, this is a JOKE.)
    • Finally, after my coaching in Berlin on Tuesday, I headed to my Airbnb. I went to the wrong address because I didn’t include the zip code, and in many German cities, there are multiple identical addresses aside from the zip code, so it’s essential to include that. When I finally arrived, I was too tired to go to the grocery store, so I ordered takeout. However, my delivery instructions were incorrect, and when I finally worked up the courage two hours later to call the restaurant, they explained they could not make the delivery, but I could come to pick it up. So, I got on the train to pick up my two-hour-old Indian food in the pouring rain when I could have eaten hours beforehand for a third of the price. I don’t really know what the lesson is here other than I’m an idiot who needs to pay closer attention to detail.

    For those who care little about my thoughts on Taylor Swift, this is where I tell you I’ll see you next week. Month one is nearly in the books. However, I invite you to stay. You’ve already made it this far.

    The Taylor Swift part of the blog

    Schloss Schwerin, October 28, 2023. Cause baby I could build a castle…

    1989 was released on October 27, 2014, nearly two months after beginning my professional career and two months into my senior year of college. I was in rough shape. After the best summer of my life and a coming of age both personally and musically, returning to Concordia was backtracking. Classmates and friends prepared to apply for jobs, but I prepared to audition for graduate school, which was the expected track for a vocal performance major. At College Light Opera Company, we woke up, rehearsed, rehearsed some more, performed, and partied on the beach until 2 a.m. We did this every day for nine weeks. College was bland and uninspiring in comparison.

    Taylor Swift’s 1989 is her most popular album by far– it was a race against the clock for her to get the album re-recorded, as it makes up over half of her streams. When 1989 dropped, Taylor was already a country music star decorated with awards. Still, her step– or headfirst dive– into becoming the pop queen of a generation turned her into a superstar of epic proportions. “Blank Space” was an unavoidable anthem, “Shake It Off” an inescapable earworm, and “Bad Blood” put Taylor’s infamous squad in the spotlight. While silently battling an eating disorder and facing near-constant scrutiny from the media, the 24-year-old singer-songwriter ballooned into a bank too big to fail– until she did.

    1989 is the album of a powerhouse on the precipice of disaster. Taylor had been pumping out music every two years since 2006, and with her fifth studio album, she had unknowingly reached the end of her rope. Little did she know she would (allegedly!!) be getting hauled away in suitcases to hide from the paparazzi nearly three years later, not yet ready to shed her snakeskin.

    The appeal of Taylor’s music lies in her ability to speak in detail about her own experiences while weaving in and out of our collective emotional complexities. She sings about herself while also singing about me and you. That’s storytelling at its best. After Speak Now, 1989 came out at a time when I needed Taylor’s music the most. I was recovering from an emotionally fraught summer, unsure of what was next, knowing I was grown up but still feeling so small. On the precipice of my next chapter.

    At the height of my obsession with “New Romantics.” Berlin, July 24, 2017.

    “New Romantics” is my favorite Taylor Swift song, usurped only by “All Too Well (10-Minute Version),” which is really in a category all on its own. While riding the train between rehearsals at the opera training program I attended in Berlin in 2017, I remember thinking “New Romantics” described what it was like to be a young artist. In an era before Reels and TikTok, I imagined making a YouTube video cutting together scenes from an aspiring opera singer’s life with the song playing over the top. I started making it but decided it was a little stupid. It was. Nevertheless, the lyrics are spot on.

    We’re all bored; we’re all so tired of everything

    We wait for trains that just aren’t coming

    We show off our different Scarlet Letters

    Trust me, mine is better

    We’re so young, but we’re on the road to ruin

    We play dumb, but we know exactly what we’re doing

    We cry tears of mascara in the bathroom

    Honey, life is just a classroom

    Cause baby, I could build a castle out of all the bricks they threw at me

    And every day is like a battle, but every night with us is like a dream

    Baby, we’re the New Romantics, come and come along with me

    Heartbreak is the national anthem; we sing it proudly

    We’re too busy dancing to get knocked off our feet

    Baby, we’re the New Romantics: the best people in life are free

    We’re all here; the lights and boys are blinding

    We hang back; it’s all in the timing

    It’s poker: you can’t see it in my face, but I’m about to play my ace

    We need love, but all we want is danger

    We team up, then switch sides like a record changer

    The rumors are terrible and cruel, but honey, most of them are true

    Please take my hand and 

    Please take me dancing and

    Please leave me stranded, it’s so romantic.

    Another shot of the beautiful Schwerin Castle. October 28, 2023.

    After listening to 1989 (Taylor’s Version) once through, I decided the obvious next move was to take a trip to a castle. Luckily, the Schwerin Castle is less than two hours away from Hamburg, and it was fairy-tale perfect. Due to songs like “Today Was a Fairytale,” “Love Story,” and “Enchanted,” Taylor associated herself early in her musical career with princess tales. Ballgowns and castles like the one I visited on Saturday were synonymous with the virtuous, virginal picture of a young Taylor.

    By the time 1989 was released in 2014, Taylor’s image had shifted to that of an overrated, overly emotional maneater who dated men as fuel for her songwriting. Her fairytale image may have crumbled, but she managed to build a castle out of all the bricks the media threw at her. While significantly less public, I recalled the collage of rejection letters I imagined making in 2017 alongside my corny YouTube video. I never did. If I had, there would be plenty of bricks in my castle.

    1989 and 1989 (Taylor’s Version) represent bookends of a of an emotional and exciting nine-year artistic expenditure. I had barely started to build my castle in 2014 when the album was released, and my own fairytale structure feels nearly complete. I’ve built my castle, and so did Taylor. 

    Stop scrolling: you have reached the official, non-negotiable 1989 TV ranking

    “I wish you would stop talking about yourself and get to the ranking” -everyone reading this blog right now

    Alright, let’s get to the ranking.

    Off the bat, the ranking for this album is nearly impossible because every single song is incredible. Taylor said the vault songs were the best thus far, and did I yell in my room at some of these lyrics? Yes, I did. How dare she keep these pieces from us??? I can’t wait to go to the internet immediately after publishing to see what everybody else is saying about this re-record because I think it is both her best and most adventurous yet– she played with changing up and intensifying the sound rather than just copying. With that being said, let’s do this.

    21. You Are In Love– Ok, remember we’re comparing Taylor to Taylor here, but this song is boring. I know people like the “pauses, then says, you’re my best friend” line. It’s just not for me. 

    20. How You Get The Girl– This piece is cotton candy, and you can’t deny Taylor kind of phones it in on the re-record. It’s like she forgot she wrote this song.

    19. Shake It Off– I’ve gotten flack for this in the past, and I’m willing to take it again. This song isn’t particularly great or inspiring. HOWEVER. I’ll admit that this song ~hit different~ after the difficult moments in Germany. Shake it off, baby. Players gonna play, haters gonna hate. 

    18. I Wish You Would– I know this song can be considered filler, but I like it. The synth-pop remix of this entire album honestly slaps and outdoes the original. I just felt like everything was tightened up and sharpened in this piece, and it benefitted from Taylor’s Version.

    17. This Love– Similarly to “Last Kiss” on Speak Now, this piece didn’t hold the same weight on the re-record, but it’s still a beautiful piece of songwriting.

    16. Wonderland– It’s a great song. When she goes down the scale in the bridge, it evokes a feeling of going down the rabbit hole in Lewis Carroll’s original tale– she’s so SMART! Similarly to many pieces on the album, I think the instrumentals benefitted from a re-record. Everything is intensified, cleaned up, and brightened. I also love that Taylor couldn’t quite get rid of the fairytale motifs yet. Cute.

    15. Style– Hear me out. HEAR ME OUT. First of all, I’m ranking this lower than many people would because I’m disappointed we didn’t get a Harry collaboration. I know, I know. But I think a lot of us were really holding out for that. Additionally, I think this might be the one song that didn’t benefit from intensification and shifts in the instrumentation. Instead of sharpening the vibe, it just completely changed the impact of the piece. It’s still great, just a little emotionally distant.

    14. Blank Space– I know, I know…but after hearing this song blasted for three years straight in every grocery store, bar, boutique, and coffee shop, it lost a bit of its luster. It’s a shame it was so overexposed because it has some of her snappiest lyrics yet, and it’s a great song. It will never be my favorite. And yet, I know every word. 

    13. Wildest Dreams– Taylor’s Version of this piece has existed for quite a while. It’s always going to be a great piece. It definitely hit me harder in 2014 than it does today, and that’s ok.

    12. Say Don’t Go– The vault tracks really were fabulous. Now– and don’t kill me here– maybe it’s just the production, but these songs all sound like they were written in 2023. I’m skeptical that any of her vault songs were actually written in the era that she claims, but the truth is, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if these were words in her diary that didn’t make it off the page until 2023 or if they were fully formed in 2014 but got cut– they’re 100% Taylor Swift, and her fans are always hungry for new music.

    Best lyrics: “I’ve known it from the very start/We’re a shot in the darkest dark/Oh no, oh no, I’m unarmed.”

    A shot in the dark, but she’s unarmed. This piece is filled with idioms that Taylor weaves with her own words so effortlessly. 

    11. Slut!– Ok, we all knew this song was going to be sad. If you saw this vault track title and were like this will have a “22” vibe, I don’t know what to tell you. Sure enough, we get moody Taylor in spades. I love how she plays with color in this piece. It feels like a precursor to reputation in the “Call It What You Want” way– she wants not to care what others say about her. However, in her 1989 era, she wasn’t there yet. Her care for what the public thought about her was so intense it nearly destroyed her.

    It’s interesting that now that Taylor is dating Travis Kelce, the reputation of her serial-dating ways has resurfaced: it’s like the media forgot she dated a relative nobody for six years. No matter what, in some people’s eyes, Taylor Swift will always be a slut. I think saving this piece and sharing it now gives it infinitely more power than if she would’ve released it in 2014. Also, there’s no way Taylor would’ve included a song called “Slut!” on her album back in 2014. She only just started dropping the f-bomb in her music. Andrea surely fainted at this piece.

    Best lyrics: “Got love-struck went straight to my head/Got lovesick all over my bed.”

    10. Out Of The Woods– I honestly don’t have much to say other than this song still does and always will slap harder than “Style.” Thanks.

    9. All You Had To Do Was Stay– Some listeners probably view this song as filler, but it’s a banger. It also pulls together the central theme of this album– Taylor’s desire to hold people, particularly her romantic interest, closely. Unfortunately, neither Harry Styles nor Conor Kennedy could fulfill this desire. Perhaps this is why she held her squad so tightly during this period. Just a thought!!!

    8. Bad Blood– This piece was just as overexposed as “Shake It Off” and “Blank Space,” and yet, I can’t get enough of it. It is the definition of a jam. A banger. It truly “slaps,” as they say. Bandaids don’t fix bullet holes, baby. And now she and Katy Perry are good, so it’s just a happy ending of a piece all around. It’s nice to hear Kendrick Lamar on the album as well. I don’t prefer his version, but he’s such a superb rapper that it’s almost easier to consider them completely different pieces.

    7. I Know Places– I never would have ranked this song so highly on the original. However, she didn’t have to go this hard on the re-record, but she did. The way she screamed, “And we RUN!!!!!!!” sent goosebumps down my arm. I yelled, “She did NOT!!!!” while walking down the street listening to this piece for the first time. Luckily, there was no one around. I surely would have gotten shushed.

    6. Suburban Legends– Alrighty. Wow. Admittedly, this one took a few listens before hitting me with its lyrical and musical genius. Side note: is Ke$ha going to sue her for blatantly stealing “TiK ToK”?? Is that why it wasn’t released in 2014? “Tick tock on the clock, I pace down your block, I broke my own heart cause you were too polite to do it” is pretty damn iconic. Perhaps she didn’t want to outdo Ke$ha.

    Best lyrics: Despite the tick-tock line, it HAS to be, “And you kissed me in a way that’s gonna screw me up forever.”

    5. Clean– I love what they did with the re-record here. Taylor openly admitted she first reinvented herself in 2014, and here she is, slightly adjusting and shifting the instrumentals and vocals; she’s made 1989 entirely hers. Well, and Jack Antonoff is all over these re-records, too. But whatever.

    4. Now That We Don’t Talk– Wow. So, this one is obviously about Harry Styles, but that’s not shocking. I’m guessing most fans assume all five of the vault tracks focus entirely on the untold intricacies of their doomed relationship. Instead of collaborating on the album, she released five songs ripping their relationship to shreds. I’ll take it.

    Best lyrics: “I don’t have to pretend I like acid rock/Or that I’d like to be on a mega yacht/With important men who think important thoughts.”

    One of the most freeing parts of leaving a relationship is not having to pretend their hobbies, lifestyle, or beliefs are interesting or valid. This gave me a chuckle.

    3. Is It Over Now?– Ah, yes, I wanted to pass away today. The mixing and instrumentals are reminiscent of the transitions during the Eras Tour and, therefore, feel more at home in the Midnights era than 1989, but that’s ok. Jack Antonoff can’t help but sound like himself, and this song is a banger.

    Ending the album with a song called “Is It Over Now?” is such a Taylor thing to do, and I’m obsessed. This piece just keeps growing and evolving and then suddenly…it’s over. And we’re left to pick up the pieces of our brains that just exploded everywhere.

    Best lyrics: I don’t know if I can even pick. The fact that this song was cut in 2014 is a crime, but maybe we weren’t ready. We may not have been ready for this level of honesty and raw emotion, especially as it related to Harry Styles.

    But if I have to pick: “You dream of my mouth before it called you a lying traitor/You search in every maiden’s bed for something greater, baby.”

    2. Welcome To New York– Starting 1989 (Taylor’s Version) was a wash of emotions in itself, and the intensification of the incessant synth-pop beat announced from the outset this album would be different. She really YELLED “WELCOME TO NEW YORK” in a way reminiscent of “Welcome to the eras tour!” I used to listen to this song every time I landed in New York for an audition (corny, I know), and it still represents an introduction to adventure. Taylor invites us to enjoy the reflection on her most successful album to date. Buckle in.

    1. New Romantics– No shock here; I gave it away before I began. This song has gotten me through nine years of auditions, flights, breakups, car and train rides, runs, performances, rehearsals, failures, and successes. It’s still the piece that speaks most closely to my lived experience as a messy musician, striving singer, and a human hungry for adventure and artistry. Cheers to Taylor Swift and the castle she built with this album.

    See you next week.

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  • Lüften

    Or the German art of ventilation

    Just airing out my bedroom in 40 degree weather. October 22, 2023.

    The weather in Hamburg is awful. There have been maybe two sunny days since my arrival here, and Mother Nature was at her worst on Friday. It was forty degrees, windy, and raining horizontally as I shivered through a wildly busy day. In Minnesota, forty degrees doesn’t feel so bad. In Hamburg, as I walk between dreary bus stops and academic buildings with my umbrella whipping cold rain into my face, it may as well be -20.

    I asked Elmar, the composition professor who took a chance on my project, if Hamburg’s weather was always so abysmal. He replied, “Only in October and November.”

    Wonderful. I’m a summer gal, and Hamburg doesn’t even do a pretty, pleasant, and Instagram-friendly fall. 

    And yet, despite the wind, rain, and cold, there’s a curious German lifestyle habit that I cannot escape, even though the heat is churning in every building. They may eschew air conditioning in Europe, but heat is essential. A curious practice remains despite heating units whirring in the background. I go into my shared kitchen to make coffee in the morning, shivering in my pajamas because there’s a window open. It’s pouring rain outside, but a window is cracked in the office. A coffee shop has a few windows open, and a barista closes them fifteen minutes later.

    Lüften. As a noun, it becomes Das Lüften, meaning “ventilation.” It comes from the word die Luft, which means “air.” 99 Luftballons, anyone? As I became curious about this practice, I discovered in my rent contract I am obligated to lüften 5-15 minutes at a time at least once per day, and to remain environmentally friendly, turn off the heat while doing this. While keeping windows open certainly makes sense during summer months without air conditioning, doing so year-round was mind-boggling to my American brain. 

    Yes, I Am Going To Bring Up The Black Plague

    Consider this proof that I can, indeed, work the Black Plague into any conversation. Fun fact: plague doctors’ masks looked like bird beaks because they were filled with florals etc. to ward off the bad air, or miasmas, which were thought to be the source of disease.

    Supposedly, the idea of lüften is to cycle out bad air and let in fresh air, which reminds me of the theory of miasmas present in the air before the discovery of germ theory. Diseases were mostly thought to be caused by bad air, hence a “pocket full of posies” to sniff when walking around town during the Black Plague. While it likely helped quell the stench of rotting dead bodies, the posies did nothing to prevent the spread of yersinia pestis, the bacteria that causes Bubonic plague.

    Similarly, in 1800s London, when the spread of cholera was rampant to the point of epidemic levels, the cause was blamed on miasmas, or “bad air.” While the air in 1800s London was undoubtedly bad, the actual cause of cholera fell on their sewage-contaminated water, proven by John Snow, who traced an especially nasty bout of the disease to the Broad Street water pump. 

    After the discovery of germ theory, diseases and pathogens were proven to spread in many different ways. However, diseases like COVID-19, which spread by respiratory droplets in the air, showed that the “bad air” sentiment wasn’t always as far off as it seemed; the theory just lacked the nuance, detail, and perspective of modern science. Whether we called it that or not, we were all sort of practicing lüften during the pandemic. It just turns out that the Germans were ahead of the curve.

    Lüften is the practice of airing out a room; out with the old air, in with the fresh. You see where I’m going here.

    Ventilation and Artistry

    The experimental show in question. Lichthof Theater, October 15, 2023.

    Last Sunday, I went to an experimental show shared by my colleague in Vienna; she had a friend in the production. I was immediately uncomfortable. I don’t love audience participation (please let me sink into the background as I watch), and it’s still hard for me to understand native German speakers. Five minutes into the show, I was directly asked a question. I’m still unsure what I was asked, but I confidently laughed and expressed my inability to understand German. It wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t that embarrassed.

    I hate not knowing what I’m doing, and I really, really hate looking stupid. Given my A2 level German, I have no choice but to look a little bit stupid here. So, I’m trying to lean in. My German is bad. Let it go. Air it out. I can’t get better if I don’t acknowledge I’m bad at German. I just have to speak poorly and keep learning.

    I have no idea what happened during the show, and that’s ok. We sang campfire songs at one point, and I started tearing up during Home On The Range because I’m so far from home. And why do Germans know this song???

    Finding the time to construct a survey and opera company contact list (more on that later), coordinate a composition project at a university (more on that later), and keep practicing my rep and technique so I can audition (yes, more on that later) is a full-time job. I didn’t expect to be so busy, exhausted, and overwhelmed. Riding the bus takes it out of me. Having a meeting, even in English, exhausts me. Trying to be a sponge, absorb all the German language and music around me, and be an observer is exhausting. 

    I also got called out for practicing in my apartment. Oops. 

    I started weightlifting again this week and was so sore by day three that I could barely get out of bed. Double oops. 

    By Thursday night, I already felt I was trying to do too much as I went to a composition class meeting to announce my project and get 4-5 upper-level composition students interested in writing arias and short scenes that we would workshop during the semester and then perform. After I met with two composition professors last week, I was feeling good. Unfortunately, neither of them was at this meeting, and the composition professor leading the class implied my project may not be feasible, and I couldn’t introduce it until mid-November. Not wanting to tread on any toes and feeling incredibly guilty, I went home to regroup. Lüften.

    I trust we will work out the logistics, but I want this project to benefit the university, not cause issues, and I was beginning to feel like a burden on the department. Stay tuned as we navigate and shift the project to fit the department and student aims. 

    Airing Out The Room

    Asking my friend to get a pic of me by this door because it’s in my color scheme. Zero shame. October 18, 2023.

    Friday. I often think I can handle more than I can, and then I’m in it and can’t get out. That was Friday. I had a coaching with a répétiteur at the Staatsoper, and I showed up early and chilled to the bone. Luckily, the man at the Bühneneingang, or stage door, was kind enough to let me sit inside as I awaited the start of my coaching. I watched as musicians and stage workers bustled up and down the elevators, costumes going upstairs, and employees hurriedly rushing back into the warmth after their smoke breaks. I was an outsider experiencing the behind-the-scenes of a day at one of the most prominent opera houses in Germany.

    The coaching space was beautiful; eight floors up and overlooking the city with a grand piano and plenty of room. I had two pieces to coach that day as I prepared for an audition next week. I was nervous. I’m always nervous. It’s like I’m always apologizing for my anticipated imperfections before I even begin.

    Germans are direct. I was warned before arriving and have experienced it nearly every day despite only being here for three weeks. Americans talk around things. Americans don’t want to offend and put a dose of sweetness in every word. Bless your heart. I hope this email finds you well. Let’s keep in touch. Germans are efficient. It’s not personal, but I’m still a little too squishy for this German steel. Maybe the horizontal rain will toughen me up.

    We worked for two hours. The frustrations of my perceived inability to fix my vocal imperfections were mounting. I know what I want to sound like; I just can’t do it every time. Fuck, I still can’t sing. I should cancel the audition. “That was not good.” Do it again. “Like that, every time.” That note wasn’t in tune. It’s a vowel issue. It’s a breath issue. It’s a mind issue. Let go, but not too much. The studio had no window open, but I could’ve used one. I needed lüften.

    Maybe I shouldn’t sing this aria next week, I thought, I said out loud to the coach. “Of course, you should,” he replied, “you’re just doing too much. Do less.” 

    And then we kept working. 

    Back into the cold, I headed to a meeting with Elmar and a couple more of his colleagues at a beautiful music academy. Performances, classes, and rehearsals were held in this space, and I loved the winding staircases and intimate feel. There was an open window in the room.

    In my second sales pitch of the day, I spoke with an esteemed pianist at the institute. I sold my rep, my project, my brand; I sold me. I’m not sure how convincingly I’m selling myself, but luckily, Elmar started talking about what a fabulous singer I was. I thought back to my coaching: “Well, almost fabulous. Sometimes fabulous. Other times, just short of excellent. Other times, not even in the region of excellence,” I wanted to say. I said thank you. 

    On to our next meeting. Another sales pitch. My ability to sell myself was waning; I could feel it. “I don’t know why I’m in Germany,” I wanted to say. “I have a loose plan, but nothing is as straightforward as I thought.” A painting of Charles Ives on the wall. A cracked window. I talked about Harmony, the Seagle production about the life of Charles Ives. I tried to sound like an intelligent musician, but I felt so small.

    Bullseye

    Minutes away from La Traviata at the Hamburg Staatsoper. October 20, 2023.

    Back to the Staatsoper for La traviata. Anger. Relief. Confusion. Joy. Sometimes, I couldn’t hear the tenor or soprano over the orchestra. The legato line wasn’t always there. Some notes weren’t in tune; some Italian vowels weren’t right. It was a beautiful show, and I loved it, and it wasn’t perfect. I wonder if the woman playing Violetta got picked apart in coachings, too, but she could just let it all go onstage. Not every note she sang was perfect, and I loved it. I loved when she sent goosebumps down my spine just as much as when she was a little flat in her passaggio. She wasn’t perfect but became Violetta and put it all on the line. That’s what mattered. She didn’t apologize once onstage. 

    My biggest roadblock is me. When my singing isn’t perfect, I clench up, apologize, and spiral. Being a musician is constantly striving toward perfection, but knowing it’s an unattainable ideal. Artistry isn’t always going to be a bullseye. We’re humans, not machines. Air it out.

    Yesterday, I didn’t do anything at all. Instead, I lay in bed and ate sushi. And I remembered to lüften my bedroom.

    This Week’s Observations

    Not pictured: bridge spiders. October 18, 2023.
    • Obviously, lüften. Make sure to wear layers because even though the heat is on, there is always the possibility of a cracked window. I’m also sure I sometimes use this word incorrectly, but such is life. 
    • Germans will NOT cross the street unless the walk sign is green. If no cars are coming whatsoever, it doesn’t matter. The rain may be pouring down (or sideways), and they will not cross. To appear German, I have also been waiting at the light even if no one is coming. However, the weather was so awful on Friday that I crossed on a red light 2-3 times. Interestingly, when I did this, a few others followed me. Not sure what to make of that.
    • I received a package from a friend in the US on Friday, but the delivery man informed me I had to pay 10,15 euros to actually receive it due to der Zoll or customs. I was on my way out the door to get cash for my coaching and didn’t have any cash, or Bar, at the moment, so the delivery man explained it would be held at a DHL or Deutsche Post location and I could pay to pick it up. This conversation happened mostly in German which I am proud of.
    • After what I believe was my last trip to the Ausländerbehörde, or foreigners’ office, until December, I discovered that even though I won’t have my physical Aufenhaltsgenehmigung (residence permit) until after I return from the US after Christmas, they will give me a Fiktionsbecheinigung (fictional certificate) which will allow me to come back into Germany. Rejoice, rejoice, greatly. It’s like when you renew your driver’s license, and they give you papers while you wait for your physical card in the mail.
    • After breathing a sigh of relief that I wouldn’t be deported, I had to deal with another issue. Apparently, I hadn’t sent the correct paperwork to prove my association with the university, but luckily, I was able to remedy this. Germany wants to kick me out, but I am actively resisting. 
    • On Wednesday, I went for a walk with a friend who informed me to stay away from the bridge railings, as there may be large Brückenspinne, or bridge spiders, on surfaces near the water. Look these up at your own risk (Happy Halloween, I guess?)

    Week three was definitely a lot, but life is moving right along. I’m getting into a routine of artistry and work and learning the balance between all the different facets of my life here in Germany. While figuring out the logistics and realistic parameters of the project are a hurdle to overcome, I trust we will sort through the details and create something exciting and meaningful. In the meantime, watch out for bridge spiders, get out of your own way, and don’t forget to lüften.

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  • A Rough Start

    A trip to the doctor, a brief cry, and settling in. Germany week #2 recap.

    Doing great. October 12, 2023. A bus stop in Hamburg.

    I had high hopes that I would be connecting with opera companies, the university, and friends within the first two weeks, but I’m just now getting started on my artistic goals here in Hamburg. Week two proved to be just as challenging as the first, but I’m finally starting to get my bearings. Moving to a foreign country isn’t quite as easy as I’d hoped, which, in retrospect, was mindlessly optimistic. 

    Week two included a trip to the emergency room, another brush with German democracy, heavily delayed train rides, and a night out in Reeperbahn. As the antibiotics kill my sore throat and I get settled in, I’m finally ready to start what I came here to do: carry out my project and make connections in Germany.

    Mein Hals tut sehr, sehr weh

    The cute rash that appeared on my hands. It actually got much worse before it got better.

    Just as I optimistically assumed my illness was resolving independently, I posted my first blog entry from Germany with a sunny outlook on my prognosis. Knowing it would be hours before anyone in the United States was reading, I hopped in the shower and took more acetaminophen to soothe my burning throat. As I dried myself with a towel, blissfully listening to the Digging Up The Duggars podcast (#notanad #shouldbeanad), I noticed red spots covering both hands and thought, “Well, that’s not good.”

    Indeed. I checked my throat in the mirror, knowing that although I had convinced myself it was getting better, it still felt quite bad. In addition to my spotted hands, my tonsils had sprouted heinous and painful white spots. I’ll spare you the photos on this one. 

    I consulted a doctor friend, who advised me to get to a medical facility. Unsure of what to do, I searched for the nearest emergency room and found it was a 20-minute walk away. Prepared to use my limited German vocabulary, I set out on my quest.

    First exciting outing: the opera. Second exciting outing: the emergency room.

    I explained in rudimentary German after showing them my health insurance (insurance is mandatory in Germany and was provided to me by the DAAD) that my throat hurt (mein hals tut weh!) and that I had only been in Germany for five days and didn’t speak German very well (she probably got this part without me having to explain.) The kind receptionist began speaking very quickly, and before I could say “Ich verstehe nicht” she had circled another emergency room on a sheet of paper and told me to go there—another 30-minute journey.

    Once I arrived, I showed them my insurance and was told it was private, which meant I had to pay upfront for the appointment and get reimbursed by my private health insurance company. Germans who have public health insurance simply show a card, and the practice bills their insurance directly. 

    I only had to wait around ten minutes, and the doctor was ready to see me. She looked at my throat and hands and immediately knew I had strep throat. The doctor prescribed amoxicillin and instructed me to go to the pharmacy (Apotheke) next door. 

    Many places in Germany still don’t take credit cards, and the emergency room was cash only. Unfortunately, I only had 20 euros in cash, and my appointment cost 54 euros and 20 cents. Luckily, the women of the medical practice were super kind, and they let me walk to the Geldautomat and get more money. I picked up my antibiotics for 19 euros and 24 cents, which will also be reimbursed by my insurance, and took the first dose while waiting for the bus. Finally, sweet relief.

    And that’s the story of how I navigated the German healthcare system less than a week after arriving by myself and with an active scarlet fever infection. Fun fact: scarlet fever arises from untreated strep, which is why the rash on my hands and arms showed up days after my original fever, chills, and sore throat. Very exciting!

    ICE, ICE, Baby

    Cologne Central Station at sunset. October 10, 2023.

    The antibiotics kicked in just in time for me to attend the DAAD conference in Bonn without infecting everyone around me with strep throat, and I was ready for my next German lesson: navigating the ICE trains. ICE, which stands for Inter City Express, is a high-speed train traveling between German cities. As mentioned in my previous post, these trains are not covered by the Deutschlandticket and require a separate booking. They are also always delayed, which I wish I would have realized before attending the DAAD conference.

    I wasn’t sure what to expect as I’d never boarded an ICE train before, but I arrived an hour early. This was foolish. It was cold and rainy (Hamburg’s weather of choice), and after shivering for the next sixty minutes, the train was delayed another half hour. Finally, I boarded the train, convinced I had set my recovery back. 

    Customers can reserve their preferred seat in the Deutsche Bahn app for an extra five euros, but this isn’t necessary. If a spot is taken, it’s indicated on the outer side of the seats– for example, I was in seat 103, and there was a glowing light on the side of my spot that indicated the seat was reserved from Hamburg-Dortmund. Unfortunately, our train was so late that I would miss my connection. However, Deutsche Bahn allows customers to transfer to any available connecting train if their original train is delayed, which is a good model as the trains seem to always be late. 

    ICE trains will always be late, and there’s always money in the banana stand—two truths in this life.

    A Good Cry

    I believe this is called “twinning.” Haus der Geschichte, Bonn, October 10, 2023.

    After finally arriving in Bonn, I dropped off my luggage in my little hotel room and eagerly took another round of amoxicillin. Then, I headed to the conference room where forty other North American DAAD scholarship recipients were drinking coffee and chatting. We received an overwhelming amount of information about German bureaucracy that would’ve been nice to know before arriving in Germany (cue: internal panic) and convened for dinner.

    Most of you who know me are aware that I’m very extroverted and social. I generally enjoy meeting new people and getting to know them, so when I couldn’t wait for dinner to be over so I could be alone, I knew I probably wasn’t okay. In an instant, surrounded by strangers, how stressful the week had been finally became clear. I pasted a smile on my face as I explained my project and artistic goals to other ambitious academics and professionals, nodded as they talked about themselves, and laughed at the right points in their stories. But I was so tired and overwhelmed, my throat still hurt, and I just wanted to be alone even though I had been mostly isolated for days.

    Is this what it’s like to be an introvert?

    Some grant recipients went out for drinks and continued to hang out, but I said my goodbyes and made some excuses about having work to do. I popped my amoxicillin and acetaminophen, put on my pajamas, and cried a little. No, really, it was just a little. My throat was on fire; I still had unanswered questions, didn’t feel like making friends, and didn’t know why I was there. I don’t consider myself an academic and just want to sing and create, and here I was doing a research project that plopped me into academia. I have no ten-year plan; I don’t even have a ten-day plan. What the hell was I doing here?

    Then, I had the best night’s sleep since arriving in Germany. I just needed a good cry.

    ICE, ICE, Baby Pt. 2

    Taken from the steps of the cathedral in Cologne.

    The rest of the conference was a blur of new connections (I bounced back after the tears), crucial logistical information, and a trip to the Haus der Geschichte, a contemporary German history museum detailing the country’s history post-WWII. Then, it was time to embark on the journey home to Hamburg.

    Remember: ICE trains will always be late.

    Luckily, two new friends were scheduled on the same train as me, one disembarking in Bremen and the other with me in Hamburg. Unfortunately, after our first train was delayed, we missed our connection and couldn’t leave Köln until 8 p.m. We enjoyed the sunset on the cathedral’s steps as we discussed life in Germany and exchanged stories. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly bonds are formed with strangers when traveling abroad.

    Finally, our train to Hamburg left, and I’m so grateful I had these two women to spend the next four and a half hours with. After one scholar got off in Bremen, we only had an hour left. I feel fortunate I made a friend because the Hamburg Central Station, or Hauptbahnhof, was not a safe place to be at 12:30 a.m. Another lesson learned. 

    I had friends, my sore throat was starting to subside, and initial meetings with faculty and artistic staff were set. Finally.

    Bad German and Bad Vodka

    Enjoying a negroni with my new friend at a bar in Reeperbahn. October 12, 2023.

    I’m finally seeing hints of a real life here in Hamburg. A friend from the conference and I went out to the Reeperbahn neighborhood on Thursday and had drinks. The composition and opera departments at the university are thrilled about my project and ready to start. I enjoyed a chaotic breakfast surrounded by three adorably energetic and bilingual children with a married composer and pianist duo. A phone call with a Seagle alum pointing me in the right direction left me overwhelmed but resolute in my aims. I’m here in Germany. I did it.

    Last night, I was tired after two artistic meetings and planned on a quiet night by myself. However, an unexpected knock on my door at 7 p.m. led to a fun and encouraging evening. As I opened my door, an Iranian woman on my floor said there was a group hanging out in the shared kitchen (common in the level of housing I could afford on a DAAD grant), and I should come join. Our floor is very international– I’m the only American, and as far as I’m aware, the other renters are Korean, Iranian, Japanese, French, Spanish, and Polish.

    I’m at a distinct advantage because English is obviously my native language (cute anecdote: a Spanish man on my floor asked if I was Danish, and a Polish woman expressed relief that I was from America because my English was so good), but last night, we decided to speak in German. Speaking bad German over rounds of bad vodka was the best way to force myself to stumble over foreign words and not lean on English as a crutch just because everyone knows it. Prost!

    Observations From An Ignorant American

    The halls of the music building, which is a repurposed mansion. More on that later. October 13, 2023.

    Some final observations from this week:

    • The smoking culture here is not my favorite. Cigarettes killed my grandpa, a story I’m sure many of us can relate to, and I’ve always hated smoking. It smells bad, secondhand smoke burns my throat, and it’s proven to kill people. At first, I felt fewer people smoked here than in my experiences in France and Italy, but I changed my mind. People light up literally everywhere and do not seem to have the same guilt/shame/politeness around smoking we have in the States. There are still ashtrays in bars that don’t serve food. I got curious, and according to an article from the Wall Street Journal from August 2023, approximately 34% of Germans smoke. That’s staggeringly high in comparison to 11.5% of Americans.
    • Cash is still king here. Lots of places don’t take credit cards. It’s annoying. Places like the grocery store or Apotheke take cards, but many restaurants and bars only take cash. Even my doctor’s office didn’t have a card reader.
    • The shower in my apartment automatically turns off every 15-30 seconds, so I have to keep pressing down on what I’m referring to in my brain as the “on” button constantly to keep the water flowing. The light in the bathroom also automatically turns off after 5 minutes, so I have to stick my hand out of the shower to get the room to recognize I am, indeed, still there. 
    • Cars park up on the sidewalk here because the streets aren’t wide enough to drive through otherwise. Also, I saw this excellent one-person car– please enjoy.
    I love it so much. October 14, 2023.

    Final Thoughts

    Repping Seagle at the doctor’s office. You can barely see the rash on my hand here, which is strange.

    For real, finally: it’s been just over a year since I started writing. I don’t think a day has passed when I didn’t write, whether it’s the blog, a paid article, song lyrics, editing, or a private journal. Writing set me free at a time when singing was a prison. Over the past year, writing has granted me creative and financial independence, and that pride I took in a different artistic avenue seeped into my vocal attitude. Now, the liberation writing afforded me has encouraged independence in my singing life.

    The freedom I feel in singing and writing has been part of the dream I’ve been chasing for ten years, and I thought I might never get that. I know these latest blog posts aren’t the most inspiring prose, but I thank everyone who reads them and gleans any sort of enjoyment. You’ve been a part of my healing process.

    Until next week- tschüss!

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  • Moin Moin from Hamburg

    The first photo Casey has ever taken of me after over three years of being together. And it’s blurry. MSP Airport, October 1, 2023.

    Moin Moin?

    While I expected a greeting of “hallo” or “guten tag/morgen/abend” during my shopping trips and bureaucratic outings this week, I was consistently hearing what sounded like “mon mon.” Enter my first piece of local information: this is the greeting in parts of Northern Germany, including Hamburg.

    Here we are: my first week in Germany is nearly complete. In comparison to other international arrivals, this one has been a doozy, but not because of the city itself. From the little I’ve experienced thus far, Hamburg is a beautiful, safe, clean city filled with friendly people. However, I’m afraid my first blog post won’t be quite as interesting as I anticipated. 

    When I was at the Hamburg State Opera on Thursday (more on that later), I began to feel super sick, so I left during intermission. This was a good choice since I spent two days with a fever and chills and now have a wicked sore throat. Not exactly how I planned to spend my first weekend in Germany, but here we are.

    Why Am I In Germany?

    Heading to the opera would be my first and last cultural outing of the week. Hamburg, DE, October 5, 2023.

    The short answer is I received a ~prestigious~ grant for a research and performance project funded by the DAAD-Respekt & Wertschätzung Stiftung. This grant, graciously funded by Dr. Michael Aven, is awarded to an “ambassador of internationality” of sorts, usually in the field of Physics or Music. Although this may be shocking to some of you, I was chosen for this grant because of my brilliance in Physics (take that, Ms. Messer! I bet you regret giving me a B in 9th grade!)

    The longer answer takes us back to June 2022, when I was an Artist-In-Residence with Really Spicy Opera on their Madagascar tour. One evening at dinner, I was talking with two fellow sopranos and a pianist, and they were asking me about upcoming gigs, jobs, or goals. I responded that I was only practicing and taking multiple lessons per week with my overbearing teacher at the time because he believed I wasn’t ready to audition. Frankly, they looked flabbergasted.

    I’m so thankful to these women for lifting the veil on what it means to be “ready” for a musical career or defining it by standard means. During this dinner, three thoughts permeated my brain space.

    1. My Viennese friend and colleague could go to a different performance every night of the week, and she would never see all the productions in her own city. She’s sung at nearly every company in the city and beyond and also started her own opera company, which has thrived in the Twin Cities for years.
    2. The other soprano friend and colleague had just done a Fulbright in the Czech Republic for a year, where she taught, performed, and made professional recordings. She seemed fully entrenched in the musical scene in Prague and became fluent in Czech. After returning to the states, she also started her own opera company.
    3. I wasn’t finding the musical immersion I so badly craved in the United States.

    Because of these colleagues, I decided in Madagascar I would apply for a Fulbright to Germany. Many American singers move to Germany, and still more embark on audition tours for a chance to get agents or fest contracts. Germany has the most robust opera culture in the world, and it’s no secret to American singers. I’ve always romanticized coming here to sing, but I was never “ready.” I wasn’t prepared emotionally, vocally, mentally…there were a lot of excuses.

    However, I didn’t want to just come here blindly to audition, and frankly, I didn’t have thousands of dollars to spend on it. Yes, there are singers who are able to spend the money to embark on an audition tour of Germany, and no, there’s absolutely no guarantee of receiving a contract. I don’t fault these singers– if you’ve got that rich family or sugar daddy, you’d better take advantage. Classical music is a notoriously expensive career to pursue.

    Realistic financial approaches aside, I also wanted to feel like I was doing something real and part of something important. Something I could hang my hat on even if a standard opera career was completely out of my reach. After years of striving (mostly aimlessly) on the traditional singing path in the United States, I was so hungry to create. Picking arias and perfecting them makes me feel like an empty machine. If I was going to Germany, I wanted to do something. Make something. Contribute. Be an artist and not ask permission for it.

    I didn’t get the Fulbright, but luckily, the director of Really Spicy Opera knows a thing or two about grant writing, and he pointed me toward the DAAD. The DAAD, or German Academic Exchange Service, is basically the inverse of the Fulbright. The German government grants scholarships for academics worldwide to come to Germany, and the Fulbright is for US Citizens only going anywhere in the world. Both are extraordinarily competitive. My scholarship is a little different- instead of being funded by the German government, my research is being privately funded by Dr. Michael Aven, whom I will have the pleasure of meeting (and thanking a million times for choosing me and my project) during my time here in Germany.

    Why Am I In Hamburg Specifically?

    They love me already. Hamburg, DE, October 5, 2023.

    Like with the Fulbright, a DAAD recipient (and even a DAAD-Stiftung recipient like me) must pair with an academic institution, even if their research isn’t degree-seeking. When I was applying for the grant, I found a university to partner with by cold emailing.

    I looked at every major music university in Germany and emailed any composition professor who had experience writing opera. Then, I contacted around 25-30 composition professors and told them I was applying for a DAAD Grant and wanted to help young composers write singer-informed opera that wasn’t impossible to sing and would be enjoyable for modern audiences (more on this later, I swear.) Then I waited.

    And waited.

    And waited.

    And I thought all my hard work on my grant application would be for nothing because zero German universities were willing to work with me.

    So I sent follow-up emails.

    And I got two (2!!!!!) responses: one from a professor in Hamburg and another from a professor in Munich.

    The professor in Hamburg was just a little more enthusiastic and responsive at the time, so I chose him and the Hochschule fur Musik und Theater- Hamburg as my academic institution. Spoiler alert: I will also be singing and advising with the Munich professor on a March concert, so it all worked out for everybody.

    This has been a testimonial for cold emailing.

    Germany Week #1 Recap

    I only got on the wrong bus or train 3 different times on Wednesday. This was a correct platform. Hamburg, DE, October 4, 2023.

    I arrived after 24 hours of travel on October 2. Monday and Tuesday consisted of unpacking, light grocery shopping, sleeping, and emails. I’ll leave it at that because it was truly not interesting. Finally, on Wednesday, I began to feel like a human being. I met a Polish girl on my floor, and we headed to Media Markt together to buy Wifi routers– going without Wifi was almost as torturous as sweating out a fever.

    Unsurprisingly, the public transportation system here, from what I can tell, is great. The buses and trains arrive and leave precisely on time (sehr pünktlich!), and all walks of life seem to utilize public transport. Hamburg is the second biggest city in Germany after Berlin, so I imagine it’s more common to use modes of public transportation here than in other places, but I could be wrong. There are also plenty of cars, but I have yet to see the kind of traffic jams we experience in the United States. I’ve also only been here 6 days and have spent 4 of them in bed. More on this later, I’m sure.

    Another note regarding public transportation: I will get a reduced fare Semesterticket from the university, but I’ve yet to stop into the school as I have been 1) ill and 2) busy. However, I took the opportunity to purchase the Deutschlandticket, which for only 49 euros per month, allows a traveler to ride any local or regional tram, train, or bus. The ticket does not cover the high-speed ICE trains between cities, but it includes pretty much everything else. Since I intend to travel frequently, I went ahead and purchased this card. I don’t know about you guys, but I spend wayyyy more than $50 on gas every month, so I’m saving a ton of money here. Affordable, efficient, and convenient public transportation: imagine that!

    Arriving at Hamburg State Opera. October 5, 2023.

    After taking care of bureaucratic and personal matters for the first few days, on Thursday, I finally had my first opportunity to see a performance at the Hamburg State Opera, or Staatsoper. As the name implies, the opera company is funded by the state, typical in Germany.

    A few quick fun facts about the Hamburg State Opera:

    • The people of Hamburg weren’t fans of Italian-style opera, and the Staatsoper was one of the few German opera houses of the 17th-18th century that focused on German Baroque.
    • Handel played the violin and harpsichord on his own operas at the theatre in 1703.
    • Gustav Mahler was the musical director from 1891-1897.
    • The theater and surrounding buildings were destroyed during WWII, and the structure standing today was rebuilt in 1953-1955.
    • The venue seats 1,690 at full capacity, but the old venue destroyed during WWII sat 2,800. For comparison, the Metropolitan Opera seats 3,800, and the Deutsche Oper Berlin, the largest house in Germany, seats 2,000. German opera houses are typically smaller than American houses, which is why many Americans will sing larger repertoire in German houses than in the States. However, as the primary operatic venue for the second biggest city in Germany, the Hamburg State Opera is still quite large.
    Headed up five flights of stairs to get to my cheap seat. Worth it.

    The opera playing on Thursday evening was Die Entführung aus dem Serail (The Abduction from the Seraglio), a Singspiel written in 1782 by our guy Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Although it hasn’t remained as popular as the big three (Le nozze di Figaro, Cosi fan tutte, and Don Giovanni), the opera was a huge success when it premiered. A Singspiel is a work that contains both singing and talking, as opposed to recitative, which is speech-like singing with dry accompaniment, common in many operas. 

    The plot of Seraglio unfolds over the course of three acts. Belmonte, a Spanish nobleman assisted by his pal/servant Pedrillo, seeks to rescue his fiancée, Konstanze, and her maid, Blondchen, from the grips of Bassa Selim and the overseer of his Turkish harem, Osmin. Modern productions like the one I saw on Thursday often omit the overt racial element to the plot for obvious reasons. Similar to European orientalism and tokenism of Asian cultures pervasive in the works of Puccini over 100 years later, there was a fascination with the Ottoman Empire at the time, which had previously been a military threat to Austria but no longer was. Dropping the Turkish part of things doesn’t really impact the plot.

    Here’s the basic plot:

    • Belmonte bemoans that his fiancee, Konstanze, and her maid, Blonchen, have fallen into the hands of pirates and sold to Bassa Selim’s harem. His servant, Pedrillo, was also taken.
    • Bassa Selim’s right-hand man Osmin refuses to answer Belmonte’s questions.
    • Belmonte and Pedrillo reunite and vow to rescue Konstanze and Blondchen.
    • Pasha Selim is in love with Konstanze. THANKFULLY, her virtue is still intact. THANK GOD. Because after being sold into a harem, it would obviously be her fault if it wasn’t.
    • Konstanze sings a wicked hard aria about missing Belmonte.
    • Pedrillo tricks Bassa Selim into hiring Belmonte as an architect, granting him access to the harem.
    • Blondchen has been “given” to Osmin, but she threatens to scratch out his eyes in an aria I’ve heard every coloratura soprano on planet Earth sing. It’s a bop, though.
    • Konstanze is sad about her situation again in a very long aria. Bassa Selim threatens to take her by force if she won’t love him, and she refuses again. He leaves. She sings ANOTHER WICKED HARD ARIA. This role is relentless.
    • Blondchen is informed that Belmonte has arrived, and they totally have a plan to rescue the girls. Nice!
    • Pedrillo gets Osmin super drunk, and he passes out.
    • Belmonte, Pedrillo, Blondchen, and Konstanze are happily reunited, but the men immediately worry if their women have “remained faithful” to them. This is such a Mozart theme (Mozart obviously hated women– one of his operas is literally called “Women Are Like That” aka Cosi fan tutte), but it was also the late 1700s, and everyone hated women, so we’ll cut him some slack. THANKFULLY, Blondchen and Konstanze had yet to be subjected to sexual assault. Because if they had been, that definitely would have been their fault.
    • Osmin wakes from his stupor and discovers everybody trying to escape. He alerts Bassa Selim.
    • Belmonte begs with Bassa Selim, but it turns out Belmonte’s dad is a major enemy of Bassa Selim. Bummer. A death sentence is issued.
    • Belmonte and Konstanze sing about the romance of getting tortured to death together.
    • Bassa Selim has a change of heart and decides it would make him the better man and prove a point to let Belmonte and his crew leave scot-free. 
    • Everyone is happy except Osmin.

    Like most opera plots, it’s a little convoluted, and you can see the ending from a mile away, but it really is a delightful show. I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing it live, and I still can’t quite count it, as I had to leave at intermission because I started feeling feverish.

    One of many open spaces for wine and snack consumption pre-opera.

    A few initial observations regarding the opera on Thursday:

    • It only took me 25 minutes to get to the opera. I walked for 12 minutes, waited for 2 minutes, and was on the bus for 10 minutes. The bus stop is just outside the opera house.
    • Just like in the USA, many people were milling around, drinking wine, and socializing before the show.
    • The house wasn’t close to full, but this opera has been playing at the opera house since 2021, which isn’t uncommon here. Most houses in Germany are repertory theatres, and the only house that does this in the US is the Metropolitan Opera. I would estimate the house was around half full, meaning 800-900 people were in attendance. This is purely observational.
    • There were people of many ages. Though I felt the age of attendees still skewed high, I also saw many middle-aged and younger people in the audience. The older attendees dressed more formally, while the younger population wore jeans and sneakers. There was a group of around 10-15 young people (God, I sound old) seated near me, and they seemed to be having a grand ol time. It’s possible they were music students at the university, but I wasn’t brave enough to ask them (slash was also feeling like crap.)
    • My ticket cost 12 euros. I was in an admittedly crappy seat with a limited view, but I moved after it became clear the seats next to me were empty. The most expensive ticket for this performance appeared to be just over 100 euros, and that was for front-row orchestra seats. For reference, the starting cost for a ticket at the Met is around $50, and that’s often for standing room only.
    • There were supertitles in German and English. Seraglio is written in German, so I’ll be curious to see if Italian operas are supertitled in German and Italian or German and English. I’m guessing the former.
    • Up to 380 performances happen at the Hamburg State Opera every year. For reference, the Metropolitan Opera has around 200 performances yearly, and most regional opera houses in the United States are lucky if they can afford and have audiences for 3-8 fully produced operas per year, usually adding up to around 30-80 performances. That’s being generous.

    Parting Thoughts

    This might be the worst selfie I’ve ever taken, but you had to see this beautiful pastry. It was gone in 2.5 seconds. October 7, 2023.

    Unfortunately, this is the only interesting outing I have to report, as I’ve spent the last few days with a horrible sore throat and sweating out a fever in a foreign country. It hasn’t been the most pleasant way to begin my travels, but I’m thankful to get a pesky illness out of the way before I really get started next week. Luckily, I was well enough yesterday to draft some initial schedules, meetings, and documents for my project, so I’m all set for the week ahead.

    I’ll leave you with one cultural bright spot: I’ve had difficulty sleeping despite my illness, so I’ve been down some fun Wikipedia rabbit holes. Last night, I was reading about cuisine in Hamburg and came across a tasty-sounding pastry called a Franzbrötchen. Common in Northern Germany, especially Hamburg, the Franzbrötchen is essentially a cross between a cinnamon roll and a croissant. I had to pick up some items at the grocery store yesterday and noticed Franzbrötchens available. I snatched one up, and let me tell you, it is one of the most delicious treats I’ve ever had. I’m upset I only bought one. If a Franzbrötchen from a grocery store is this fabulous, I can’t wait to buy one from a bakery.

    Provided I feel better, I leave Monday morning for a DAAD conference in Bonn for two days, after which I will return and commence my research and performance project in conjunction with the university in Hamburg. I’m excited to keep you all updated on my observations, travels, and thoughts as I continue to learn and grow as a musician, academic, and, most importantly, human being. Here we go!

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  • Speak Now (Victoria’s Version)

    A few thoughts followed by my official, non-negotiable ranking

    I’ve already written at length about my relationship to Speak Now, but in the interest of the moment, allow me to repeat myself a few times throughout this public diary entry. My tendency to recycle stories used to embarrass me, but now, I usually allow it to happen. No one likes hearing my stories over and over more than I do– that’s one thing I think Taylor Swift and I have in common.

    Speak Now is the quintessential Taylor Swift album for me and, arguably, for all of us. She was on the precipice of genre-shattering brilliance and unraveled the last of what she could do with the country style. Country is inherently limited in its musical form and themes, and her orchestral experimentation and pop-punk influence in Speak Now had her bursting at the seams to fill out a broader space. The Ringer podcast, hosted by Nora Princiotti and Nathan Hubbard, spoke in their original 2021 Speak Now-focused “Every Taylor Swift Album” episode that her third studio album drips with “BDE”– Big Disney Energy, that is.

    In 2010, Big Disney Energy was the level of romantic love I was ready to experience. Despite my embarrassing lack of attention from boys, I listened to “Sparks Fly” and dreamed of being kissed in the rain, of being wonderstruck by a crush who didn’t feel the same about me, and of the awkwardness of not speaking to someone meaningful to me a la “Story of Us.” Yet, my enjoyment of Taylor Swift largely flew under the radar aside from my group of friends. The girls I knew who listened to Taylor in high school were appropriately flirty, feminine, and popular so as not to garner disdain for their love of her music. Cool girls had enough social credit to listen to Taylor Swift, and I had not earned that right. I pretended to like Passion Pit and Bon Iver long enough that I actually started to like them, thank you very much.

    I used to resent being called a Swiftie because, in many ways, I wasn’t one. I have never bought a hard copy of an album, didn’t wear her Wonderstruck perfume, and didn’t even consider going to a concert until a friend of mine in college mentioned her Red tour was coming to Fargo. I didn’t watch most music videos she released, and I definitely didn’t care about watching any interviews with Taylor. Looking for Easter eggs never interested me, and I didn’t even listen to the deluxe songs on most of her albums because those were more expensive on iTunes or could only be heard on a hard copy. I just listened to the core albums, and I listened to them a lot. I didn’t care about the rest of the noise surrounding Taylor Swift.

    I guess the internet and the expectation that I was this hardcore Swiftie prompted me to consume more media surrounding her music so I didn’t look like an idiot on my fun little rankings, which began as a joke with Red’s release in 2012. However, knowing all the minutiae surrounding her personal life and all the little breadcrumbs she leaves for fans hasn’t made me like her any more or less. It’s always been about how her music makes me feel, and boy, does this album make me feel things.

    I didn’t intend to listen to Speak Now (Taylor’s Version) the night it was released, but I was in a mood and had consumed a few glasses of wine while watching screeners of Too Hot to Handle season 5 (perks of being a reality TV writer) when I realized it was almost 11. Given that I live in the central time zone, my buzzing brain decided I might as well stay up and listen to Speak Now. I pulled up my Spotify account on the massive television spanning the sunroom wall and pressed play– a new photograph of 33-year-old Taylor wearing a lavender dress and ballet slippers appeared as the iconic “uh oh oh” of “Mine” began to play.

    I won’t say I cried while relistening to perhaps the most formative music of my late teenage years, but I felt a deep hollowness I couldn’t quite describe; of time passing and yet remaining frozen and alert to exactly how I felt, looked, and acted thirteen years ago. Maybe a part of me has never grown up– I’m not married, I don’t have kids, I don’t work a 9 to 5 job or like to talk about home improvement. A big piece of me still feels like teenage Victoria, remaining stubbornly in a time capsule while others mature around me.

    Taylor was heavily criticized early in her career for her weak singing voice, even being accused of autotune, as characterized in the song “Mean.” However, even after her humiliation at the infamous VMAs, in which she thought the crowd was booing her, not Kanye, she was able to pull herself together and perform. Taylor took the criticism that she didn’t deserve the accolades she received by obtaining better vocal coaching and creating an album with zero songwriting collaborators.

    Taylor wrote these songs between the ages of 18-20, and while I listened to them most heavily between the ages of 16-18, I never stopped consuming these pieces. It is the album closest to my heart (despite those of you following my rankings knowing I put some of her more recent albums higher), and maybe that’s what made the rerecord difficult to listen to.

    The disdain for John Mayer is gone despite her vocal prowess shining more powerfully than ever. The shaky breath on “Last Kiss” disappeared, and “Haunted” didn’t have the same paranoia. “Mean” sounded almost too pretty; I miss the shrillness of her underdeveloped voice. “Better Than Revenge” suffered from an unnecessary lyric change, and she almost sounded embarrassed of “Speak Now.” “Never Grow Up” didn’t have the same fear and uncertainty and instead shimmered with wistful nostalgia.

    That’s what got me, I think. I don’t actually want to go back to being 18; my life is way better now. But whether I want to or not, I can’t, and no matter how hard she tried, Taylor couldn’t really capture what it meant to be 18 again, either. She could only look back with a mix of nostalgia, embarrassment, and the knowledge of what would come next.

    The vault tracks on Speak Now didn’t consume me like the new songs on Red did. Red was never one of my favorite albums, but the addition of songs such as “Better Man,” “I Bet You Think About Me,” “Babe,” and, of course, “All Too Well (10 min.)” elevated the album to my top three. The vault songs on Speak Now would have deeply resonated with me as a high schooler, but unfortunately, as a 30-year-old woman, “When Emma Falls In Love,” and “Foolish One” largely made me roll my eyes. However, Taylor has a tendency to take hold of me, even when desperately trying to convince me of the existence of fairytale love over a decade later. So, maybe they’ll grow on me.

    The more I listen to the rerecord, the more settled in to Taylor’s Version I feel. I don’t have as many Speak Now moments now as I did when I was 18, and she clearly feels the same. Listening today feels much more like reminiscing on a state of mind that is largely behind me, and on a Thursday night after a couple glasses of wine, I missed the wistfully romantic hopefulness that came from being freshly out of high school and never kissed.

    Taylor’s rerecordings of her first six albums put immense trust in not only her most stalwart fans but listeners at large to choose to listen to Taylor’s Version over the originals because it’s important to her that she owns her music. I’m certain that over time I will get used to the new Speak Now, but Taylor herself expressed my current headspace in her music video for “I Can See You.” Although she can attempt to recapture her masters, she can’t really get them back after thirteen years removed from her fairytale dresses and saccharine naivety. I’m going to come around to Speak Now (Taylor’s Version), but forgive me if I still blast the original “Dear John” and sing “She’s better known for the things that she does on the mattress.” Long Live the nostalgia.

    Official, Non-Negotiable Song Rankings:

    22. Innocent– This song is still weak and feels especially weird after everything with Kim and Kanye went down.

    21. Superman– I just…this song makes me cringe I can’t do it.

    20. Timeless– “Starlight” is the grown-up version of this song, but I enjoy hearing her play around with those ideas. I don’t think I’m going to listen to it very much.

    19. Foolish One– I am glad to know this song exists and that she talks about checking the mailbox like someone is going to actually send her a physical love letter. That’s very fun.

    18. Speak Now– It’s never been a favorite of mine, and Taylor is clearly over it.

    17. Electric Touch– It would be better without Fall Out Boy. Their verse reminds me of when Owl City tried to write a response to “Enchanted” and it was so bad Taylor never spoke to him again.

    16. Ours– This song was fine and the new version is also fine.

    15. When Emma Falls In Love– Some people are saying this is about Emma Stone, but Taylor seems like a Jane Austen girlie, so I kind of assumed it was a reference to Emma. I recognize this is peak Speak Now, but it kind of just feels “eh.” It’s sweet.

    14. Castles Crumbling– This…has to be about the VMAs, right? Because if it’s not, then Taylor is lying to us and it’s actually from the reputation era and that would be sacrilege and mother would never do that to us????? I like it tbh I think I just need more time with it.

    13. I Can See You– Definitely the best track from the vault. Also, umm, UP AGAINST THE WALL?! I see why this one was vetoed; Andrea was probably like no way is my baby girl singing that. I can see this one growing on me, and the reemergence of Taylor Lautner is worth it.

    12. Better Than Revenge– It pains me to put this song so low, but I’m mourning the lyric change. Here’s the thing: we all say mean things when we’re hurt. This is the woman who wrote in folklore, “My words shoot to kill when I’m mad; I have a lot of regrets about that.” However, her background vocals are hilarious and way better in this version.

    11. Mean– I will always love this song, but I miss her whiny, nasal, squished sound on this one, honestly. Bring back the Taylor who “can’t sing”!!

    10. Haunted– What happened here?????? She has a lot more…dare I say it…legato line…(??) throughout this piece and it doesn’t work. Give me choppy. Give me raw. This ain’t bel canto. But THEN! Out of nowhere, she goes HARDER on the bridge. I’m not mad exactly, I’m just in shock.

    9. Back To December– A great piece, and Taylor’s fuller vocals matched the orchestral arrangement. Also, love that Taylor Lautner literally peaked in 2009 and disappeared from the spotlight until backflipping into this exact moment. That’s the way to do celebrity.

    8. Mine– This honestly went harder in the rerecord than the original, and was a great place to start.

    7. The Story of Us– Just fabulous. This song is so underrated. If you’ve never skipped first hour band to drive around in your Buick LeSabre crying and thinking about the boy who doesn’t have a crush on you and then the attendance lady comes to find you during fourth hour and you say that’s a mistake I was of course in first hour I just went to the bathroom during attendance because you didn’t want them to call your parents and she believed you because you never got in trouble idk what to tell you.

    6. Sparks Fly– I feel this was even more of a banger. Like I was headbanging.

    5. Never Grow Up– This song was so different in a way I needed. I used to always skip this one, but now it almost feels meditative.

    4. Enchanted– Woweeee Taylor’s grown up vocals really benefitted this piece. I am glad I didn’t know until recently it was about the Owl City guy. That is a tragedy. For me, it is about every boy that ever made me feel a certain way. If I have ever had a crush on you, I have listened to this song on repeat about it. You’ve been warned.

    3. Last Kiss– The shaky breath is gone. That was upsetting. But everything else was a masterpiece.

    2. Long Live– This song also slapped harder!!! Taylor’s love letter to her fans probably feels closer to her heart than ever. On a more personal level, I put this song at the end of every mix CD I made from 2010-2013, and it really became an anthem for my group of friends as we made the transition from high school to college.

    1. Dear John– The emotional impetus is stifled, but Taylor makes up for it with her matured voice on “sad empty town.” This is the best breakup song ever written, and she absolutely eviscerated John Mayer to the point she had to ask her fans not to bully him online over a decade after they broke up. If you don’t think this is in the top 5 Taylor songs ever you are wrong. Thank you.


    Overall, Speak Now is still *the* album for Swifties. I sort of miss when she made music specifically for teenage girls, and it irks me a little she is taken more seriously now that straight men have respect for her songwriting as well. Maybe that’s what makes the first three albums so special: the real ones know. She may have been writing about castles, fairytales, and dragons, but she has always been one of the greatest musicians of our generation, delivering the end of a decade but the start of an age that shows no signs of stopping.

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  • The Stigma of Vocal Health

    Greetings, all! The blog is back. Let me explain.

    Probably the most flattering performance photo of me ever. Really Spicy Opera, June 2023. Photo: Loco F/X.

    My life completely ramped up in every way in the past few months. I can officially call myself a freelancer writer now, as I write and edit over 20 weekly articles for a well-known website (I’m a clickbait extraordinaire!) I’ve also been writing articles for a financial advisor website utilizing plotlines on popular reality TV series like Love is Blind or Selling Sunset to help readers with their financial health.

    A handful of new students have contacted me as a voice teacher, and I’ve been performing repertoire from the Baroque era through brand-new works in the Twin Cities area. Whenever I have an idea for a blog post, I find myself too tired to write, uninspired, or bogged down by other responsibilities. I have what I wanted before: steady to the point of almost too much freelance work. So, that’s why I haven’t been updating the blog.

    I have some big news to share that will be a game-changer for my future as a singer and performer, but I will save that for another day. What I have to share today has been weighing on me for a couple of weeks, and like some of my other more vulnerable blog posts, I’m worried I will come across as a crappy singer or a whiny worry wart. However, I’m also hopeful it will enlighten those who are not classical singers and show my solidarity for those with whom I share this roller coaster of a career.

    What my vocal folds looked like in May 2023. Look how pretty they are! I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: THESE ARE VOCAL CORDS. Get your mind out of the gutter.

    For those who are new here, I had a vocal polyp last year. Chronic vocal fatigue began after I contracted Omicron like everybody else in January 2022, and I returned to singing too quickly after losing my voice. I would consistently lose my voice’s maximum range, feel dull around the edges, and push to produce sound.

    After months of denial and shame, I was diagnosed with a vocal polyp in October 2022, at which point I was told not to sing for a month and to rest my voice as much as possible in an attempt to shrink the polyp. Surprisingly, the polyp completely vanished within a month, leaving only some minor hemorrhaging. I have since nearly fully healed.

    Last year was an emotional journey as much as it was a physical one. Within a few months, I went from a helpless, desperate singer with a one-track mind and zero trust in my abilities to creating multiple singing opportunities for myself, getting hired by local companies, healing my vocal folds, and developing multiple income streams, all in the arts. I finally set myself free from the student mindset and trusted my abilities and skills alongside mentors who wanted to complement my goals, not tell me what to do.

    Interestingly, approximately one year after returning as a featured soprano with Really Spicy Opera on a tour in Madagascar, I felt the grip of my vocal health take control of me once again, and I’m struggling. I can openly admit that. In the interest of fending off those who think I’m being dramatic: I also think I’m being dramatic. I just don’t want to repeat what I did last year, even though the polyp inspired me to improve my life.

    It wouldn’t be a Shifting Soprano blog post without a Taylor Swift reference. US Bank Stadium, June 2023.

    Two days before the Taylor Swift concert (if you’re new here: I’m a proud Swiftie), I had the best voice lesson of my life. The ease with which I was executing the high notes and runs in Sempre libera nearly brought tears to my eyes (not challenging to do, as I’m a crier, but still), and the polished manner in which I could sing Donna Elvira’s Mi tradi made me feel on top of the world. I was singing. Everyone always says that when you’re singing correctly, it should feel easy, and that’s how I increasingly felt.

    Unfortunately, I felt a tickle deep in my throat later that afternoon. Singers know this is not a great feeling. I pounded raw garlic, Gan Mao Ling, and zinc. Maybe it was just the poor air quality, I told myself. By Friday morning, I was coughing. Now, I’ll spare you the details because I can feel how boring this is, but at the Taylor Swift concert that evening, I started to lose my voice, despite not singing, shouting, or yelling even a bit. My voice left the building.

    I was already impressed by Taylor’s ability to sing and dance for over three hours straight twice per week, but as my voice vanished while the world’s leading pop star executed her show without a hitch, the shame crept in. How can Taylor do this for months on end and never get sick?

    What happens when the woman playing Elphaba in Wicked on Broadway gets a cold? I rarely see opera singers at the Met or La scala dropping out of performances. Nadine Sierra recently canceling performances to take a break after a nearly non-stop season was considered out of the ordinary.

    Perhaps I was just not built to be a performer. A tickle in my throat, and two days later, I was hoarse out of nowhere, despite my best efforts to tackle the illness. This embarrassment wouldn’t happen to Taylor Swift.

    The hoarseness lasted a few days, and the intense coughing continued. I had managed to acquire bronchitis. However, after resting for a few days, my voice seemed to bounce back. Unfortunately, after a voice lesson, teaching for two hours, and rehearsing, I was hoarse again the next day. The fear of vocal fragility once again crept in. 

    I’m going to get a polyp again. I’m singing wrong. There’s something wrong with me. I’m a lousy singer. I’m a fraud. Other singers never have these problems.

    Feeling very cool and fun. Wild Sound Recording, June 2023.

    I can feel how boring this is getting, so I’ll keep it quick. I had an opportunity to sing with a local Baroque opera company this week at an outdoor concert featuring works by Handel, Vivaldi, Purcell, and more. Baroque music isn’t usually my jam, but after being approached by the director, I decided to give it a try and thoroughly enjoyed collaborating on a genre of classical music which I’ve been sorely lacking over the course of my singing career. However, during our rehearsal on Sunday, I could still tell my voice was rough around the edges. 

    It’s difficult to describe to non-singers, but I can’t experience the cut and clarity of proper resonance when my voice isn’t quite right. Usually, this means I begin to push, my vowels get muddy, and my voice sounds dull, without the brilliance and ping I’m used to. Despite knowing my voice wasn’t up to par, I decided to go ahead with the performance, as this is a group I’d like to continue to work with in the future. 

    I probably should have anticipated this, but my singing was muddy, dull, pushed, and lifeless. The audience still seemed to enjoy the performance, and I received many compliments, but I wasn’t proud of the work I had put forward. The tiny voice of a former mentor crept into my head, filling me with doubt and shame. 

    A more professional singer would have dropped out. You went to your friend’s birthday party; you shouldn’t have done that. A real singer can sing through vocal fatigue. A true professional would have recovered by now. 

    I’ve decided to learn my lesson from last year and take a couple of weeks to recover fully, but in reality, this little illness was bizarre but not a big deal. I lost my voice and coughed a bunch for a few days. I’m still coughing a little. To the average person, this is small potatoes. For me, this is my life, and I feel so ashamed that I care so deeply about something so small. Do other real singers struggle with this, or is this a symptom of being an amateur? I hate caring this much about something so minor. I just don’t feel like I see singers performing with major companies worldwide struggling so much with vocal health. Are they not talking about it, or are they better at caring for their voices than me? Are they more resilient?

    The polyp has undoubtedly put me on edge. Until recently, my speech and singing have been easier than ever– I even think back to the amount of unnecessary weight I used at Seagle Festival in 2021 before I had a polyp– but I’m still constantly vigilant. My vocal folds rule my entire existence. I willingly miss social events, feel guilty after socializing, cancel plans, and rearrange my entire schedule to serve my voice best. Even as my voice has improved, behaving like a professional musician means sacrificing a normal life to a certain degree. While it’s a sacrifice I’ve been consistently willing to make, I can’t deny it’s taken a toll on me.

    I feel that I am annoying those closest to me. The amount of care and thought I give toward maintaining my vocal health while also enjoying life is nearly a full-time job on top of the actual gigs, rehearsals, performances, and lessons. So here’s what I want to know: do other working musicians feel this way, or am I doing something incredibly wrong?

    I’m sad that I couldn’t fully enjoy the Taylor Swift concert. I’m bummed that I’ve had to cancel or reschedule several gigs and recording sessions in the next couple of weeks to ensure I give myself enough time to recover from such a brief and minor illness. I’m so grateful to work as a full-time artist and for the exciting opportunities to come this fall. However, I’d really like to see more singers talk about vocal health. It feels so shameful, but it must be so common. Either that, or I’m way too fragile mentally and vocally.

    Recently, some major female opera singers were featured in a New York Times article documenting how pregnancy affected their operatic careers. These women are some of the top performers in today’s opera industry, and it was disheartening to see how these women were treated when pregnant. They bravely spoke out, and their stories were enlightening and encouraging. 

    I’d like to hear more singers speaking out regarding the many hidden aspects of our career in addition to balancing motherhood and an operatic career. Many singers hired by elite young artist programs have spoken about gatekeeping and questionable employment practices which will hopefully shift the industry toward a brighter future. Singers shrink from speaking out about the uglier side of this career to look polished, perfect, and hirable. In a highly saturated marketplace, this is a protective and understandable measure.

    I’d like to think I wouldn’t feel so alone and ashamed regarding my polyp and recovery if more singers were open about their struggles with vocal health. Whenever I publish a post about my polyp, I have at least one singer reach out to me personally with their own vocal injury story, so I know I’m not alone, even though it sometimes feels that way. Singing is an athletic activity, and we must take care of ourselves as vocal athletes. Professional athletes get injured– doesn’t it make sense that we would too?

    I’m proud of myself for all the wins I’ve had over the past year, and know that a brief lower-respiratory illness doesn’t negate those victories. I’ll be back to full speed ahead within a week or two. But the stigma of vocal injury and even a quick case of laryngitis is hard to shake in an industry where perfection is the expectation. I’m hopeful that like other aspects of the operatic sphere, a more honest conversation regarding the intersection of vocal and mental health can be openly had among professional singers. We owe each other that.

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  • Failing Forward

    What does it say about me if I can’t keep my commitments?

    Revisiting the sunny optimism of early January 2023.

    I didn’t achieve any of the goals I set for myself in January– not a single one.

    The blog has lately become an airing of my deepest grievances and insecurities. This unintentional openness has garnered more attention than any of my past blogs, even the ones about Taylor Swift’s Midnights or my polyp. I guess people like to see someone being honest about their struggles or something. I didn’t mean to become some beacon of vulnerability, but I’m continuing that today. All of your messages and comments have, frankly, emboldened me.

    On to my latest failures.

    I started January intending to practice daily, learn new arias, get back into regular lessons, consume zero alcohol, apply for three artist grants, actually get something out of the Met competition, and publish two blog posts per week. Oh, and I also intended to lose weight, but I left that out before because of my inability to reckon with the shame of participating in diet culture. So much for that– if you don’t know what I’m talking about, you missed last week’s blog post. (TW: disordered eating, body image issues)

    Another failure: leaving peace signs behind in 2023.

    A couple of weeks ago, I reached out to a teacher in the Twin Cities. I have an instructor with whom I do Zoom lessons, but I was advised that no one here in the Twin Cities knows me as a singer yet, and it might be wise to get involved with an instructor who has connections in the metro area. 

    This voice teacher makes me believe the universe is giving me a second chance. 

    Wait, I’ve said that before.

    Fine, third. Or fourth. Honestly, I’m probably on my tenth chance, but you get my point. 

    From the first lesson, she treated me like I knew what I was talking about, that I was intelligent, and that I knew how the voice worked. She taught me like a professional who just needs a good set of ears to keep me on track. There wasn’t a single time she treated me like a student; it was just a fellow musician guiding another. She didn’t promise me a career, comment on my appearance, or belittle my skills. I told her I just wanted to work, and she said, “you will.” That’s it. She didn’t pretend to be some all-knowing savior who had all of the answers: no toxicity, no gimmicks, no bullshit.

    I became technically distracted by the idea of creating pharyngeal space and maintaining a low larynx, but in doing so, I unintentionally reintroduced tongue tension to my laundry list of vocal problems. My new teacher taught me some tongue stretches (yes, non-vocalists, tongue stretches) to help me relieve unintended pressure that I had confused with proper adduction. My vocal cords immediately began to adduct more freely and solidly than when I was forcing them together, a remnant of the coercive phonation I had to use with the polyp. 

    I haven’t mentioned this on the blog, but my voice still fatigues sometimes, especially my speaking voice. Once I begin to feel fatigued, I start doing what my speech-language pathologist (SLP) calls “guarding,” where I try to be careful but somehow make it worse. I’m gripping my pesky tongue instead of letting it flop around! I am quite literally holding my tongue.

    And all of you thought I had an inability to hold my tongue. Joke’s on all of you; I’m holding it all the time! HA! HA HA HA!!

    All of this vocal nonsense was caused not by my inability to “speak like a singer” but rather by my attempt to sound like someone I’m not. 

    There’s a metaphor in there somewhere. Let it come to us naturally.

    I nearly canceled my appointment yesterday with my new SLP because my voice is doing mostly better. However, my better judgment encouraged me to attend the appointment, and I’m so glad I did. I was given a slew of tongue stretches and exercises specifically for injury recovery to tire out my tongue so it can’t interfere so much when I’m singing and speaking, gosh darn it. 

    I have my high notes back. I can sing coloratura again. My vibrato is more even.

    Ok, so back to my goals. I didn’t have a lesson and coaching weekly, but the lessons I’ve had have been transformative. I didn’t practice every day, but my practice sessions felt easy and productive. So, did I fail?

    The shock I felt when I realized my last teacher still didn’t have all the answers. Insert, “I had to find the answers myself” quip here.

    When I take the pressure off my cords and the base of my tongue, my voice isn’t quite as heavy as I thought. My young self hoped I had this huge voice that just needed years of time and wrangling, but in reality, I’m just a mid-sized lyric soprano that took longer to cook than others. Listen, I think I could sing a great Mimi, but the fact is, my natural color is a little less warm than what most casting directors are going to want from a full-voiced Puccini gal (but call me if you need a Musetta!) I was forcing that heft and darkness, which took away the cut and clarity of what my vocal cords wanted to do when I set them up correctly. It turns out I was on the right track a few years ago repertoire-wise; I just didn’t have the technical chops to execute my rep well.

    So, I haven’t learned two new arias, but I am resurrecting three arias I loved to sing. They’ve all been on the shelf for at least four years. There’s a particular danger to singing old repertoire because the old technique can creep in, but these have been tucked away for so long that I can navigate them with an ease and spontaneity I never would’ve thought possible a few years ago. Does that mean I failed?

    Oddly enough, the Met competition and grants go together. I already talked about my Met competition experience, but I’ve moved past the feedback. My vibrato will be under my control once I stop clamping down on my tongue, and that’s already in the works. I reconnected with a colleague with whom I threw around new ideas for collaborations fueled by the two (not three) grants I applied for in January. We have some projects and ideas in the works for the next few months that may not have come to fruition if I hadn’t sung in the Met competition. So was that a failure?

    A merry belated Princemas to all.

    The real reason I wanted to do Dry January was less to do with my vocal health and more to do with my weight loss goals, but I didn’t say that before. I was ashamed that I lost all of my COVID weight and regained it in one year. I wanted to do it again and keep it off this time. 

    Skinny people are disciplined. I am not skinny. Therefore, I am not disciplined.

    This message is what my brain usually likes to tell me.

    Alcohol is filled with empty calories, so why not forgo it for a month to jump-start my weight loss?

    But then my weekend in Iowa happened, where ideas were shared over a bottle of wine. Princemas, the annual Christmas celebration with my best friends, was filled with laughter, stories, and drinks. A friend who came back into my life had a birthday party. I enjoyed a beer at a basketball game. 

    All of these events were fun, and they would’ve been fun without alcohol, too. Maybe this one was a bit of a real failure, but I don’t feel that bad about it. I feel worse that I couldn’t lose weight this month, even though, in the same breath, I’m appalled and angered by diet culture. It’s tough for me to shake free from the roller coaster of gaining and losing a few pounds month by month as I balance my self-hatred with my desire to enjoy myself. Did I fail, or did I just force myself into a cultural expectation I didn’t want to uphold in practice?

    When I look back at all the ways I failed in January, I reflect on a pretty formative month. I began projects, revitalized my singing technique, and feel freer than ever vocally, both in my teaching and singing. There were numerous fun events, travels, and moments that forced me to have some conversations I’d been putting off. All in all, it’s been a great start to 2023, and I can’t wait to keep failing forward. 

    I’ll see you when I see you– obviously, I didn’t hold myself to those two blog posts per week, but I’m grateful that what I have shared has resonated with readers. I hope you give yourselves some grace.

    Victoria

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  • Body Image as an Opera Singer

    My own quest to stop fighting my body

    TW: This post discusses body image, body dysmorphia, fatphobia, and eating disorders. If that’s not for you, I’ll see you next week. Take care.

    As a performer, my body is under constant surveillance. Despite the stereotype of a “fat lady who sings,” the opera industry is nearly as fatphobic, at least with their female singers, as theatre, film, and dance. However, in the interest of fairness, the pressure for baritones to appear as “barihunks” certainly highlights the visual appeal that the opera industry is attempting to cultivate. What will get more butts in seats? Men with abs, of course!! 

    Opera is an aural medium. The voice is the most important thing, and everything else is secondary. I love that about opera, and despite increasing pressure for high-level companies to produce recordings of their shows for streaming consumption, I hope it continues to emphasize the voice. That’s a primary factor that sets opera apart from other performing mediums.

    Regardless, becoming an opera singer opened me up to criticism about factors outside my voice, and my physical appearance certainly wasn’t exempt from this. I have been told to wear short heels only to auditions because I’m already too tall for many tenors. I have been told my arms are too fat and I should cover them up. I’ve been told to not wear a particular dress because people can see my tummy rolls when I breathe. I’ve been advised that I looked thinner in college and should return to that. I was told that people wouldn’t trust I was a lyric soprano if I didn’t gain weight. Someone even suggested a nose job if I had the extra money. Young singers are notoriously flush with cash.

    Before I really get going, I have to begin with two caveats.

    First, I fully recognize that I move through the world as a thin person. Ignore that my BMI (which is largely B.S.) edges on the questionable side of “healthy.” The need to fall within the green at any doctor’s appointment has remained a constant reminder of my failures.

    Secondly, I am still unpacking my internalized fatphobia. I have fat friends. I do not view them as failures, yet, I consider myself a lesser person if I gain weight. The podcast “Maintenance Phase” has really helped me to start reframing this mindset, but I’m a work in progress. You’ll notice this throughout the post.

    I just want to talk about the history of my relationship with my body and how being a singer has kept me constantly aware of how I look. It is not my intention to take out my tiny violin and boo-hoo my appearance when I know I am perceived as a relatively thin white lady. 

    Me in second grade. Duluth, MN, 2001.

    The first time I remember becoming acutely aware of how my body looked to the outside world was in second grade. My dad took home video of my little sister’s backyard pool party, and I was there with my two best friends as well. There was a shot of me in my Minnie Mouse bikini I had proudly acquired in Disney World, and I noticed my tummy rolls as I happily slid down a slide into the pool, blissfully unaware I was markedly larger than my thin friends. I remember feeling intensely embarrassed as I watched myself onscreen, and looked down at my stomach. There were rolls. They’re the same rolls I have today, over twenty years later.

    My friends in elementary school were all skinny. I was one of the smart girls– sharp, fast, and confident– and then I realized I was also a little fat. My friends were perfect dancer girls. They weren’t loud. I was everything all at once, rolls included.

    I didn’t go through puberty at an earlier age than my friends, not really. Early puberty can happen with girls who develop more quickly. I just had a little more fat on my body, and my mom gently encouraged me to wear a training bra. She was so good. My mom never drew attention to the fact that I grew taller and fatter than my peers at a faster rate.

    However, my already developing body image issues were exacerbated by a health problem that followed me through the rest of my childhood. When I was in elementary school, the school nurse noticed an unnatural curvature in my spine. Unfortunately, as I grew, the angle in my spine became more pronounced. As a precaution, she sent me to a specialist in town who diagnosed me with scoliosis and kept an eye on my back. The angle got more pronounced as I grew, and the doctor referred me to Gilette Children’s Hospital in St. Paul.

    On February 2, 2005, in 7th grade, my doctor fitted me with a plastic brace to coax the right lumbar part of my spine back toward the center. I dieted for a week in advance since I knew I would be getting weighed.

    I really hated getting weighed.

    In the interest of honesty, I still hate getting weighed.

    I can’t find a single photo of me wearing my brace online, but here’s a photo of the type of clothing I was trying to wear under my extremely bulky scoliosis brace. I definitely should have been wearing my brace here. Northfield, MN, 2007.

    The plastic brace really messed with my brain.

    The right hip of the brace stuck out significantly, as it constantly pushed my spine back into place. The fashion in 2005-2007 was to wear a tight tank top with a polo or short-sleeved shirt layered over the top. It didn’t afford the luxury of subtlety. At a certain point, my body hatred overcame my desire to heal my spine, and I stopped wearing my brace to school. I felt like an alien, and I couldn’t do it.

    Eventually, the jig was up. I had to start wearing my brace again. I followed the rules of wearing it 23 hours per day, seven days a week, followed by only needing to sleep in the brace after my doctor felt I was through puberty. Finally, I was at my last appointment during my junior year of high school. 

    My doctor, a well-respected British man, happily shared that the brace mostly resolved my scoliosis, and it was safe to say I could stop wearing the brace without the worry of relapse. I was free.

    Well, kind of.

    The doctor noted that I had consistently gained weight since our first appointment when I was in 7th grade. Since I had gone through puberty, there was no reason for me to be gaining weight anymore, and I should lose some weight. 

    I was horrified, embarrassed, and defeated.

    It should have been a fantastic day! The brace had cured my scoliosis without surgery, which rarely happens. I should’ve been ecstatic.

    Instead, a doctor who specialized in the spine needed to tell me that I, a 16-year-old girl, should lose weight. I’d like to mention here that I was not what was considered to be overweight, but I would still argue it wasn’t part of his treatment to comment on this regardless of what the scale said. 

    I restricted myself to 1,000-1,200 calories per day and lost 25 pounds during my senior year of high school. No one was worried because I was never underweight. Looking back, I had definitely developed an eating disorder. Luckily for me, it only lasted a few months. I know it could have been much worse.

    My childhood obsession with my weight, unfortunately, followed me into adulthood. Throughout my adult life, I have navigated poor body image (I’m now told this is called body dysmorphia) and equated being thin with having discipline. Although I try to eat foods that make me feel good and exercise daily for my physical and mental health, too often, it devolves into calorie counting and shaming myself when I falter, which happens frequently. I feel constant pressure from myself and my industry to lose weight.

    If I’m eating whole foods, restricting calories, and doing rigorous exercise daily, I’m a success. If I don’t follow my meal plan, I’m a failure. I’m trying to break this mental block.

    I’m seeing the opera industry change through criticism from singers, and I even see it in musical theatre. It’s refreshing to see a variety of bodies appear on the stage. When I saw Beauty and the Beast at the Ordway, the woman who played Belle was incredible and wasn’t super thin. I wish my little self could have seen her onstage or onscreen and felt unstoppable rather than defeated by my appearance. 

    I want to celebrate my body rather than constantly ridicule it, but it’s complicated. I’m excited by the prospect of more inclusivity and representation happening onstage and am grateful for the loud voices in the industry pushing for that. I struggle with the anger that women are expected from birth to look beautiful for the enjoyment of men and also want to be perceived in a certain way. These thoughts constantly feel at war with each other as I unpack a lot of internalized shame surrounding weight. As I shift my mindset on singing, I am also trying to shift my relationship with my body. It’s the only one I have, after all.

    I am very terrified to share this post today. I’m afraid of being called out for fatphobia or making people uncomfortable by sharing too much. I’m constantly scared that my openness will diminish my ability to book gigs. However, whenever I share my experiences, singer friends flood my inbox with gratitude for my transparency. So, I guess I’m writing for us. I hope we can continue to unpack the baggage associated with our appearance and advocate for centering the voice in the opera industry.

    Thanks for reading.

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  • Feminist Fridays: Gretchen am Spinnrade

    What if men cared more about preventing unwanted pregnancies?

    Our guy Franz. I see he escaped some facial deformities that often accompanied late-stage syphilis. Photo: Wikipedia, baby!

    I know it’s a Sunday, but Feminist Fridays are BACK! We’re digging into one of my favorites today with Schubert’s Gretchen am Spinnrade (Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel), a wild ride worthy of aria status, using the famous Goethe text, Faust.

    Let’s back up and talk about our guy Franz Schubert (1797-1828). He wrote around 600 vocal works, primarily lieder (art songs) in his short life, in addition to symphonies, sacred music, operas, and piano and chamber work. He famously died officially of typhoid fever in 1828, but many scholars postulate he died of syphilis. I’m not sure why this is so scandalous; many people died of syphilis back in the day. No, seriously. Everybody was dying of syphilis, and it was gnarly. Thank goodness for penicillin, am I right?

    Schubert made the most of his short time on earth by becoming one of the most prolific German art song composers of all time. The sheer number of works he composed over a few years is truly astounding, and we can thank him in many ways for ushering in a new era of compositional style. Beethoven reportedly was impressed!

    The agony!!! Gretchen at her spinning wheel. Artist: Frank Cadogan Cowper.

    Gretchen am Spinnrade is perhaps Schubert’s most iconic piece for soprano. Although it is an art song, the intensity, storyline, and relationship between voice and piano evoke the dramatic sensibility of an operatic aria. He wrote the song at the tender age of 16, further proof of his compositional genius. 

    Ugh, one of the best. Enjoy the incredible vocalism of Kiri Te Kanawa.
    Google Translate meets my own poetic translation for clarity.

    Let’s talk about the story of Faust for a minute. Although the character of Faust has been around since the 1500s, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe’s play is one of the most consequential and well-known interpretations. In two parts, Goethe tells the story of a medieval man who sells his soul to the devil.

    But I don’t really care about Faust– I care about the beautiful young woman, Gretchen (or Margaret, the two names are used interchangeably), whom he seduces and impregnates.

    She accidentally kills her mom with a sleeping potion meant to keep her unaware of Faust’s visit, her brother condemns Faust, who kills him with the devil’s help, and Gretchen drowns her baby. Gretchen is then imprisoned for murdering her child, and although Faust attempts to free her with the devil’s help, she refuses. Ultimately, she is pardoned by God as she dies.

    Woof. Romanticism, man.

    This song is set before all of the tragedy unfolds. Gretchen has met Faust, and his charms consume her. She sits restlessly at her spinning wheel, heard in the piano accompaniment, as she obsesses over her love for Faust. They haven’t had sex yet, but her longing for him builds in the vocal line as the piano accompaniment imitates her increasing inability to focus on her work. 

    Definitely turned some heads while reading this in Iowa.

    Like many women before her, having sex with a man was the worst choice Gretchen could have ever made. The implication of this choice was unfairly 100% on her. I finished a fabulous book, Ejaculate Responsibly: A Whole New Way to Think About Abortion, by Gabrielle Blair, while sipping a delicious chai at a coffee shop in Ames, Iowa, last Sunday. It’s a short read but supremely validating and angering all at once. 

    Blair was able to clearly articulate a frustration of mine in the conversation surrounding unwanted pregnancy and abortion: 100% of unwanted pregnancies are caused by irresponsible ejaculation, and yet, women bear most or all of the responsibility of preventing unwanted pregnancies.

    Through 28 straightforward arguments, Blair attempts to shift the abortion issue away from legislating women’s bodies and toward a focus on equalizing the playing field of responsibility in preventing unwanted pregnancies. Assuming both parties are fertile, women are fertile for approximately 24 hours per month, whereas men can impregnate a woman 24/7, 365 days per year. Despite this, women account for 90% of the birth control market and face stigmas surrounding prioritizing men’s comfort and pleasure over pregnancy prevention. 

    In Gounod’s opera, Faust, the devil had a hand in helping Faust seduce Gretchen, which could be a commentary on how tempting it is to sin, or it could be a way of absolving Gretchen of her actions. Regardless, love makes people do stupid things, like getting knocked up and accidentally killing their mom with a sleeping potion. Right?

    In my mind, Gretchen resembles Ophelia– a tragic character swept up in the problems of and mistreatment by men, only to die, tortured, and alone. She fits nicely into a literary trope of helpless women who become victims at the hands of the men who were supposed to love them. At least Hamlet also dies– In Goethe’s version of Faust, the hero goes on to have an entire part two without mentioning how he ruined Gretchen’s life and caused her demise. At least she got to go to heaven. Yes?

    My hope for a modern Gretchen is that she could fall in love and have sex with a man who understands that preventing unwanted pregnancies falls on both parties. By taking control of her sexuality, our modern Gretchen can restlessly daydream at her spinning wheel without worrying about a life-upending change. It makes for a far less dramatic story– distinctly less darkly romantic but much more empowering.

    The devil can still condemn Faust to eternal damnation, though– he’s the worst.

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  • Listening to Myself

    Or, learning to trust my own ears and experience

    Tell me you’re a millennial without telling me you’re a millennial. Ames, Iowa, 2023.

    When I sing at a competition, I usually try to put my phone backstage or in the audience so I can record a voice memo of my performance and listen to myself afterward. Directly afterward. My heart is still pumping from adrenaline; I’m warm to the touch from executing vocal acrobatics for eight minutes straight. Hearing my performance played back is a way of prolonging that kick of excitement. Singing in public edges on terrifying in a way that makes it electric. I love it. I’ve spent a lot of tears and money just to get a hit of that addictive feeling.

    I did not win at the Met on Saturday, which I consider neither to be a personal nor professional failure. My choice to compete in Iowa rather than Minnesota was complicated but made more straightforward because the pianist is my friend and colleague. Post-performance, I grabbed my phone and headed to the pianist’s studio to unwind. I lay on the floor and popped in my earbuds to listen to my performance.

    “Why!” my boyfriend texted.

    My brain was still swimming in post-competition fog. What was he talking about?

    “You can’t feel how you did? I mean, why are you listening to your performance immediately after performing?”

    “Because I’m a monster,” I answered, only half joking.

    He had a point. Why was I listening to my singing directly after my performance? Why couldn’t I just feel how I had done without listening to it secondhand and dissecting every melisma, breath, and vowel?

    We are literally taught to do this.

    Singers are instructed not to trust their own ears and experience. We’re always encouraged to seek someone else’s opinion, whether from a coach, teacher, director, or conductor. While this is helpful and necessary during our studies, we continue to devalue our views over time in favor of someone else’s long after graduation. I felt this impetus in my fellow competitors— I felt their hunger and eagerness. I felt it because I know it intimately, and it’s hard work to untangle myself from that mindset. Distancing myself from that familiar feeling is the only way to be an artist rather than a cog in an increasingly unreliable machine.

    Listening to myself is a way of reliving the experience of performing while also forming my own opinions in retrospect on how I sang. I can then take notes on what needs to be improved objectively and provide feedback.

    As I announced to the judges and the audience I would be singing “Quando m’en vo’,” my brain popped in: why are you singing an aria that 22-year-olds offer? Pretty embarrassing! And then the other part of my brain chimed in, “you’re singing this because 30-year-olds actually get hired to sing Musetta, and you’ve got a fuller voice and enjoy a character role. Now shut up and sing.”

    This dialogue happened before the pianist even played Musetta’s flirty opening theme. It took me a line or two to get out of my nervous/excited state (it’s hard to tell the difference sometimes), and then I was free. I had an absolute blast. They asked for my Mozart, a wickedly melismatic piece from Don Giovanni, which I hadn’t performed outside Seagle’s safe audition class walls, but it was ready for the public now.

    My mind flicked to my old teacher, who assigned it to me as a vocal exercise. One lesson, he commented that I “might actually be able to sing this one day.” Well, that day came on Saturday, two years later. I recalled the time I once threw my phone across the room listening to a coaching of this piece because I thought I sounded so awful. I cried and yelled that I “still couldn’t fucking sing.”

    I put it away for a while after that outburst. I’m glad I gave Mi tradì a second chance.

    Somebody please stop me from continuing to throw up a peace sign in 2023.

    I don’t listen to my recordings after I sing in a competition because I want to ruthlessly critique myself (usually); I do it because it almost always makes me feel better. I had a blast singing on Saturday, especially the Mozart. That piece can be disastrously dull, and I know for a fact that I made it exciting. It was exhilarating, and I hope it was also for the audience.

    Anyway, back to not winning. I didn’t listen to anyone else sing that day except the three people before me, who I heard through the green room door. All three sounded fabulous and won awards that afternoon. Letting go onstage was enough of a win for me.

    The Met competition is attractive to young singers because it offers a slim chance at operatic stardom, and judges stay after the awards ceremony to give feedback to each competitor. This time with judges allows the panel to gush over the winners and explain to everyone else why they didn’t win. However, it is one of the few places to get direct feedback from an outside source as a young artist. Sometimes the feedback is valuable; other times, it is not.

    When I take a step back, it’s pretty bizarre. I get onstage and perform vocal gymnastics that it has taken years to execute, and then I hear about everything I’m still doing “wrong.” Of course, wrong is usually subjective, so the best course of action is just to sing and not worry about what the panel wants to hear. For example, one judge felt I didn’t change tempi enough in Quando. That’s his opinion, and if he had been conducting me, I would’ve followed. How was I supposed to know that my interpretation was strawberry ice cream and he preferred mint chocolate chip?

    Admittedly, I fell back into the young artist mindset during feedback. The first two judges were kind and complimentary but also picked on some minor aspects of my singing, some of which I agreed with and some I didn’t. I’ve been singing long enough to differentiate, but I still felt annoyingly defensive and frustrated.

    When I got to the last judge, I was in a mood because I felt myself slipping headfirst down the slide of young artist mentality. After he offered some constructive criticism and praise, he shook my hand, and something came over me. I said, “can I ask you a question?”

    Uh oh. The tears were coming. But I went for it anyway.

    “I’m 30. Do I…like…stop doing this?”

    Tears streamed down my face. It was horribly embarrassing. I almost didn’t include this anecdote, but I felt I had to be honest with all of you. Here I was, asking this man who heard me sing for less than ten minutes and spoke with me for maybe three minutes about his opinion on my life’s trajectory. What was this demon that came over me?

    He looked bewildered. He replied with something like, “What? With an instrument like yours? You should only quit if you don’t love it anymore. This business is just hard.” And then he gave me a hug, or at least I think he did– it might’ve just been another handshake, but it felt like a hug.

    I was horrified, but it was also kind of hilarious. 

    I escaped upstairs to the pianist’s office and told her what happened, and she said, “it’s good for these judges to remember that singers are human beings and not singing machines.”

    That made me feel better. The demon was gone.

    If you’re wondering if I’ve always been cool, the answer is a resounding yes. I highly recommend Dog-Eared Books in downtown Ames, Iowa.

    I spent the rest of the weekend exploring downtown Ames and making handmade jewelry with a cat in my lap. For your information, Ames has a barbecue place that is better than some North Carolina BBQ I’ve consumed over the years, which was a welcome surprise. 

    My pianist friend and I said “cheers” to never calling myself a young artist again this weekend. I have a handmade pair of earrings and a new attitude to commemorate the occasion. 

    A dear singer friend texted me on Sunday asking, “so, what’s next for you?” and I simply responded, “who knows.” He immediately replied, “who cares.”

    Who knows; who cares. It certainly won’t be boring.

    Let’s just say I assisted Jodi without overstating my involvement in making these earrings.
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  • Ode to Young Artists

    Saying goodbye to the opera pipeline

    I’m done being a young artist. I would say it’s been a good ride, but it hasn’t.

    I’m competing in the Met (now known as the Laffont Competition) for the last time this Saturday. However, I’m barely viewing it as a competition– I’m retiring my young artist mentality while still giving it one last go. As my hand-boiling pianist, Dobby the house elf, would say, “just go beyond the fuck it.” 

    “GBTFI” is scrawled across the top of many arias in my binder, but I rarely achieve it. I care so deeply about how others perceive me that it strangles my ability to produce art. I respect people who say, “I don’t give a fuck” and mean it because I give so many fucks. So, I’ll let you know if I’m able to GBTFI this weekend. That’s the goal.

    My first time competing in the Met. Hint: I did not win. Columbia, SC, 2017.

    The Met competition is a magical place where eager young singers fresh from their conservatories sing careful performances of well-known arias as if to say, “PLEASE pick me.” It’s academic and cautious. Technically near-perfect winners emerge to sing their pristinely coached arias at the next level. Some winners have fabulous careers at the Metropolitan Opera, and others disappear into obscurity. This industry has no sure way forward, but winning the Met competition does help.

    Thirty is the soft cutoff for breaking into the opera industry through young artist programs, colloquially known as YAPs. Certain companies will hear artists through age 35 for a young/resident artist position, but most are looking for the youngest candidate with the shiniest resume and surest technique.

    I believe this attempt at a thirst trap was posted when I had three auditions in one day. I did not book any of them. New York, NY, 2019.

    For those outside the niche world of opera, let me explain what YAPs are and the traditional pipeline for young singers.

    First, we should start with the journey to becoming a young artist in the first place. Most opera singers attend a four-year university or conservatory and graduate with a Bachelor of Music in Voice. During this time, they take lessons with a teacher, study music theory/aural skills, music history, acting, diction, and languages, coach with a pianist, and perform in juries and recitals. The best training programs will stage complete operas, usually with graduate students in the leading roles, but smaller colleges will mount opera scene programs. Where students obtain their undergraduate degree matters considerably for the connections their teacher will have with young artist programs and pay-to-sing programs and the school’s reputation. It will impact their ability to get into a top-tier graduate school.

    I went to a choir college because I thought I wanted to major in music education, and then I stayed once I switched my major to vocal performance. Although some singers from Concordia have gone on to have traditional operatic careers, it is not nationally known as a training ground for opera singers. Strike one.

    Generally, undergraduates are told the next step is going to graduate school. If a young singer is exceptionally talented and their school is a pipeline for specific pay-to-sing programs (these are precisely what they sound like– you pay to spend a summer doing more training with talented young artists,) they might graduate with some pre-professional experience. I spent my senior year at Concordia making recordings and auditioning for various grad schools for which I was not qualified due to my shoddy technique, lack of performing experience, and singing in the incorrect fach. Although I got into several programs, I didn’t get money. A wise professor told me not to go to graduate school unless I got a full ride because otherwise, I’d be paying for someone else to go to grad school. 

    I took a year off. I gained performing experience in the Twin Cities but didn’t find a teacher. I coached arias, but my singing wasn’t improving. I auditioned for two more graduate schools and got into UNC Greensboro, but they weren’t giving out scholarships that year. The teacher I wanted to study with advised me to move down to North Carolina and study with her for a year because the potential was there, but I needed the technical work, and I did. I spent the year studying with this teacher, but I also spent the year waiting tables and becoming entrenched in server life. I got the scholarship in the end, but in a way, I wasted two years. Strike two.

    First day of graduate school, 2017. Greensboro, NC.

    Back to the perfect young artist– let’s say they get into one of the name-brand graduate schools or conservatories. During their two years of graduate study, they will take all the same classes they took in their undergraduate degree (not even kidding), plus some vocal pedagogy courses. Hopefully, they will graduate with pristine technique, a couple of pay-to-sings or low-level young artist programs under their belts, a district win at the Met competition, and are ready to audition.

    Alright, so let’s talk about auditioning for young artist programs. There’s this website that looks like it hasn’t been updated since 1995 called YAP Tracker, and it’s where pretty much every company posts their auditions for young artists. Accessing this website costs $55 per year (or $95 for two years). There are also many competitions, training programs, and general scams to suck young artists dry of what little money they have listed as opportunities on the site. 

    During the pandemic, many opera companies finally got rid of their application fees, but before this, most companies charged between $5-$50 to apply to their company. Can you imagine paying money to apply for a job, not knowing whether or not you’ll even get an interview? In 2019, I paid over $1000 in application fees alone. I didn’t receive auditions for over half of those companies. We can talk about my stupidity later, though.

    Generally, there are summer YAPs and year-long resident artist contracts. Some premiere summer YAPs include Santa Fe Opera, Wolf Trap Opera, Glimmerglass Opera, Merola Opera, and Des Moines Metro Opera. They are extraordinarily competitive to get into, and young artists spend the summer singing in the chorus in exchange for networking, connections, coaching, visibility, and a small wage. Many talented young singers are hired for these opportunities while they are still in graduate school or shortly after completing their degrees. Although each company will employ a couple of dozen artists, the positions are extraordinarily competitive, especially for sopranos, who make up nearly three-quarters of all auditioning young artists.

    Year-long residencies are reserved for those artists who have completed their formal training and are hired to serve as chorus, covers, small roles, and outreach artists with a company for their entire season. Usually, these artists include one soprano, mezzo-soprano, tenor, baritone/bass, and pianist. They are extraordinarily competitive, especially for sopranos. Do you see a pattern here?

    It’s essential to post bathroom selfies while in New York because otherwise, how will people know you were granted auditions???? RIP Shetler Studios. New York, NY, 2019.

    So, what’s on this application? Although they can vary by company, applicants generally have to provide proof of their date of birth, a resume, and headshot, and send 2-3 video recordings of contrasting arias made within the last year. Within two weeks or (hopefully) more of the audition dates, applicants are notified whether or not they have received an audition with the company. Rejections are called “PFOs” or “please fuck off” because they generally don’t offer any feedback or reason for why artists weren’t granted auditions. It is not recommended to reach out to companies for feedback (unless they say so); hence, the emails are a (usually) kind and professional way of saying PFO.

    Most companies hold auditions in New York in October-December, and some also hear artists in Houston, Chicago, Cincinnati, or wherever their company is located. Artists are responsible for travel expenses and sometimes securing a pianist for the audition. At the audition, young artists offer one aria of their choice and present the panel with 3-4 additional arias in different languages and styles and sometimes a musical theatre piece. Generally, the panel will choose one more aria to hear, say thank you, and that’s it. Most auditions are around seven minutes long. If they want to chat, that’s a good sign. Some singers get offers in the room, but this is rare. Companies usually call or email to extend an offer within a few weeks of auditions.

    This year, I got an email from a prominent company that said they received 1,200 applications and granted 400 singers auditions for something like 30 spots. That’s for a prestigious summer YAP. I figured out for another company, a year-long residency, that they are hearing 150 singers for four spots. Someone I know in the industry shared that nearly all of the 200 applications they had received so far were from sopranos. If you’re attempting to do any math here, our odds as young artists are not good. 

    An old teacher of mine said music is one of the only industries he can think of where if you’re not the best, you don’t get a career at all. Think about it– there are star doctors, but there are also mediocre doctors. No mediocre musicians are making a living off of being a musician.

    I’m so grateful for my summer with Seagle. World premiere of Harmony, Seagle Festival, 2021.

    Right before the pandemic, I got into one of those prestigious pay-to-sings on a full ride. I thought this was finally it. Finally, I was breaking into the young artist track. Sure, I was 27, but it was better late than never, right?

    Hello, COVID-19! But, I found an excellent teacher. We went back to basics. I improved; I went to that summer program in 2021 and was finally on my way.

    Some things are not meant to be, and I’ll leave it at that. Strike three.

    Some singers go from conservatory to young artist programs to management to mainstage careers. That is the path. However, many singers don’t fit into this path. Some go into academia or go to Europe, others start winning competitions, and some go into church music, professional choral work, or musical theatre. Many young artists in the traditional pipeline get burned out before they can break into mainstage gigs. Lots of people leave the industry. It’s expensive and can be disheartening.

    Something I lost in chasing the YAP track was the joy of singing and my sense of creativity. I wasn’t playful or imaginative anymore. I was the singer nervously showing up to the Met competition and begging the panel to pick me. 

    Well, I pick me. I applied for two grants for projects of my own creation yesterday. Those are competitive too, but I feel good knowing I’m in the driver’s seat for once. I have more control and agency than I thought.

    This post isn’t a “poor me, here are all my excuses” lament. I made mistakes. I’m still working through years of technical woes. I don’t feel bad for myself.

    I can’t talk about what it’s like at these prestigious programs (I’ve heard some wild stories), but I can speak to what it’s like to be on the outside, desperately trying to claw my way in. A handful of singers have contacted me to say they appreciate my honesty about my experience and the industry, so this is for them. There are genuinely fabulous singers at companies, universities, and programs around this country, and if you know anybody who is a consistently working classical singer, appreciate they have indeed risen to the top of an incredibly cutthroat career.

    It feels so good to shed the young artist mentality. After years of study, practice, and performance, I can finally acknowledge that I know what I’m doing. I have valid thoughts on the music I’m singing and don’t need to be told what to do. I recognize where I need to continue growing as a singer and practice that improvement without judgment. 

    I don’t need to ask permission to be an artist. I’m here.

    Goodbye, YA life. It works for some singers, but it was never for me.

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  • ‘Til Death Do Us Part: Frauenliebe und -leben Part 8

    Who are we, if not the people we love?

    This post belongs to a series formerly known as “Frauenbild Fridays.” Click here to see the original post.

    Well, fellow feminists, we’ve come to the end of our first song cycle, Schumann’s Frauenliebe und -leben. Since this is a piece about a woman’s life and love, we can assume the last song features our protagonist on her deathbed, reflecting on a life well lived with her family and fulfilling career in the rearview mirror.

    Wait, we forgot something– a woman’s life in this period wasn’t hers! 

    The last piece in Frauenliebe, “Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz getan,” translates to “now you have caused me my first pain,” and refers to the death of our protagonist’s husband. Of course! It’s not her death that ends her life but rather her husband’s. We should have known.

    At first glance, the lyrics remind me of the now defunct Hindu practice of Sati, also known as “widow burning,” where some women would burn themselves alive on the funeral pyres of their dead husbands, either willingly or unwillingly. In Frauenliebe und -leben, our protagonist metaphorically resigns herself to death as her husband’s body lies in front of her. It is a dark and macabre image.

    I adopt a critical eye immediately, so I’d like to take a step back and assess two things before I get all cynical. First, Chamisso wrote these poems in the aftermath of the Sturm und Drang era, a precursor to the Romantic period translating to “storm and stress.” Alongside the stereotypical themes of the time, such as nature and romantic love, the romanticization of death and strong, negative emotion also pervaded literature, art, and music.

    This is what comes up when you Google Sturm und Drang. Rock ‘n’ Roll, baby!! I’m moody now! Angst!! Turmoil!!! | Abraham van Beijeren, River Landscape

    It makes sense that folks of the 1800s were obsessed with death and dying. 1840 was a time in which death was much more normalized than it is in our culture equipped with modern medicine. In the 1800s, the global average of childhood deaths was a whopping 43.3%. Nearly half of all kids died before they even reached adulthood! Of course, it wasn’t smooth sailing once the surviving children reached adulthood– the average lifespan in the 1800s hovered between 30-40 years of age. Next time I feel like I haven’t accomplished enough, I’ll just remember that if I had lived two hundred years ago, I’d probably be dead by now!

    The second factor I’d like to assess is a little squishier: love. When someone close to us dies, a tiny part of us also dies because we are part of each other. Through seven songs, we discovered our protagonist’s intense love for her partner and expanded upon her experience to center herself rather than her husband.

    Grandma and me at my high school graduation. I look awful, but I think she looks cute, so we’ll roll with it. I will not be taking questions about my sunglasses. Northfield, Minnesota, 2011.

    My grandma died nearly seven years ago, leaving behind a little gap in my heart. A grandparent is often the first acute death young people experience, and it was difficult to cope when my grandma died. I’m fortunate that those closest to me have lived long lives thus far, so I haven’t experienced the pain of losing a parent, sibling, best friend, or significant other. However, I can still imagine our Frauenbild doesn’t know how to go on without her closest confidant– it was hard enough for me to reckon with my grandmother’s death.

    In short, I think Frauenbild’s grief is warranted, even if her outlook is antiquated and colored by the views of men at the time. 

    Let’s allow the lyrics to speak for themselves for a moment.

    Translation from, surprise, Google Translate.
    I do not know what Jessye Norman is doing with her rolled “r” here, and frankly, I don’t care.

    The poetry in this piece evokes the acute pain of loss. Even in the translation, we can feel the burden of grief our protagonist is grappling with. The broken iteration of Seit ich ihn gesehen as a postlude is quintessentially Schumann and makes me cry, I won’t deny it. The piece is a beautiful end to the cycle, but not to this woman’s story.

    Although her husband is dead, I want to hear an epilogue where she continues to grow alongside her grandchildren. I want to read her memoir recounting her travels with friends. I want our protagonist to volunteer at a hospital or mentor young colleagues in her field. I want her to go on living.

    The beauty of existing as a 21st-century American woman is finally becoming the main character in our own stories. For so long, we lived in service to God and husband. We existed only to produce more people, which is a powerful job but limiting when we see all the options available for men.

    I savor my worth as a human not being tied to whether or not I’m beautiful, married, or a mother. My value doesn’t lie in producing sons who can go on to do something great; I can be something great myself. Women have only experienced this power in the mainstream sense for a generation. I won’t take it for granted and I won’t let anyone take it away from me.

    The death of our Frauenbild’s husband may have been the end of her story, but it’s not the end of our modern twist. After my grandpa died in 1999, my grandma went on to retire as the English department chair at Le Sueur High School, travel around Europe with her friends, and remain an integral part of my childhood. I’m sure she missed my grandpa deeply, but I only remember her as a sharp-witted, independent woman who lived and loved joyously. Although the grief of losing a loved one leaves a hole that no one can fill, our protagonist’s life will continue because it is her own, just like my grandma’s.

    Thank goodness– I can’t imagine being a sidekick in my own story.

    One of the last times my grandma was healthy enough to hear me sing live. Concordia College, 2014.

    Now you’ve caused the first pain

    But it hits me.

    You sleep, you soft, merciful man,

    The sleep of death.

    The abandoned one looks ahead,

    The world moves on.

    I have loved and lived, 

    I go without you.

    I find joy in those around me,

    The grief dulls every day,

    Where there was lost happiness

    New life grows.

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  • New Year’s Resolutions Versus Actionable Goals

    Why set myself up to fail when I can enable myself to succeed?

    Herbie’s new year’s resolution for 2023 is to drive me crazy while I try to work!

    The level of cortisol that floods my body in the last week of December feels increasingly uncomfortable every year. Those days between Christmas and New Year’s Day fluctuate between profound laziness and rigorous goal setting. Not only do we spend half of the month stuffing ourselves with delicious treats and socializing far more than usual, but our culture expects us to come out the other side with a laundry list of goals for the following year. It’s almost too much for my little brain to handle.

    “What’s your new year’s resolution?”

    I’m naturally goal-oriented, but sometimes I fall into the trap of setting goals so vague or huge that I automatically set myself up for failure. I’m trying this year to set smaller monthly goals that will contribute to my overall progress. Maybe this is something you’ve heard before, but I call them actionable goals.

    Goal-setting is good for us—our motivation, focus, and productivity increase when we set actionable goals. Even if we don’t achieve the targets we set for ourselves, pursuing a goal engages our brains and encourages perseverance. That’s pretty cool.

    We often set new year’s resolutions that require a massive lifestyle upheaval. Most people abandon their half-hearted attempts to save more money, lose weight, or change careers within two weeks. Interestingly, around 43% of folks who make a new year’s resolution expect to fail by February. Imagine if we change our mindsets to believe we could achieve our goals! 

    This year, I’m trying something different to manage expectations and eliminate that pesky failing-by-February factor. If I set month-by-month goals, I am less likely to give up by February– doing something for a month is far less daunting than taking it on for the year.

    Herbie’s second resolution is to take more naps.

    Most people quit their new year’s resolutions by February because they lose motivation. If you know me well, you’ve already heard my thoughts on motivation, but if you haven’t, I’ll lay it out here. Before I get into trouble, I’d just like to say this mindset is effective for me (most of the time), but that doesn’t mean it’s the right way of thinking for everybody. Do what works for you– I’m just sharing a trick I use.

    Ok, so here it is: motivation doesn’t really matter. Rarely am I motivated to do the things I do. I hardly ever feel like working out, but I do that almost daily. I am seldom inspired to practice singing and work on my rep, but I do that, too. I didn’t feel motivated to write this blog post today. I’m not motivated to write lengthy grant statements or edit clickbait articles for the freelance writing training I’m going through. However, it doesn’t matter if I’m motivated– if it’s on the schedule for today, I just do it. Within 5-10 minutes of initiating the task I set out to do, I no longer dread it. 

    So, regardless of my motivation, my actionable goals for January are listed below. I was scared to share them with you, but I think it will help me stay accountable.

    Victoria’s January Goals:

    • Attend one lesson and one coaching weekly
      • Now that my voice is improving, I need to stay accountable with my repertoire preparation and technical goals alongside professionals who know my voice and have a good ear.
    • Practice 20 minutes per day 5x weekly
      • I’m surprised at how much I can accomplish in 20 minutes, but I haven’t gotten into the habit of regular practice since the polyp. If my voice continues to improve, I hope to up this to 30 minutes in February! Musicians will know this is hardly anything, but I need to remain vigilant in my vocal use and not over-practice, which was part of my problem leading up to the polyp diagnosis.
    • Implement feedback received at Met Competition
      • I almost bowed out of the Metropolitan Opera’s yearly competition (again) but decided that since this was my last year to compete, I would go. I want to take my feedback to my teacher and coach and make it a technical and artistic focus over the next couple of months. It’ll be an excellent way to jump-start my performing for the year and receive feedback in the business.
    • Learn two brand new arias after the Met Competition with a focus on competition arias
      • I’m done auditioning for YAPs, but I’d like to be competition ready by next season. Nobody has gotten my fach entirely correct, so I want to pick pieces that I like to sing and aren’t too heavy for my voice (this, I believe, was another issue contributing to the polyp– over-darkening my voice to fit into bigger repertoire.) No better time than January to begin anew! 
    • Apply for three grants for artists
      • Applying for grants is a new skill for me and takes time and effort. However, it is an excellent way for artists to receive funding for creative endeavors.
    • Publish two blog posts per week
      • As I introduce more singing into my life, I don’t want to lose building my writing skills and platform here with you all. I’m continuing with two posts per week despite increasing responsibilities elsewhere!
    • Dry January
      • I’m joining many of you on this one for my vocal and physical health. I’m not worried about this since I eliminated alcohol in October and most of November.

    As you all can tell, I’m definitely not quitting singing. My monthly goals are actionable and reasonable yet push me in the new direction I’m headed. I feel a little intimidated by this list, but not completely overwhelmed. If I had simply listed the following:

    • Schedule coachings and lessons
    • Practice more
    • Learn new arias
    • Apply for grants
    • Keep blogging
    • Don’t drink alcohol for a while

    I would have been setting myself up for failure because these goals are neither specific nor actionable.

    Herbie’s last actionable goal is to render our shower unusable.

    I want to share a final thought on my monthly resolutions or goals–it fills my soul to do stuff like this. I would feel like a lost sheep if I didn’t force myself to improve or achieve something. However, I get it if you can’t wait for this first week of January to be over so people will shut up about this crap. 

    If you’re like me, and you want to set those resolutions but are worried about failing or holding yourself accountable, I encourage you to make monthly goals alongside me. I’d love to hear about them– it will keep me going too. 

    Unlike last week, I’m excited about my trajectory this month instead of scared. I can stick to these goals this month and set 2023 up to be the best year yet, or at least better than last year, which shouldn’t be too hard.

    Set some goals, enjoy the journey, screw motivation, and forgive yourself if you fail. It’s all just an experiment, anyway.

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  • 2022: Parting Thoughts

    The view that changed my mindset. Mantasoa Lodge, Madagascar, June 2022.

    Rarely do we notice the trajectory of our lives change in an instant except in retrospect. I had one of those moments in 2022, but it took me months to internalize it. Staring out into Lake Mantasoa with a cup of Malagasy coffee in my right hand, I listened passively as two creative colleagues discussed future projects and grant applications, only half listening. After all, I planned to keep studying with my teacher for a few months until I was magically the desire of every young artist program and agent in the country. As I zipped up my pink raincoat to brace myself against the morning breeze, their attention turned toward me.

    “Victoria, if you could design any artistic project for yourself, what would it be?”

    Flustered, I said, “I’m not really a creative person. I just want to have a traditional career.” I will never forget my reply.

    Years ago, I should’ve figured out that a “traditional” music career would never happen for me. 2022 is the year I finally started to embrace that.

    By the end of the trip, I had resolved to apply for two prestigious grants and felt like a genuine performing artist for the first time in over two years. Everyone there viewed me as a colleague–not a technically deficient student, but a fellow musician. I lost that feeling somewhere in the endless rejection and criticism. Sometimes, you just have to go to a different continent to gain perspective, I guess.

    Fast forward a few months, and I’m nervously retooling my definition of being a working artist. I have a pesky tendency to plow through my life full speed ahead without acknowledging my growth and setbacks, never satisfied with my progress or trajectory. What better time to look at myself than the end of an especially precarious year?

    I’d be lying to you if I said this year was easy. I was able to hide my failures behind the walls of the pandemic, but after two years of a career-imploding tornado, this was the year I finally had to clean up the mess left behind. I’m still picking up what’s left and figuring out what I can do with them. I sort of feel like a puzzle missing a few essential pieces.

    When I look back on this year, I will remember sleepless nights with a new puppy that my old voice teacher told me not to get because she would “be a distraction.” I’ll remember almost backing out of the Madagascar contract, which was professionally and personally life-changing. I’ll remember mourning the end of a toxic relationship and healing other connections that had endured damage for one reason or another. I’ll recall running my voice into the ground and planting the seeds for vocal rebirth. Either I’ll look back and think this year was when I was able to shift my singing career in a way that would change my life for the better or was the beginning of the end of my musical goals. I don’t know that part yet.

    Ready to giddy up into 2023 sans polyp with my doggo- October 2022.

    Looking forward to 2023, I’m uncertain but optimistic. Singing is taking me abroad at least twice next year. I’ve developed new goals and project ideas with mentors and collaborators, so stay tuned there, too.

    I came as close as I ever have to quitting singing in 2022, which caused me to think deeply about the things I like about being a musician. I like being challenged, problem-solving, working with others, self-motivation, attention to detail, being in front of people, and having a flexible schedule. There are careers outside of singing where I could have those things. Unfortunately for me, the things I love most are music, singing, and the arts. So, here I am– not quitting a career that seems to want to abandon me consistently and figuring out where I can meaningfully and realistically fit into this incredibly cutthroat industry. I’m open to widening what that means.

    The last thing I want to say this year is thank you. Writing this blog kept me focused when I was at one of the lowest points of my life. I have a paid freelancing gig that I’m starting in the new year because you all empowered me to keep writing– I finally felt good at something. Every time you reached out to me to say you enjoyed a post, that my honesty spoke to you or that I made you laugh kept me going and allowed me to open up my interests and skills to another medium outside of music. I honestly can’t thank you all enough for reading my selfish ramblings twice per week. You give me hope.

    Happy New Year, everybody.

    Victoria

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  • Is “Les Misérables” an Opera?

    “Do we fight for the right to a night at the opera now?”

    The historic Orpheum Theatre in downtown Minneapolis, December 2022.

    I spent the day on Saturday in delightful anticipation of the second to last performance of Les Misérables at the Orpheum Theatre in downtown Minneapolis. Having performed the show myself during my training at College Light Opera Company in 2014, the musical holds a special place in my heart. At our sitzprobe (literally translating to “seat rehearsal” and referring to the first rehearsal with orchestra), I started to cry as the orchestra wailed on the iconic “Look Down” motive that opened the show. People could tell me Les Misérables was as derivative, corny, or irritating as they wanted– I didn’t care. To me, it was an incredible piece of theatre.

    There’s a power in the story and music in the show that captivates me. I remember long drives to auditions from North Carolina to Washington D.C., where I would turn on the 10th-anniversary recording and scream “On My Own” with abandon. I nearly forgot to save my voice for the audition panel the next day. I never was a belter, except when cruising up I-95.

    Two CLOC posts in a row?! End of Act 1, Les Misérables, College Light Opera Company, 2014.

    Les Misérables, or as it is more colloquially known, Les Mis, is undoubtedly one of the most successful musicals of the modern era. Continuously performed at London’s West End since 1985, it marks the second longest-running musical in the world after the Off-Broadway run of The Fantasticks. This beloved, iconic musical is doing something right.

    The third U.S. Tour is currently playing across the country through June 2023, and on the night I had the pleasure of dancing in my seat and mouthing every word while fist-pumping like a sports fan at every loud applause, the Orpheum Theatre in Minneapolis filled to the brim with patrons. The energy was as electric as any movie premiere or football game I’ve ever attended. The audience buzzed in anticipation of the high B in “Who Am I?” cheered with the Thénardiers in “Master of the House” and held their breath during Valjean’s falsetto passage in “Bring Him Home.”

    Brimming with anticipation for the show! Orpheum Theatre, Minneapolis, 2022.

    Standouts in the show included the golden-voiced lead, Jean Valjean, played by Nick Cartell, whose vocals were as powerful as they were touching and delicate. I nearly melted out of my seat when Fantine, played by Haley Dortch, wailed, “You let your foreman SEND ME AWAY!” during her arrest scene. Fantine’s time onstage is so short, and an excellent performer like Dortsch will leave the audience wanting more. Minnesotan patrons especially welcomed the fabulous Christine Heesun Hwang to the stage as the tragic Éponine. A Minnesota native and alumna of the Hennepin Theatre Trust’s Spotlight Education program, she played Éponine with such earnestness and prowess that the nonsensical love triangle plotline almost made sense. Finally, I was a huge fan of Devin Archer’s uniquely powerful voice as the student rebellion leader, Enjorlas. The role is considered “baritenor” but requires the performer to sing the full range and power of a traditional baritone and wail on high notes like a tenor. His distinctive timbre, both incredibly bright yet full, made me want to hear him sing operatic music. 

    This cast was the most vocally consistent I’ve heard in a long time, so kudos to the entire ensemble for top-notch singing. The score of Les Mis is notoriously tricky, with nearly impossible expectations placed on the performers in terms of range and production–Fantine’s belt on the words “shame” and “be” come to mind– and this cast expertly rose to the occasion. 

    In my review of Beauty and the Beast at the Ordway Center for the Performing Arts, I argued there were aspects of musical theatre that could help popularize opera in the mainstream. However, if I postulate that Les Mis is actually an opera, then we’ve already done that. In that case, our frilly Mozart productions and dramatic Wagner epics are doomed to play to dwindling audiences until through-composed pop operas, like Hamilton and Les Mis, overtake our antiquated performance art for good. Right?

    Maybe.

    I’ve already lost a few folks by positing the idea that Les Mis might be an opera, but let’s look at the facts. As previously mentioned, the work is entirely sung-through, like an opera. The orchestra never ceases playing (except during applause and intermission), and there is sung recitativo in place of spoken dialogue. 

    Well, what about the plot? Opera plots tend to be convoluted, implausible, and overly dramatic.

    Before I get to it, I just knew all of you needed to see this picture of me as the Trinket Hag during “Lovely Ladies.” You’re welcome. College Light Opera Company, 2014.

    In Les Mis, a man convicted of stealing a loaf of bread breaks his parole and is followed around France by a vindictive police officer. Meanwhile, a woman with an illegitimate child is fired at a factory run by our ex-con, and she guilts him into adopting her child on her deathbed. The ex-con takes the girl away from two swindling tavern owners, and they live a life of hiding in Paris. 

    But wait, there’s more!

    It’s now 1832, and there are students primed to stage a revolution in the streets of Paris, and one of them spots the adopted girl. She’s hot! Unfortunately, there’s already a girl- the daughter of the swindling tavern owners. She’s in love with a student boy, but he doesn’t care and wants the adopted girl. The ex-con learns of this and decides to stay for revolution day to keep the boy safe for his girl. The daughter of the tavern officers is the first to die in the rebellion.

    After every student is killed in the streets, the ex-con drags the boy through the sewers so his daughter can nurse him back to health. He manages not to die of sepsis. Meanwhile, the ex-con helps the policeman out of a tough spot, and the officer can’t handle this, so he commits suicide. The ex-con is old, the boy and girl get married, and he repents of his sins (stealing a loaf of bread and breaking his parole), and the girl’s birth mother welcomes him to heaven.

    Convoluted? Check. Implausible? Oh yes. Overly dramatic? 100% and I love it. 

    So, Les Mis has an operatic plot and is through-composed. Musically, it features leitmotifs throughout that signify different characters’ themes and emotions. However, the singing style is drastically different than that of opera, which requires mastering a challenging and demanding technique that often takes years to execute.

    Operatic music utilizes a classical singing technique and does not require amplification due to the optimization of resonance and the science of sound. It is the original musical theatre. However, in recent years, major opera houses have begun incorporating microphones into their productions. Most of these houses existed before the advent of amplification and featured singers that could produce a sound that didn’t require microphones. So, what’s the difference if opera singers are hooked up to mics now?

    One glaring difference is that of language. Although the composition of viable American opera is increasing, traditionally, the most beloved operas are in Italian, French, or German. In Europe, where opera was born and continues to be most popular, most people are multilingual because the country next door often has a different official language.  In contrast, most of Europe could fit neatly inside the continental United States of America. 

    Photo: Reddit.

    As a classical musician who has traveled internationally to various countries, I see immense value in learning other languages and cultures, but I am afraid I do not belong to the American mainstream in that way. If New Yorkers and Texans spoke different languages, there might be a discernible effort in the American school system to become bilingual. Still, the necessity isn’t there, even if it seems like Texans speak a different language than the rest of us sometimes.

    America was built on a disconnection from European ideals. Although many of us have learned to love European languages, art, and music, there is still a certain level of snobbery or elitism associated with anything European. Opera hasn’t done itself any favors by continuing to mount the same tired productions in languages Americans don’t care to understand, with singing that often requires the same amplification that pop and musical theatre do. Some critics of modern opera singing might postulate that this is due to the academization of the once vibrant art form, but that’s a discussion for another day.

    I don’t want opera in America to become a genre where we water down great works with musical theatre voices and English translations, even if it sounds like I’m advocating for that. I wonder, however, if genre constraints limit opera’s future here.

    For example, Donizetti’s Elixir of Love and Wagner’s Das Rheingold are both beloved operas from the standard repertoire. However, the same singers in Elixir would likely not sing any roles in the entire Ring Cycle. The shows have drastically different vocal production and overall style. It would be like comparing a classic musical theatre piece like Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel with Legally Blonde: The Musical. They’re technically the same genre but are simply not the same.

    I think we’re limiting ourselves by putting opera in a neat little box and calling all of it the same when it’s not. I obviously love opera, but I don’t love all operas! For example, my favorite operas tend to be comedies or productions with a strong female lead. You could apply these filters on Netflix or Hulu when selecting a movie, but as soon as music is added, it becomes one genre. 

    People who love Les Mis would also probably love the intense drama and iconic hits such in Bizet’s Carmen, the visual spectacle of Verdi’s Aida, or an ensemble cast with intertwining storylines like Mozart’s Don Giovanni. Categorizing opera and Broadway musicals together as simply, you guessed it, musical theatre and then distinguishing between comedy, drama, or any other genres from there might encourage audiences to broaden their expectations of what it means to see an opera. 

    Unfortunately, we live within the confines of genre. So is Les Mis an opera?

    Given our current constraints, no, I don’t think it is. Classical and contemporary singing techniques are incredibly unique from each other. Although it overlaps in operatic spectacle, plot, and structure, the musical production is vastly different. Additionally, the instrumentation is consistent with that of a rock musical, complete with a synthesizer and drum set, two instruments that would never find a home in a traditional orchestra pit. Although some operas are beginning to use amplification, this should not be accepted as the norm where it is expected and frequently necessary for musical theatre. 

    Regardless, if you consider yourself to be a musical theatre lover but have bristled at opera, I encourage you to open your mind to the idea of opera as the original musical theatre. Think about why you enjoy your favorite musicals. Is it the style of the music? The plot? Maybe it’s the dancing, the incredible costumes, or your mom used to listen to the original cast recording in the car. Whatever reason you have, I assure you, there’s an opera you will also enjoy. You can even ask me for recommendations!

    If you love Les Mis as much as I do, you’ll find it has much more in common with standard operatic repertoire than you think. Les Mis can be more directly compared to opera than most other musicals. Blast the end of Act 1 of Puccini’s Turandot featuring Luciano Pavarotti and Montserrat Caballé, and see if you get a few shivers down your spine. If you’re anything like me, that recording is as powerful as the dream cast singing “One Day More.”

    Start at 1:50 for maximum enjoyment, and turn that volume all the way up.

    Les Misérables may not be an opera, but the sold-out Orpheum Theatre on Saturday made me hopeful for our art form. People will always be hungry for entertaining drama and an inspiring message carried by fabulous voices. Opera isn’t dead in America; it’s just waiting for proper appreciation. 

    Tomorrow comes!

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  • REVIEW: Join Me for Dinner at Gavin Kaysen’s Mara Restaurant and Bar in Four Seasons Minneapolis

    Between bright Mediterranean flavors, a warm atmosphere, and creatively crafted drinks, Mara packs a culinary punch worth celebrating.

    Mara Restaurant and Bar’s sleek, inviting bar area.

    Since its opening in June 2022, Gavin Kaysen’s Mediterranean-style restaurant nestled inside the luxurious downtown Four Seasons Hotel has been the talk of the Minneapolis/St. Paul food scene. Mara Restaurant and Bar is the fourth major restaurant the James Beard Award-winning chef has opened in the Twin Cities after Spoon and Stable, Bellecour Bakery, and Demi. Also available in the Four Seasons is Socca Cafe, featuring grab-and-go bites crafted by Kaysen. This week, the Star Tribune hailed Mara as the top restaurant of 2022. 

    The warm, sleek restaurant was packed to the brim on Thursday evening, so my boyfriend and I snagged a couple of bar seats, where we were dynamically greeted by our stellar bartender and server, Jess. After receiving menus and the juiciest green olives I’ve ever tasted, we comfortably settled in for what was sure to be an incredible culinary experience.

    Juicy little salt bombs.

    Mara’s scaled-down and polished cocktails align with the dinner courses. Guests are encouraged to start with a light and refreshing apertivo, such as their Bichrome Martini, a cocktail made with Kapriol gin, cardamom, chamomile, and secco (dry) vermouth. The menu also includes two mocktails and two fascinating-looking sparkling teas for guests who prefer not to consume alcohol. Upon viewing the characteristically bright orange Campari behind the bar, I opted for a Negroni, which Jess fabulously crafted.

    My delicious Negroni (not sbagliato with prosecco in it, sorry Emma D’Arcy).

    There are three intermezzo cocktail offerings, including the most phenomenally unique old-fashioned I have ever tasted. Warm, nutty flavors, including hazelnut, pistachio, and fig, define the cocktail. Another winner is the Arpege– a fresh, floral beverage sporting a delicate sprig of flowers and incorporating jasmine, rose, almond, Pamplemousse Du Nord gin, and vodka.

    Finally, Mara offers a list of calming digestivo to exhale the variety of flavors diners enjoy throughout their meal. According to our bartender, Jess, the XXX includes a cognac so incredible it could be consumed alone. The resulting concoction of cognac from Pineau Des Charentes, Cardamaro, and Seville orange settles the stomach and excites the taste buds one last time. For something a little simpler but equally unique, I enjoyed an amaro similar in mouthfeel to Amaro Montenegro called Marseille, with a bottle sporting a little plague mask I couldn’t resist.

    Look at this cute lil guy! A black plague inspired drink is one I will choose every time.

    Mara’s dinner menu features three courses meant to be consumed from left to right. On the left, diners choose from vegetables and spreads, with highlights including hummus, baba ghanoush, and beef tartare. Continuing to the center portion, guests select their second course from an array of raw and cured meats and fish, leading to the third category, the dinner section of the menu. The offering includes selections from land and sea and two plates of pasta. We opted out of the spreads, vegetables, and cured meats as we were presented with a list of delectable bar bites that were impossible to pass up.

    The culinary experience matched the luxurious cocktail offerings. Our first bar bite was the Grilled Spanish Octopus. Bright with saffron and orange, this colorful dish combined beautifully with the octopus’s tender texture and taste. Fried potatoes, or papas bravas, accompanied the octopus, which certainly brought Mediterranean flavors to the forefront.

    Grilled Spanish Octopus with papas bravas, saffron, orange, and pine nuts

    Our second appetizer, the Pinchos Morunos, combined the most perfectly grilled and seasoned lamb I have ever tasted alongside flavorful tzatziki, spring onions, and lavash, an Armenian flatbread similar to a pita. The meat was perfectly fabulously prepared and the tzatziki sauce sparkled on top of the lamb without stealing the show. 

    The fabulous Pinchos Morunos dish comes complete with tzatziki, spring onions, lemon, and lavash.

    My boyfriend and I like to cook high-quality ribeye steaks in our sous vide at home. We’ve created a system of seasonings, temperature, time, and searing methods that have turned us into snobs preparing the perfect steak. If there was a restaurant that could outdo our amateur abilities, we knew it had to be Mara. We opted to split the 24-ounce ribeye for two and were blown away.

    The 24-ounce ribeye for two is accompanied by cipollini onions, Hen of the Woods, and beef au jus.

    The steak, prepared with beef from Peterson Farms, was perfectly tender and had notes of woodsmoke flavor from the perfect sear. The cipollini onions and Hen of the Woods mushroom complimented the dish without overpowering the ribeye’s flavor. It was the best steak I’ve ever had and showcased the power of top-notch culinary skills– we never could have prepared a steak this flawless. A ribeye is never complete without a glass of red wine, so we chose the rossese from Liguria, Italy to accompany this course. I’m no sommelier, but the lightness of the herbal-noted wine communicated welcomed opposition to the inherent heaviness of red meat.

    The Maraklava tastes as beautiful as it looks.

    For dessert, we followed the recommendation of Jess and ordered the Maraklava. A straightforward take on baklava, the Greek pastry characterized by layers of phyllo dough, nuts, and spices, this dessert was the fireworks show at the end of a culinary evening unlike any other. Tucked into the perfectly flaky layers was a wintry mix of pistachios and walnuts, topped with a sweet yet herbal wildflower honey and bee pollen cremeux and served with a side of heavenly saffron ice cream. The gold flakes and rose petals shimmering on top indicated a dessert colorful in both looks and taste.

    Chef Gavin Kaysen has delivered culinary excellence to Minnesotan diners again with the bright and flavorful cuisine characteristic of Mediterranean fare. Whether you’re out for drinks and dessert after a show or celebrating a special occasion, Mara has a variety of mouthwatering dishes that will keep guests returning again and again.

    Frequently Asked Questions

    Where is Mara located?

    Mara Restaurant and Bar is located inside the luxurious Four Seasons Hotel at 245 Hennepin Avenue, Minneapolis, MN 55401.

    How Do I Make a Reservation?

    Guests can make reservations at https://www.exploretock.com/mara. The bar is first come, first serve.

    How Expensive is Mara?

    It depends on what you’re looking for. For drinks, dessert, or bar bites, expect to spend around $50-100 for two people. If a whole dining experience is on the table, it will likely cost $100-250 for two people.

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  • Taylor Swift’s 1989: The Rise and Fall of #GirlBoss Energy

    This piece belongs to a series in which I analyze Taylor Swift’s albums through the feminist lens leading up to the Eras Tour. For the first essay in the series on “Speak Now,” click here.

    Taylor Swift in 2015. Courtesy of Billboard and Dave Hogan/GI.

    Greetings, fellow Swifties! The results of my Instagram poll are in: it’s time to take a deep dive into Taylor’s fifth studio album, 1989. Released in October 2014, this album, produced by Big Machine Records, marked Taylor Swift’s official move away from country music and complete immersion into the pop genre.

    During this time, Swift’s public image perpetuated by the media also shifted from that of an innocent young girl to a sexually charged and even manipulative businesswoman. Interestingly, this was also the era in which she suffered most severely from an eating disorder and received backlash for promoting white feminism through her “squad” of model friends, largely thin and white like her.

    #SquadGoals. Photo courtesy of InStyle and Kevin Mazur/Getty Images.

    The years following her explosion in popularity were marked by extraordinary controversy, culminating in the now infamous phone call with the artist formerly known as Kanye West and his ex-wife, billionaire Kim Kardashian. After this fallout and absolute crucifixion from the media, Taylor Swift largely disappeared from the public eye for nearly three years before the dawn of her Reputation era.

    This album pulses with bangers, marked by six incredibly successful singles regularly played on the radio to this day. The album’s lead single, “Shake It Off” is considered to be her most successful single of all time. Although in the past I have written this single off as lyrically weak and irritating, upon closer examination, the maturity expressed in Swift’s takedown of her critics is far more nuanced than that of “Mean” in Speak Now. In essence, “Shake It Off” is the album’s crux: Taylor Swift announced to the world with 1989 that she was a grown-up pop icon and no one could take her down.

    Numerous songs on 1989 are dripping with #girlboss energy. Now considered a derogatory term, “girl boss energy” rose to prominence in the mid-2010s and refers to women who are self-made, successful businesswomen acting as their own bosses. Often, critics chastise these women for chasing success at the expense of others, all while spitting out quips such as “Boss Babe!”, “Get it, girl!” or “Yassss queen!” As late as 2022, Taylor Swift is closely associated with the “girlboss” stereotype in “Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss.”

    A great example of Girl Boss Energy. Courtesy of Hot Beauty Health.

    In my last album analysis, I concluded that although Speak Now embodied certain feminist ideals, criticism that she perpetuated negative feminine stereotypes, such as victimizing oneself and focusing only on boys, was well-founded. What I’m curious to unravel in 1989 is whether or not Taylor Swift warranted the dialogue surrounding her as a cringe-inducing “girlboss” during this time of grave unrest and turmoil in her public image.

    Before we begin, let’s form a working definition of white feminism. Typically used as a derogatory term, white feminism refers to the stereotypical feminist movement that applies to cisgender, heterosexual, non-disabled, often beautiful women that neglects women of color, LGBTQ+ individuals, or those with disabilities. The media heavily criticized Swift during the mid-2010s for perpetuating this stereotype as conversations surrounding intersectionality in feminism became more prominent. 

    Backstage as Hedy LaRue in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying. College Light Opera Company, 2014.

    1989 dropped during the fall of my senior year of college, just after I had spent a summer in Cape Cod, Massachusetts, performing with College Light Opera Company. I had just changed my major to vocal performance, and I still consider that one of my life’s most formative and enjoyable summers. Like Taylor, there was a boy I was into, but it wouldn’t work out for one reason or another. Transitioning back to academic life when I had spent all summer really “doing the thing” was incredibly difficult. I also didn’t know how to become a performer or what to do next, I didn’t feel seen or appreciated at school, and I felt a little lost. Fortunately, Taylor Swift’s fifth studio album came just in time to lift me out of my funk and make me feel “finally clean.” That’s the power of her songwriting and the best reason to embark on this morning’s journey. 

    For each song, I’ll provide my favorite lyrics, a short analysis through a feminist lens, and then give a feminism score. The rankings are simply by level of enjoyment.

    16. You Are In Love

    Favorite Lyric: “And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars/And why I’ve spent my whole life tryin’ to put it into words”

    There’s some carefully crafted lyricism in here. Still, overall it doesn’t give me anything I didn’t already get from “This Love” or “Wildest Dreams.”

    Feminist Score: B because it paints a realistic romance rather than a fairytale for which Taylor had become known.

    15. Shake It Off

    Favorite Lyric: “It’s like I got this music in my mind/Sayin’ it’s gonna be alright”

    Listen, I don’t like this song. Maybe I’m not a real Swiftie, but I’ve always found this song lyrically weak and pervasively irritating. However, upon analyzing her music through a feminist lens, this piece is critical in illustrating her transformation from a fragile young country star to a powerfully intelligent businesswoman. 

    Feminist Score: A. Sure, it’s a piece co-opted by girl bosses everywhere to justify rude behavior and hustle culture, but it’s an enormously transformative and inspiring piece to independent achievers everywhere.

    14. How You Get The Girl

    Favorite Lyric: “Remind her how it used to be, be/Yeah, with pictures in frames of kisses on cheeks, cheeks”

    This song is perplexing. It’s the only song on the album I could criticize as “filler.” However, I’m about digging deep, so I’ll do my best. This song boils down to a nonsensical list of things to do to get a girl that overall feels manipulative and derivative. However, it’s a sick beat, as Taylor might say.

    Feminist Score: F. Men, if you go through a breakup with a woman, the appropriate response is to not show up at her door unannounced and refuse to leave until she breaks down and gets back together with you. Major yikes.

    David Krieger/Bauer-Griffin/GC Images via Billboard.

    13. I Know Places

    Favorite lyric: “Something happens when everybody finds out/See the vultures circling, dark clouds”

    This piece is interesting because it forces the listener to empathize with two highly successful celebrities who just want to be typical together. Still, their relationship isn’t strong enough to withstand the constant media attention. It’s neither of their faults that their relationship crumbled (RIP Taylor and Harry) but rather the intense scrutiny and pressure they constantly find themselves under. And she manages to make something so sad, so boppy once again!

    Feminist Score: B. She is taking control, and they appear equally unequipped to sail the waters of their tumultuous relationship, but there aren’t necessarily any themes of feminism outwardly portrayed here.

    12. I Wish You Would

    Favorite Lyric: “We’re a crooked love/In a straight line down”

    A quick note on this lyric- I always thought this lyric was “we’re a crooked love in a street lying down,” which makes absolutely zero sense, but late at night at College Light Opera Company in 2014, my fellow young artists and I would walk down to the beach and lay in the road and look up at the stars since there were never any cars. It always makes me smile.

    Ok, feminism. I mean…meh? Just once, I’d like Taylor to drive the dang car herself (maybe she caught on to this– “and he was tossing me the car keys, fuck the patriarchy, keychain on the ground,” anyone?), and it seems to be a metaphor for her not being in the driver’s seat of her relationships. This song is reminiscent of Speak Now themes from Taylor.

    Feminist Score: C? I guess?

    11. Wonderland

    Favorite Lyric: “Didn’t you flash your green eyes at me?/Haven’t you heard what becomes of curious minds?”

    I have a definite soft spot for this bonus track. Apparent allusions to Alice in Wonderland aside, this piece romanticizes a toxic relationship in which the narrator’s man behaves in a manipulative and demeaning way. Yikes.

    Feminist Score: D, only because I might be overreacting. What do you think? 

    10. Style

    Favorite Lyric: “’Cause you got that James Dean daydream look in your eye/And I got that red lip classic thing that you like”

    Remember when Taylor Swift dated Harry Styles? It truly feels like a lifetime ago. We’re back in her “I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat, and you’re driving, and it’s hot. I’m pretty with my red lipstick on, isn’t this the American Dream” vibes of earlier albums but with a synth-pop beat. 

    Feminist Score: C. It’s neither empowering nor derogatory, and it’s a jam.

    9. Blank Space

    Favorite Lyric: “Boys only want love if it’s torture/Don’t say I didn’t, say I didn’t warn ya”

    This song might as well be the #girlboss anthem. I’ll admit that I grew tired of this song after hearing it in every restaurant, mall, elevator, bar, and shop on the planet for years on end, but after revisiting it, nearly every line is a zinger. Like Shake It Off, Taylor playfully and confidently derides her critics, with every line encompassing a sick burn. The song embodies shallow feminism typical of the mid-2010s but is powerful nonetheless. If the media thinks Taylor Swift is a boy-crazy maneater who only dates men to later spit them out for material, then that’s what she’ll give them. 

    Feminist Score: A-, only because the #girlboss energy is a little intense and cringe, and I saw one too many women caption an Instagram post with “cause darling I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream” in 2015.

    Courtesy of PopCrush and Dimitrio Kambouris/Getty Images.

    8. Welcome to New York

    Favorite Lyric: “Walkin’ through a crowd, the village is aglow/Kaleidoscope of loud heartbeats under coats”

    What an album opener. Close your eyes and imagine the first time you heard this song and how it made you feel. I once romanticized the idea of living in New York. Although that dream has passed me, the excitement of landing at LaGuardia Airport while blasting this song through my earbuds will never leave me. She is independent, lighthearted, and dancing. There is no boy in sight. This song always rang of individuality and confidence to me, and what is a #girlboss without exuberant enthusiasm?

    Feminist Score: A. Why not? It makes me, a woman, feel unstoppable.

    7. All You Had to Do Was Stay

    Favorite lyric: “People like you always want back the love they gave away/And people like me wanna believe you when you say you’ve changed”

    Well, she gave up her power here, but at the same time, she’s standing up for herself and saying hey no you left me good sir and I’m not just going to come running back to you. Either way, it is a complete jam and is overlooked as one of the best songs on the album.

    Feminist Score: C+. Poor Taylor got broken up with again, but she’s not moping about it. Like a typical #girlboss, she’s an independent woman who doesn’t need a man!

    6. This Love

    Favorite Lyric: “Your smile, my ghost/I fell to my knees”

    I can’t imagine a better sequel to “Last Kiss” than this incredible piece of raw emotional vulnerability. Folks are critical of Taylor’s lyrics that imply that she isn’t in control of her relationships and remains under the control of her partner. Although “currents swept you out again” could be considered such a lyric, the portrait of a relationship coming to a boiling point is effective and effervescent. She manages to evoke action alongside reminiscence, romanticizing the past while remaining concrete. Feminist? Not sure. Beautiful? Absolutely.

    Feminist Score: C, I guess.

    5. Out of the Woods

    Favorite lyric: “Remember when we couldn’t take the heat?/I walked out, I said “I’m setting you free”

    This song is such a vibe. The echoing, chaotic synthesizer evokes a sense of anxiety that Swift says defines the album. The lyrics honestly and openly paint the picture of a dissatisfying and crumbling relationship. For critics who claim Taylor consistently portrays herself as the victim, this song is a foray from her stereotype in which she shares in the blame for the dissolution of the relationship. Owning up to one’s shortcomings without submitting to one’s partner or allowing oneself to be gaslit is profoundly feminist.

    Feminist Score: B. She’s waiting for the guy to potentially save or end the relationship, but the nuance of a more mature relationship sets this transformative album apart from previous ones.

    4. Clean

    Favorite Lyric: “The drought was the very worst/When the flowers that we’d grown together died of thirst”

    This is an incredible and, to no surprise, cleansing song. Just a fabulous album closer. Taylor is standing on her own two feet; she’s no longer heartbroken and ready to take over the world as a newly minted pop icon. In girl boss speak (which is really just speech patterns co-opted from black and queer communities), that’s “Yas queen! Slay!”

    Feminist Score: A. The arc of this album, from manipulative heartbreaker to healed icon, deserves a chef’s kiss.

    Courtesy of ETONLINE.

    3. Wildest Dreams

    Favorite Lyric: “You’ll see me in hindsight/Tangled up with you all night/Burning it down”

    Man, Taylor really couldn’t catch a break during this era- remember the colonialism controversy surrounding this music video? I’ll admit it to all of you– I ugly cried so many times thinking about a boy who had fully moved on from our brief relationship while listening to this song. If that’s not peak Taylor Swift, then I don’t know what is.

    Maybe it’s the steady synth-pop beat or the assuredness in her demands, but this piece holds a quiet power in heartbreak that is different from her past breakup songs.It’s another “Last Kiss” style song of 1989, but she revels in its beauty instead of wallowing in her sadness. Also– is this the first time Taylor wrote overtly sexual lyrics? I’m into it. Own your sexuality!

    Feminist Score: A- because for a breakup song, she handles herself pretty well and doesn’t seem to define herself by the end of this relationship.

    2. Bad Blood

    Favorite Lyric: “Band-aids don’t fix bullet holes/You say sorry just for show/If you live like that, you live with ghosts”

    Best lyric on the WHOLE ALBUM RIGHT HERE! Wow. The music video for this piece sparked the white feminism conversation. Swift cast all her beautiful, white model friends in this music video aimed at a feud between Taylor and Katy Perry (they’ve since made up!). The sentiment of this piece is where girl boss feminism sours. In stepping on people to attain perceived success, girl boss sentiment allows for a vindictive, ruthless attitude wrapped in a hot pink feminist bow. You go, girl! Gaining power or success at the expense of other women or important relationships is not feminist. To me, this song represented the height of #girlboss energy and contributed to its fall. Regardless, it is a total bop, and I once blew out a speaker in my car listening to this song.

    Feminist Score: B, because standing up for yourself is cool, but tearing down others is not.

    1.New Romantics

    Favorite Lyric: “We cry tears of mascara in the bathroom/Honey, life is just a classroom”

    Those of you who have kept up with my rankings for years know this is in my top three favorite Taylor Swift songs, period. It is everything to me. I think of “cause baby, I could build a castle out of all the bricks they threw at me” every time I get a rejection email. Singers are constantly singing “heartbreak as our national anthem.” The pop beat is infectious, and the sentiment exudes the poppy, optimistic flavor fueling fans of this era through power and independence. Is it feminist? In the shallow, mid-2010s way, I think it fits the bill.

    Feminist Score: A.

    The specific strain of feminism portrayed in 1989 as an album and Taylor Swift’s life at large at the time of its release is a fascinating cultural phenomenon. Swift is such a massive star that her actions, attitudes, and music itself can shift the way an entire generation of fans view themselves and choose to behave.

    John Shearer/LP5/Getty Images for TAS via Billboard.

    When 1989 dropped in 2014, Taylor Swift skyrocketed to the world’s leading pop icon, leaving her country roots behind. She was as unstoppable and admirable as the girl boss movement she embodied. However, over a year and a record-breaking world tour, Taylor Swift fell from pop’s most prominent darling to a vile, manipulative monster vilified by the media. Similarly, women who embarked on a journey of self-made, peppy entrepreneurship quickly went from feminist icons to vapid, mockable frauds who bore the brunt of male-dominated criticism. 

    Is feminism worth it when it only makes space for women who are cisgender, heterosexual, white, and beautiful? With discussions surrounding intersectionality in feminism in recent years, the conclusion should be that feminism isn’t serving us as a culture unless it includes all female-identifying humans and includes discussions of race, sexuality, beauty standards, and disability. 

    I don’t blame Taylor Swift for getting caught up in this rhetoric. She has since changed her ways, and her music’s messages have evolved as culture’s discussion of feminism advances. In a vital way, her music serves as a marker for the advancement of social and cultural norms.

    #Girlboss energy may be declining, but 1989 will live on as a prime example of the cultural movement and continue to deserve the label as one of the best pop albums of all time. With its release, Taylor Swift proved she was truly unstoppable.

    Album Feminist Score: B. Female empowerment bogged down by the girl boss movement and the misfortune of embodying the stereotype of a white feminist.

    Which album should I analyze next? Let me know in the comments!

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  • Feminist Fridays: Motherhood as a Choice, Not a Duty

    Motherhood is no longer the all-consuming, defining feature of modern women.

    This post belongs to a series formerly known as “Frauenbild Fridays”, where I analyze German art song through a contemporary feminist lens. Click here to see the original post.

    I have a lot to say about An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust, the seventh song in Frauenliebe und -leben,  but before I do, I want to be cautious. I am not a mother, and I have never been pregnant. My feelings about having children and watching people I know give birth to babies are complicated by my views on womanhood and resisting the bonds with which biology and culture have chained us.

    Listen, I love babies. See? Sheer joy.

    Technically, this is the only song in Frauenliebe und -leben that isn’t about a man. It’s about the baby our protagonist produces with her man and how she hadn’t felt joy until she had a child. Honestly, I have heard that it’s an experience unlike any other from both mothers and fathers, so I’m not going to discount that, I swear.

    Luckily, we live in a country and time where most women have the freedom to choose whatever path they like, regardless of whether or not having children is involved.

    That being said, there is still a cultural stigma against being a childless woman.

    Here’s a list of questions and comments young men are simply not receiving:

    • When are you getting married?
    • Are you going to start having kids soon?
    • What do you mean you don’t want kids? I’m sure that will change as you get older.

    Don’t forget the judgments if you are pregnant:

    • You’re breastfeeding, right?
    • What type of birth are you doing? 
    • You’re only supposed to gain a certain amount of weight.
    • Oh, that’s a very interesting name you’ve chosen.

    People seem to forget that childbirth is inherently dangerous. According to the most recent data from the National Center for Health Statistics branch of the CDC, approximately twenty maternal deaths occur in the United States as a direct result of pregnancy and childbirth per 100,000 births. This number is shocking- the USA has by far the highest maternal death rate in the developed world. For example, in Germany, maternal mortality hovers at around five deaths per 100,000 live births. There are various complicated reasons for the disturbingly elevated maternal death rate in the USA. Most are focused on issues of racism and accessibility of prenatal care, complicated by instances of intimate partner violence and the overall health of American women. 

    Source: World Health Organization courtesy of Washington Post, 2015. Maternal death rate is currently on the rise in the US, so it’s actually higher than what this graph portrays.

    It’s not all doom and gloom today– childbirth would have been much more dangerous for our dear Frauenbild in 1840. According to a study published by the National Institute of Health in London, between 1700 and 1935, approximately 5-29 per 1,000 women died in childbirth. This number was considerably higher in women unassisted by medical professionals. If we convert this back into our modern measurement, before the advent of modern healthcare, anywhere from 500 to 2900 women per 100,000 live births were dying in childbirth in London. Never mind that childrearing was the woman’s sole responsibility and birth control wasn’t an option– women just kept popping out babies until menopause or dying in childbirth. No thanks. Then, women had the heartbreaking experience of watching their kids die from a childhood illness. Thanks to vaccines, we no longer need to worry about this unless people keep neglecting to vaccinate their children. 

    Childbirth in developing nations continues to endanger women. According to the World Health Organization, “Women in less developed countries have, on average, many more pregnancies than women in developed countries, and their lifetime risk of death due to pregnancy is higher. A woman’s lifetime risk of maternal death is the probability that a 15-year-old woman will eventually die from a maternal cause. In high-income countries, this is 1 in 5400, versus 1 in 45 in low-income countries.”1

    I applaud and respect women who choose to embark on the fabulous journey of motherhood and hope to be among you someday. However, we need to acknowledge that pregnancy is inherently complex and dangerous and should only be undertaken at the desire of the pregnant person in question. 

    I’m grateful that motherhood isn’t the all-consuming, defining feature of modern women. It is no longer a woman’s duty to birth babies, but rather a privilege and choice.

    Some folks might think this tempo is a little frantic, but I think this piece is meant to be VIVACE! It’s just cuter this way. Deal with it. Barbara Bonney soprano | Vladimir Ashkenazy, piano.
    Translation courtesy of Google Translate.

    The aspect I appreciate most about this piece is its sheer, unadulterated joy. What makes my eyes roll toward the back of my head is the sentiment that motherhood is the only feeling that elicits such joy in women. Maybe if a female poet had written the piece, I would feel differently, but the idea that men were doing women a favor by occupying them with children is an old-fashioned view that I am glad has mostly gone by the wayside.

    I find intense happiness when I get a coveted gig for which I auditioned. Elation rushes over my body when I receive positive feedback regarding my writing. I experience a boost in serotonin when friends laugh at my jokes or when my boyfriend tells me how much he loves me. Adrenaline floods through me at the top of a roller coaster and during the high note of a showstopping aria onstage. Love radiates through me as I hold a difficult yoga pose or taste delicious flavors prepared just for me. Joy comes to me in all places and times if I allow it to enter my life.

    Many of my friends have started having babies. Meanwhile, I struggle with the inherent unfairness of women who want satisfaction both in career and family because women still bear the brunt of domestic duty, even in the healthiest relationships. Like Liz Lemon, many contemporary women want to “have it all.”

    Where are my 30 Rock fans?

    I want to enjoy what I have without expectation. That’s my hope for our Frauenbild and all of us.

    Joy is breaking out into song and bathing in the applause. It’s the delight of positive feedback and laughter from a joke. Joy comes to me at the top of a roller coaster, and when I’m alone with the person I love. Happiness is a baby’s laugh or a satisfying workout. It finds me when the smells of my cooking fill the kitchen and when I’m sipping a cup of coffee. Joy is everywhere, it is me, and it is you. I live in happiness as a woman without expectations.

    ____________________________________________________________________________

     1World Health Organization. (n.d.). Maternal mortality. World Health Organization. Retrieved December 16, 2022, from https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/maternal-mortality#:~:text=A%20woman’s%20lifetime%20risk%20of,45%20in%20low%20income%20countries.

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  • What Opera Can Learn From “Beauty and the Beast” at The Ordway

    How can opera maintain its vocal tradition while appealing to a broader American audience?

    For the first time in what felt like nearly forever, not to reference a different Disney movie, I had the pleasure of attending a live musical, Beauty and the Beast, at the Ordway. The show was the first locally produced musical at the Twin Cities venue since before the pandemic.

    I’ve been a little sensitive lately about my level of success in the performing arts, and sometimes seeing musicals or operas makes me sad. My trip to the historic St. Paul theatre on Saturday was part of my birthday present, and at first, I was less than thrilled. These were the people who were able to achieve what I was not. 

    Put the world’s tiniest violin away, lady. Belting and dancing were never your strengths.

    Stepping foot inside The Ordway always feels like a special occasion. Usually, I’m here to enjoy Minnesota Opera productions, but the hall is more suitable for musicals that require amplification. The space’s acoustic is often inconsistent for operas, making it challenging to hear singers over the orchestra.

    Beauty and the Beast was one of my favorite movies growing up, mainly because of my love of Belle. She was everything I was not; she was introverted, kind, patient, and beautiful. The one thing the two of us had in common was our shared devotion to reading. However, this was my first time experiencing the Broadway production. I was familiar with “Home” and “A Change in Me” due to a callback situation from years ago, but other than that, the additional songs were entirely new to me.

    Ready for a good time. The Ordway, St. Paul, 2022.

    The set, designed by Adam Koch, transported the audience to a French-inspired fantasy. The village and Gaston’s lodge embodied warm colors and bright lighting, designed by Cory Pattack. In contrast, the castle’s deep blues, purples, and intense shadows provided the atmospheric shift to communicate Belle’s fear and discomfort. She is the bright and warm light tasked with bringing love to the enchanted castle.

    Belle, played by Rajané Katurah, was a perfect Disney Princess from the moment she stepped onstage. Her lines dripped with saccharine sincerity, paired with a powerful, contemporary musical theatre sound. Although I would have typically preferred a mix-belt vocal production for the role of Belle, Katurah’s raw instrument was so incredible that her contemporary pop style won me over by the time she belted “A Change in Me” with such emotional breadth that I forgot to breathe for a moment. It was affirming to see a beautiful woman who didn’t fit the exact mold of a stereotypical Disney Princess (super thin and white) perfectly embodying the leading lady– representation matters, and it was refreshing to see a diverse cast onstage.

    Other notable performances include the Beast, played by Nathaniel Hackmann, whose vocal production most closely aligned with a classical sound. The Beast can be an awkward character to embody onstage, but he played the role with an earnest vulnerability that won me over from the beginning. Mrs. Potts, played by Jamecia Bennett, performed a rendition of “Beauty and the Beast” that was absolutely breathtaking and resulted in resounding applause from everyone in the house. Her perfectly executed runs and creative ornamentation provided the magic necessary for the iconic ballroom scene. Finally, Gaston, played by Regan Featherstone, was an absolute delight. Like any good Disney villain, he was as awful as he was entertaining. His full, warm voice and top-notch dance skills, as evidenced in the showstopping number “Gaston,” indicate a bright, continued future as a performer.

    However, my favorite part of the show is a credit to the fabulous ensemble. In “Gaston,” the chorus of villagers, perfectly choreographed by Robbie Roby and Renee Guittar, engage in a complicated clinking of glasses reminiscent of the “Cups” song popularized by Anna Kendrick. This raucous tavern scene invigorated and entertained the audience to great success.

    I attended Beauty and the Beast on a Saturday matinee. The show began promptly at 2 p.m. and concluded at around 4:30 p.m. The audience appeared engaged for the entirety of the production, which included an approximately twenty-minute intermission. It was predominately filled with families and skewed on the younger side.

    I say all this because I am keenly interested in live theatre, specifically opera. Why do Americans love musicals more than operas? Opera is musical theatre, after all. 

    Beauty and the Beast has name recognition, familiar tunes, and an easy to follow plot. Regardless of whether a venue is staging an opera or a musical, those factors increase ticket sales.

    Additionally, the singers in this production embodied the vocal style popularized by contemporary pop, R&B, and rock singers today. They’re exhibiting the sound and style of music their audience regularly hears. Americans often mock a stereotypically operatic sound– in fact, the audience giggled at Madame de la Grande Bouche every time she touted her “opera voice.”

    Unlike many operas, the show was an appropriate length for a modern audience and featured familiar, hummable music. There are recognizable tunes in many operas, but overall, there is a copious amount of filler music, especially in baroque and classical operas, during which the public’s attention span begins to wane. Additionally, 21st-century opera is often challenging to sing for the performers themselves– I can’t imagine an audience member whistling a melodic line from such difficult music!

    Perhaps most importantly, musical theatre is an American creation sung in English. Opera companies make accommodations in the states by showing supertitles above the stage, but this is not without its cons. The public misses action happening onstage because they are busy reading, or a significant plot point is given away on the supertitle screen before the characters reveal the action.

    Many opera companies around the country mount one musical theatre production per year, and I think that’s an excellent way to ease Americans into opera. The way we sing is impressive– when we sing well, we fill an entire theatre with sound, cutting through an orchestra without amplification. There’s a reason that many opera companies will produce shows such as Sweeney Todd or Carousel– the style of those musicals can be executed well by a cast of opera singers. 

    I’m not an arts administrator. I’m just a singer. But when I hear folks in the opera industry lament that live theatre is dying, I want to correct them– opera is dying in America. It appears to be available only to the elite, a culturally rich minority who grew up listening to operatic music or somehow ended up as a classically trained musician who learned about the repertoire and tradition throughout their education. This model is neither an accessible nor sustainable way to produce meaningful art.

    The operatic style of singing and production has a place in American society. Suppose companies were more open to cutting the run time of productions, considering an English translation here and there, and expanding to musical theatre. In that case, maybe opera companies could also mount month-long runs of shows, like Beauty and the Beast at The Ordway. However, if we ignore the kind of art that a mainstream audience enjoys, we may not survive. Unamplified singing with a full orchestra is one of the most impressive musical feats on the planet, and people love to be amazed. Opera is live entertainment, not a relic in a museum– it’s a tale as old as time!

    The Ordway’s Beauty and the Beast production runs from November 30-December 31. Tickets are available at ordway.org.

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  • Who Am I?

    (For my musical theatre people: I’m Jean Valjean)

    Allowing ourselves to just “be” rather than constantly “do”

    Look, I climbed a literal mountain! Our social media addictions feed our desire to showcase accomplishments. Hurricane Mountain, The Adirondacks, September 2021.

    I had ample opportunity to track my accomplishments as a kid. The millennial generation was known for our participation awards, but I never needed those (hair toss). I got good grades, made it into honors bands and choirs, and performed roles in school plays and musicals. I didn’t need a participation award to quell my eternal need for attention; I already got it when I excelled. You’ll notice that sports are nowhere on my list of school activities– I wasn’t good at them. In fact, I was downright awful–my brain just can’t fire those hand-eye coordination neurons very quickly. I avoided what didn’t garner immediate external validation.

    Since we as Millenials spent our childhoods showered with praise for our accomplishments, it’s no wonder many adults today define themselves by their jobs. I have the distinct pleasure of not having the career I want and aligning the entirety of my person with that lack of a meaningful operatic career. It’s not a healthy combination.

    A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a precursor to this post about grit. For more on passion, perseverance, and grit, CLICK HERE.

    I lamented on Instagram that I had no auditions in October 2019, but it was okay because I didn’t define myself as only a singer anymore. If only I had been telling myself the truth and not just trying to comfort myself with likes on social media. Greensboro, NC, 2019.

    A couple of years ago, I tried to define myself not as a singer but as a whole person who sings. This shift in mindset was a lovely thought on paper, but what I neglected to cultivate was the actual practice. 

    I didn’t and haven’t stopped associating my worth as a person with my identity as a singer. For example, I am more worthy if I perform well or have an excellent coaching; I am garbage if I get rejected from multiple auditions or don’t sing as well under pressure as intended. 

    The untangling began when I was diagnosed with a vocal injury in October and was embarrassed to identify as a singer. Could I even call myself a musician without gigs or auditions on the horizon?

    When I stop defining myself as a musician, my other identifying traits trip me up. Ok, well, now I want to be seen as attractive and healthy, so I take the time to style my hair, makeup, and clothes. I make a spreadsheet measuring my macros so I can eat well and exercise daily. Oops- I ate a cookie at a friend’s house, snacked on some chips, or had a couple of glasses of wine. I didn’t feel like cooking, so we ordered DoorDash. I didn’t push myself as hard as I could have in my workout. Now, with my tummy full and my pants tight, I lament that I have failed to uphold the beauty standard I set for myself. Why is it so hard to become thin? Why do I care about this, anyway?

    Ok, so I won’t be the fittest person alive. That’s fine; I like food too much anyway. Let’s focus on some of my other traits. I may not be the best singer, but I am disciplined and hard-working. My to-do list stares me in the face, daring me to get started or fall short of my expectations. I sit at my tablet to write, edit my samples, and fix my cover letters. Ding! A text from a friend. Ding! An email; I’d better see if it’s about an audition. Ok, it’s not, but suddenly I’m on Instagram scrolling through other singers’ successes. Ok, back to writing. Back to practicing. My puppy needs to go outside. Is it already time to leave to go teach voice lessons? Jeez, somebody needs to vacuum in here. 

    What an incredible surprise and disappointment when I realized I was less disciplined than I thought. After all, if I were genuinely disciplined, that Excel sheet measuring my macros would be no problem. Does your brain do this to you, as well?

    Disconnecting my identity from what I do is more complicated than I thought it would be.

    Sometimes, I get to wander through the literal wilderness, not the proverbial wilderness of my shortcomings. Mantasoa Lemur Sanctuary, Madagascar, June 2022.

    Bear with me for a second as I recount a Bible story from the Old Testament. Yes, this is happening. If it helps you to infuse a religious meaning into this tale, feel free, but the parable itself has been eye-opening to me through this time of transition, with or without spirituality attached.

    In the story of Exodus, the Egyptians free the Israelites, but it’s not easy going from there. Fast forward, and Joshua prepares to lead the Jewish people to the Promised Land. However, they wander in the wilderness for forty years before crossing the Jordan River into Canaan, the land of milk and honey. 

    When I look back on my choice to pursue a classical singing career, I cringe at the number of wrong turns I took along the way. Every grad school visit, new teacher, audition I wasn’t ready for, and day job I took felt like stepping closer to the banks of my proverbial Jordan River when in reality, I was wandering in circles in the desert. That’s a brutal truth to face. I feel like I’ve been meandering in a wilderness of my own design for nearly ten years.

    Milestones are meaningful to me, so it’s no surprise I’m putting so much pressure on my thirtieth birthday. A recurring thought in my mind has been the lamentation that I have nothing to show for myself. This mindset is wrapped up in what I do. I can’t help but feel that it’s inevitable I will cross a river into my own promised land soon. I’ve been wandering for so long, and it didn’t feel aimless before, but it does now. The question from a few weeks ago of what comes next continues to loom over me– I still don’t know. I’ve experienced my fair share of uncertainty throughout my twenties. I do feel sure, however, that I’m ready to stop meandering. A shift in perspective is a dip of one toe into the river’s banks.

    It’s challenging for us not to define ourselves by our successes and failures in work and our personal lives. Every time I try and identify myself with traits I have cultivated rather than my accomplishments, that lets me down as well– I’m not disciplined, funny, extroverted, or creative all the time. I constantly fall short of my expectations. Sometimes, I am a lump of coal.

    I hate to get hippy-dippy, but I’ve settled on not defining myself. Assigning specific traits or identifiers to ourselves results in self-limiting beliefs. We don’t have to do anything special to be worthwhile humans; we just have to be. When we allow ourselves to simply be, our paths are more sure, free of judgment, and straight ahead– the wandering in the desert ends. The way forward is the right choice, and if I ever free myself from my bruised ego, I believe that road will become apparent.

    I am Victoria, and I am not a singer. I am a person who sings. 

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  • Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 6

    Honestly, I’ve been dreading this one a little because there’s no way around it– this song is about sex, and my mom and all of her friends read this blog. It’s also about sex in a very pre-sexual revolution sort of light– intimacy leads to babies, this is the only function of sexual relations, and everything else is SIN, I TELL YOU!! SIN!!!! Mom and friends, I’m sorry. 

    I’ve been dying to use this painting since I started the blog. DO NOT SIN, or the devil will visit you in your sleep!! The Nightmare by Henry Fuseli, 1782. Image courtesy of theartstory.org.

    Even in 1840, we know people had sex outside of marriage. In fact, young men were encouraged to “sow their wild oats,” so to speak, with prostitutes and the like, while women were expected to know absolutely nothing about sex and needed teaching from their husbands. Haven’t you all watched Bridgerton? The shame of losing one’s virginity and the burden of unplanned pregnancy has always fallen on the woman, and that hasn’t gone away. A quote from The Breakfast Club comes to mind regarding virginity as a woman: “If you say you haven’t, you’re a prude. If you say you have, you’re a slut. It’s a trap.” Remember in my introduction to Frauenbild Fridays when I mentioned the “Madonna/Whore Complex”? People love to shame other people about sex, especially women and members of the LGBTQ+ community.

    Most people know Margaret Atwood for her novel turned TV show, The Handmaid’s Tale. It was my favorite book I studied in high school, and it inspired me to read all of Atwood’s work I could get my hands on. Most of her writing is centered around dystopic future universes dripping with seething commentary on our current world. However, she wrote a historical novel in 1996, Alias Grace. It’s set around the time our song cycle was composed. One of the most riveting and angering plotlines is a maid in the tale engaging in a romance with a son of the family she works for, who gets her pregnant. He claims she got knocked up by somebody else and refuses to acknowledge the child. Knowing she will lose her well-paying servant position and reputation, the maid attempts to abort the fetus. She bleeds out on her bed and dies. So yeah, that’s what happened in 1840 when a woman had a Süsser Freund encounter–or perhaps 2040 if we keep eliminating reproductive rights. 

    Sexuality is a controversial topic these days. Many people in the United States believe that unless you’re attempting to conceive a child, any sexual act is unholy and their job to punish. Right-wing commentators unleash a vendetta upon the LGBTQ+ community daily. Reproductive rights diminish around the country. A small group of people’s desire to control American citizens’ private lives is disgusting, unacceptable, and, unfortunately, historically consistent. When will we learn?

    Intimacy is just that– it’s intimate. It’s a shared moment between two (or more, you do you) people that is no one else’s business. Intimacy is the glistening glue holding this piece together. When I hear this song performed well, it’s almost as if I’m uncomfortable invading this private moment between two people. Their hopes, dreams, and wants are between just the two of them. 

    Jessye makes the most difficult song in the cycle sound easy peasy. *chef’s kiss*
    You know the drill. Thanks, A2 level German knowledge and Google Translate.

    This song is just so beautiful. From personal experience, it’s also wicked hard to sing– it’s incredibly exposed and requires precision equal to that of a tightrope walker. The understated accompaniment, paired with the impossibly long vocal lines, paints an atmosphere of sensuality and privacy from the first chord. As the piano line animates in the middle section, the vocalist gains energy and courage, and the relaxation back into calming bliss is a powerful musical experience.

    I’m so happy that our Frauenbild can practice vulnerability and experience safety and security with a partner she loves. I delight in the fact that she was married at a time when falling pregnant out of wedlock was life-threatening. I’m thrilled that she experienced a positive sexual awakening. Everyone deserves that, and not everyone is safe to love who they want to love right now or even how they want to love.

    God called on his people to “love thy neighbor.” Let’s do that. 

    Sweet friend

    I am amazed at everything you do

    Everything you are

    What you could be

    And when I am in your arms

    I know I am safe

    I know I am loved

    I know I am home

    But mostly

    I know you.

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  • ‘Tis the Season

    On Friday morning, instead of rising blissfully full of turkey and mashed potatoes, I woke up with the telltale signs of an impending cold. I went on the attack. Canceled plans? Check. Extra hydration and rest? Oh yeah. Echinacea, Vitamin C, Zinc, and Zicam? Absolutely. Raw garlic? Yikes, but let’s do this.

    I hope you had a better Thanksgiving than my dog.

    Unfortunately, despite my best efforts, the cold has changed its permanent mailing address to my nose and throat. I know exactly how I acquired this unwanted tenant–teaching is opening oneself up to a petri dish of possibility every day. A student waltzed into my studio last Monday, and when I asked my standard, “how are you today?” she replied, “I’m good; my throat hurts really bad, though!”

    Did we learn nothing from the pandemic?

    Guilt rushes through my whole body. I drank wine on Thanksgiving, and alcohol torches the immune system. I didn’t stand a chance. The classic shame reel plays in my brain: “This is my fault. I bet responsible singers didn’t drink on Thanksgiving.” 

    Nobody likes being sick, but singers can’t get sick. A cold, allergies, or flu could mean ostensibly setting fire to hundreds of dollars. Unfortunately, I couldn’t nip this cold completely in the bud on Friday, so here I am, four days later, hacking away and feeling my vocal range dwindle by the hour. It’s like having the polyp again, except snot rolls down my face as I type. Too graphic? Oh well, bodies are gross. You’ll be ok.

    Overzealous voice teachers love to tell their students what they “need” to do to care for their vocal health. Drink plenty of water. Avoid alcohol and caffeine. Don’t smoke. Eat well and exercise daily. Sleep with a humidifier. Get adequate rest. Avoid loud environments that require a raised voice. Don’t scream or yell. Be perfect and do not have fun, ever. You will get sick and lose your voice. It’s no wonder my first reaction to getting a cold (a mild illness that we all know is notoriously difficult to avoid) is that it’s my fault. Hey, brain– I’m just a human who was out in the world with other humans, and this caused me to catch a minor cold. Stop being so mean. I can hear every voice teacher I’ve ever had lecturing me in my head as I tell my other inner voice to shut up.

    For example, this is the kind of literature that keeps singers up at night:

    From “The Functional Unity of the Singing Voice” by Barbara Doscher.

    Of course, I read this now and think, “how did I not realize that a spiral of vocal misuse and a general laissez-faire attitude toward my vocal health was going to hurl me toward vocal injury?” My answer to that question is in a few of my past posts: denial. I also think scaring students into believing a single glottal attack gone wrong or yelling at a party will result in permanent vocal damage. Haven’t you ever heard a baby cry? Their vocal cords are fine.

    At worst, this minor cold might cause me to cancel auditions and sing less well at a gig this weekend. That is truly the worst outcome, but many of us genuinely lose it when we’re ill because we risk losing income and opportunities. I know professionals who quit singing because the sheer pressure of remaining in pristine vocal health at all times is too emotionally and mentally taxing.

    Despite my Nyquil-induced haze and copious napping over the long weekend, I still sat at my tablet to write. I may be forced into a polyp era of vocal rest until this cold passes, but writing has yet to betray me. My vocal folds and nasal passages are an absolute mess, but my mind and fingers still work. Singing is so fickle; writing is not. As long as I’m conscious and inspired, I can put words on paper. It’s comforting to know I’m not rendered completely useless by a sniffle.

    I feel myself shifting away from singing just a little. I’m not sure if it’s permanent, but I need to feel like I’m working toward something meaningful, and opera just isn’t there for me right now. I’m not sure if it was ever really there. The familiar feeling of imposter syndrome sets in as I browse articles on how to start freelance writing– who am I to write about anything? What do I even know? 

    The quest for a purposeful life haunts me as my thirtieth birthday looms closer by the day. I wanted to be a full-time operatic performer. Who am I kidding? I still want that. I pursued that dream, albeit with many mistakes that likely prevented the desired outcome, at the expense of everything else throughout my twenties, and I can’t shake the thought that I have nothing to show for myself. 

    The catchphrase, “life is short,” is meant to inspire us to take risks and enjoy ourselves because time on this earth is fleeting and precious. I agree; don’t get me wrong. However, if you’ve spent enough time around me, you probably heard me posit, “life is long.” This privileged saying relies on my fortune of living in a relatively peaceful country with adequate healthcare and the hopeful absence of early-onset illnesses and accidents, but if all goes well, life is long. I have time. You have time. Life may be short, but if we’re lucky, it’s not that short. The ability to pursue a meaningful existence doesn’t conclude at thirty years old. Admittedly, it gets a little more challenging to pursue my particular goal, which I already feel. Companies that heard me in years past when I was a worse singer don’t grant me auditions anymore because of my age. I believe Taylor Swift recently called herself a “geriatric popstar.” She’s 32 years old.

    I’ve decided that my thirties will be about diversifying my skills. I crave the operatic career; I really do. That’s not going to disappear. When I look past the desire for a life in music specifically, I feel an impetus to do something interesting, something most people wouldn’t be able to do. I want to enjoy all of what life has to offer and achieve something great. Maybe it’s a bit Pollyanna-ish, but I believe we’re all capable of something great; we just have to dig deep inside ourselves to discover what we can offer.

    On Saturday night, I popped a couple of Nyquil, made myself a cup of Good Earth tea, and settled on the couch to watch the 2019 biographical comedy film Dolemite Is My Name. Eddie Murphy stars as Rudy Ray Moore, an aspiring singer who works multiple dead-end jobs to support his equally dead-end musical career. One day, inspired by the stories of a homeless man who visits the record store where he works, he begins a stand-up career that leads to a string of comedy films in the 1970s. He is known as the godfather of rap.

    Rudy Ray Moore felt like a failure. His attempts to forge a musical career led only to closed doors, and he was stuck. Due to his creative mind, work ethic, and a stroke of luck, Rudy eventually made his mark in the music industry. He didn’t give up; he merely diversified his skill set and shifted his perspective. I admire that. 

    We may not have learned to stay home when we’re sick from a two-year global pandemic, but I think we learned how to modify plans when necessary. I didn’t believe I would ever live in Minnesota again, and here I am, happily typing away in the suburbs. I wouldn’t be writing at all if I hadn’t been open to exploring options outside of a strict performing career. Openness is the most important quality I’ve cultivated over the past couple of years. I’d like to take a page out of Rudy Ray Moore’s playbook– I’m open to exploring skills outside of singing. 

    Fa la la la laaaaa la la la LAAA.

    At this exact moment, however, I’m most open to another cup of tea and a dose of DayQuil. The snow is falling beautifully outside, the lights of my garland flash on the fireplace mantle, and I need another Kleenex, or I’ll scream. ‘Tis the season, indeed. Eat your raw garlic, and take care. You’re still a worthy human being, even when you’re sneezing on yourself.

    Happy Holidays.

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  • HOLIDAY SPECIAL: Feminism in Taylor Swift’s “Speak Now”

    Is Taylor Swift’s music as anti-feminist as critics say? And if it is, does it matter?

    Greetings! I hope everybody feels physically and emotionally full from the weekend spent with family and friends.

    I’d like to introduce a special series that will take place over the next few months leading up to Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour. You’ll never know when I’m going to drop a Taylor post instead of a regular blog post, so it’s best if you ~subscribe to my blog~ if this is the content you crave. 

    If you’re an avid follower of my album rankings, you’ll notice that despite my background as a musician, I have little to say about the musical components of her pieces. I am obsessed with Taylor Swift specifically because of her carefully crafted lyricism. Pop music is notoriously catchy, meaning it follows a basic musical form by design. Her musical writing is pretty straightforward and not particularly innovative– it exists to serve as a vehicle for her words. Taylor Swift is a poet worthy of comparison to any of the great poets of the past few hundred years. In a rap battle between Emily Dickinson and Taylor Swift, I pick Taylor every time. I said what I said!!

    Taylor Swift has gotten an unfair amount of flack from non-swifties ever since her career took off in 2006 with the chart-topping hit “Teardrops on my Guitar.” This piece encapsulated the stereotype of music crafted explicitly for teenage girls (literally me), but I was too cool for it, above it. I remember straightening my hair in the bathroom, wearing a tank top layered over a short-sleeved shirt, low-cut flare jeans, and heavy eyeliner when this song came on the radio for the first time. I hated it. 

    This is a very terrible photo of me imitating Taylor Swift’s face in 2009. I was clearly not a fan.

    Until her most recent albums, the media heavily criticized Taylor Swift’s music for focusing solely on boys. In this special series on each of Taylor’s albums, I will re-rank every song according to my enjoyment (it could be different than past rankings, who knows what my mood will be!) and discuss them briefly through a feminist lens. To be clear, I’m not ranking them from least to most feminist because I listen to her music not because of how empowering it is but rather for much I enjoy it regardless of messaging. However, before I take up the fight in defense of feminism in Taylor Swift’s music, I want to know if she deserves it. Taylor’s music inspired me to become more confident and self-assured, not apologizing for who I was or feeling like I owed anything to men. Doesn’t that sound like a feminist message? We shall see. The messages we hear in her music are subjective, and I can only provide my opinion.

    I want to examine if Taylor Swift’s music is as anti-feminist as her critics say and if it actually matters. If I am a human who identifies as female and I have consistently drawn strength and courage from her music, can it be anti-feminist? What is feminism if not the unapologetic stories told from a non-male point of view?

    A Fan for the Ages

    Between 2006 and 2010, my perception of Taylor Swift shifted from negative to overwhelmingly positive. Taylor Swift’s new hit single, “Mine,” blasted through the kitchen as my friend and I baked brownies together. Much to my disdain, I discovered that I was enjoying the song. “Is this Taylor Swift?” I asked my friend. She replied, “yes! I actually really like this song!” Again, much to my disdain, I did too. It wasn’t particularly cool to like Taylor Swift, but I was already decidedly uncool. It was 2010, my senior year of high school, and here I was, unironically enjoying Taylor Swift.

    A fan for the ages was born that day, so for that reason, I will begin my special series with Taylor Swift’s third studio album, Speak Now, released in 2010.

    A nice visual of what I looked like in 2010. I’m about to dye my friend’s hair red.

    Feminism (or lack thereof) in Taylor Swift’s “Speak Now”

    Innocent- Favorite lyric: “It’s okay, life is a tough crowd, 32 and still growin’ up now”

    This song is rough for so many reasons. It’s the first of a few Kanye-inspired pieces and frankly the worst one. We can all agree that while the “Imma Let You Finish” incident was likely not meant to be as malicious as it was perceived, Kanye has exhibited some unforgivable behavior in the years since that moment.

    It’s also just not a great song, especially on an album where nearly every other piece is markedly fabulous. Is it feminist of Taylor to condescendingly forgive Kanye in front of the whole world? Ehh.

    Feminism score: I’m giving it a D for rolling over to please haters when Kanye and most other men never would’ve done that. Remember how that incident somehow made Taylor look just as bad as Kanye, even though all she did was win an award? That’s a double standard if I’ve ever heard of one.

    Haunted- Favorite lyric: “Come on, come on, don’t leave me like this, I thought I had you figured out”

    I have nothing to say about this song that I won’t say elsewhere. It’s not her best lyricism, and she’s the one being left by a man, as usual. Meh.

    Feminism score: F.

    Speak Now- Favorite lyric: “And she is yelling at a bridesmaid somewhere back inside a room wearing a gown shaped like a pastry”

    How did Taylor go from breaking up a wedding to singing, “the only kind of girl they see is a one-night or a wife”? I’m proud of her. This song is…yeah.

    We’ve got “I’m not like other girls” dripping from every lyric. Tearing down other women in pursuit of a man is not a good look. However, she does take charge of the situation, and for that, I say, good for her.

    Feminism score: D+. Sorry, Tay, I do love you.

    Enchanted- Favorite lyric: “The playful conversation starts, counter all your quick remarks, like passing notes in secrecy”

    I loved this song, but the magic of it has worn off for me. The fact that this piece is about the Owl City guy is just…a tragedy. I wish I never would have found that out. Knowing what is to come for our girl Taylor, I’m thrilled she eventually moved past this fairytale sheen. Leftover “Love Story” is how I would describe this song.

    Feminism score: Eh, D? It’s just…a boy is magic, and magic is boy, but as a teen, it was nice.

    Never Grow Up- Favorite lyric: “Take pictures in your mind of your childhood room, memorize what it sounded like when your dad gets home”

    An automatic “A” from me since this piece explores relationships with growing up and family as opposed to boys. If you want to discuss sexism in this piece, I’m down; I’m just not seeing it in a meaningful way.

    This album came out during my senior year of high school, and this piece comforted me. At a time when everyone seemed excited to “be an adult” and go off to college, I had a lot of love for my family and was afraid to leave them. It was nice to know she was too.

    Feminism score: A. Taylor taps into universal emotions surrounding growing up and leaving home. Independence! Hooray!

    Better Than Revenge- Favorite lyric: “I’m just another thing for you to roll your eyes at honey, you might have him, but I’ll always get the last word”

    LOL. This song is an automatic fail for many reasons, but I LOVE this vendetta on paper. I am curious about how she will handle this song when she re-records Taylor’s Version of Speak Now. She is RUTHLESS in this song. This absolute take-down was in her all along; the snakes didn’t come out of nowhere in Reputation.

    On a more serious note, slut-shaming is never a good way to handle a breakup. Will I still belt, “she’s better known for the things that she does on the mattress, WHOOOAAAA!!!!!” in the car? You know it.

    Feminism score: F. Slut-shaming is out.

    Mean- Favorite lyric: “You, with your switching sides, and your wildfire lies and your humiliation”

    Taylor intended to reject her media portrayal with this song, but apparently, victims of domestic violence have viewed this song as a source of strength. Hell yeah. And the instrumentals slap.

    Feminism score: Tbh, A. You tell ‘em, Taylor.

    The Story of Us- Favorite lyric: “The battle’s in your hands now, but I would lay my armor down if you’d say you’d rather love than fight”

    If you know my embarrassing relation to this song, then you know. The consistent tone of self-pity and victimization isn’t great, but Taylor’s music spoke to me profoundly at seventeen and eighteen. 

    Feminist score: C. She adopts her signature victim mentality but still manages to evoke courage. Also, maybe she was truly screwed over by these guys?? I don’t think anybody likes feeling like a victim in any situation. I’m just saying.

    Back to December- Favorite lyric: “I’d go back in time and change it, but I can’t, so if the chain is on your door, I understand”

    Ah, Taylor Lautner. This song is heartfelt, earnest, and vulnerable. She takes responsibility for her actions and doesn’t “play the victim” as her critics would say. We love a strong apology. 

    Feminism score: B. She’s begging for him to come back, but she’s also standing her ground and being forthright in her apology. Respect.

    Mine- Favorite lyric: “You made a rebel of a careless man’s careful daughter”

    It’s about a boy, yes. However, Taylor Swift makes clear choices in this relationship. She’s trusting her instincts and leading the way. So what if she’s getting “saved” by somebody– I’ve needed guidance from many people in my life.

    Feminism grade: I will give her a B for the independence of choice with a touch of self-doubt.

    Long Live- Favorite lyric: “It was the end of a decade, but the start of an age”

    I tear up every time I hear this song. We know it’s about Taylor’s rise to fame and her relationship with performing and her fans. However, this album came out my senior year of high school, so for my friends and me, it was about all the memories we would cherish forever, even though our lives were about to change.

    I think about how touchingly beautiful the simplicity and importance of solid friendships are and how my friends and I belted this in my old Buick LeSabre, cruising the streets of Northfield, Minnesota. It was as cool as it sounds. We’re all still friends. 

    Feminism score: A. Female friendship and loyalty are special.

    From my Facebook album entitled, “Long Live.”

    Sparks Fly- Favorite lyric: “My mind forgets to remind me, you’re a bad idea”

    I’ll always throw down for “Sparks Fly.” It’s not remotely feminist. She’s putting her agency entirely in the hands of this man, but you know what?

    I don’t care.

    I love the way this song makes me feel. The romanticism of it all!! Kissing in the rain!! Get me with those green eyes!! This masterpiece is practically German art song. 

    Feminism grade: F. She needs to be saved by a kiss and led up the stairs; apparently, he’s a “bad boy,” which usually means a guy who treats women like garbage for their enjoyment. She feels she can’t control herself around this person. And you know what– it’s a great piece. Come for me.

    Last Kiss- Favorite lyric: “So I’ll watch your life in pictures like I used to watch you sleep, and I feel you forget me like I used to feel you breathe”

    An incredible song. This piece is peak early Taylor before she cared about feminism; you’re all right. Maybe I’m just proving all of the haters correct. But remember, she was COUNTRY FIRST! We must also recall that Taylor was still trying to please her label and therefore didn’t have the freedom to say everything she wanted to.

    I’m so glad Taylor evolved past viewing herself through the lens of the man who breaks her heart. Still, we couldn’t get there without this– it makes her progression that much more powerful and mirrors the experience of many millennials, like myself, who had to embark on the same journey.

    I’d say it’s one of her best songs of all time.

    Feminism grade: It’s an F, but I honestly couldn’t care less.

    Dear John- Favorite lyric: “And I lived in your chess game, but you changed the rules every day”

    To anyone who started respecting Taylor Swift when she released folklore and evermore, I present you with Exhibit A of how she has always been an expert lyricist and artist worthy of every bit of recognition and accolades she garners.

    Every word across this six-minute musical masterpiece sends shivers down my spine. Aren’t we all excited to roast John Mayer endlessly again when she releases Taylor’s Version of this album? I’m so ready. I have no proof of this, but I think her relationship with John Mayer kickstarted her desire to exhibit strength, agency, and choice in her future partnerships with men.

    If you want to rage cry, I highly recommend listening to “Dear John” followed directly by “Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve.” Between the two, Taylor Swift paints such an evocative picture of heartbreak in the moment and in retrospect.

    The progression is compelling. I’m not sure if there’s anything more profoundly feminist than writing honestly about your experiences without protecting the feelings of faulty men.

    Feminism score: A-. There is strength in moving on, and haters will say she victimized herself. There’s nothing anti-feminist about speaking truth to power.

    Speak Now Overall Feminism Grade: C

    Taylor Swift deserves her early criticism in specific ways. She tends to play the victim and leave her fate to the men who ultimately break her heart. However, Taylor explores the complicated feelings of adolescence in a way that makes her listeners feel courageous and inspired.

    When teenage girls were the largest consumers of Taylor Swift’s music, the population didn’t take her as seriously as an artist, which is profoundly sexist. If you pay close attention to her poetic lyricism, however, it’s clear that she has always been capable of high-level artistry, as evidenced by her third studio album.

    Speak Now will forever hold one of the top spots in album rankings for her variety of emotional breadth and the time in my life when I first heard it. 

    Which album should I rank next? Let me know!

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  • Approaching Thirty

    How can I navigate self-doubt and disappointment as I close out my twenties?

    On Sunday, I went to a beautiful shower for a friend whose baby is due in January. She decorated her home in sage greens and woodsy browns, the room full of laughter as we played silly games and sipped pretty drinks. All the women in attendance exuded excitement and love as she opened gifts and posed for pictures. It was a celebratory afternoon. Additionally, it was my first major social event since receiving my vocal polyp diagnosis, and I knew most of the women at this shower. After fielding questions from kind friends, family, and acquaintances regarding my injury and recovery, I realized that I was right back in my least favorite part about being a freelance singer. It’s a single question.

    “What comes next?”

    Pre-singer purgatory in Paris, January 2020: singing the title role in the modern-day premiere of a lost Classical opera written for Marie Antoinette. Those were the days, am I right?

    Last month, I had a focus—a tangible goal. Don’t sing outside church choir for a month, don’t demonstrate while teaching, and reduce social use. I couldn’t practice, take lessons, audition, or sing gigs because I was in recovery. Now, I’m in a weird purgatory space—a waiting period. The polyp is gone, but I still “need to watch it,” as my mom might say. I tend to succeed with strict rules, but things are now muddy again. It’s messy, and it’s stressing me out. Am I going to have a mimosa at this baby shower? Is it okay to have two? Is it ok to stay for three hours, or do I leave sooner? Do I sing the descant at church? How much of my fifteen minutes of vocalizing per day should I dedicate to repertoire if I take a couple of auditions in the next month? 

    As I ease into the next stage of my recovery, I feel like a helicopter parent to myself. I’m over-protective and constantly panicky. As I began warming into my upper range again, I noticed that my voice hadn’t felt this solid in a long time, maybe even a few years. I’m not sure how to react to this. I feel affirmed in my choices over the past month but ashamed that I couldn’t acknowledge or even recognize my vocal decline. Most of all, I’m terrified that if I talk or sing too much, I’ll ruin my voice again, and it’ll be all my fault. I don’t want this feeling of ease to go away, but I also can’t be on high alert for the rest of my singing life. I’m in a state of limbo.

    I used to tell my old teacher I was in “singer purgatory” between my graduate degree and professional viability. In retrospect, the past two years prepared me for this current purgatorial space. Throughout the pandemic, we worked on fixing the glaring technical issues I had never solved and took out the distraction of auditioning and performing while strictly pursuing vocal excellence. Unfortunately, this in-between space tanked my artistry, creativity, and confidence. When I freed myself from this mindset, I realized I had beaten my voice down for too long in the pursuit of perfection. Lack of patience is what got me into this mess.

    A brief purgatorial relief, a reminder of the joy of performing. World premiere of Harmony, Seagle Festival, New York, 2021.

    I turn thirty in a little over a month. I love birthdays, but I’m a little sad about this one. I told myself that if I didn’t “make it” in the opera business by the time I was thirty, I’d quit and start over doing something else. However, I didn’t intend for two years of pandemic and months of vocal distress to upend my life so profoundly, and suddenly, here I am, staring thirty years old in the face with nothing to show for myself. Not only have I not “made it” in a career with incredible odds stacked against those pursuing it, but I am so far away from my Metropolitan Opera dreams (for now! I’m far away, for now, my optimistic mind pipes in).

    It’s hard not to feel like I’m closing my 20s without reaching any of my goals. I’m disappointed and embarrassed. A sane person would know that now is the time to move on, but I can’t go out this way. In my last post, I expressed excitement for what comes next. But I’m also scared. I wasted my twenties; who’s to say I won’t waste my thirties too? Will I find myself at forty, without a fulfilling performing career, unmarried and childless, lamenting all my mistakes?

    As I read my writing, I edit it in my head. “People are going to think I’m so negative,” I lament. I’m trying to be honest about how this feels. I’ve spent a long time not being honest with myself and others, and it feels terrific to be truthful. However, I think of an old friend who once told me I have difficulty celebrating my successes and spend too much time stewing on my failures. I reflect on his observation often. My wins aren’t big enough achievements for my brain, and my losses are insurmountable. 

    My old friend would advocate for a shift in mindset. I celebrate this fantastic win: I banished a polyp from my folds in a month and wasn’t even on complete vocal rest! I remind myself that I am still in recovery. It is futile to rush this process–I will compromise my progress and waste more time. The voice lessons, coaching, auditions, and gigs can wait. It’s also emotionally draining to regret my past choices and worry about what is to come. We all can genuinely only take things one step at a time. The anxiety of living looms too large otherwise.

    So, I guess the answer to the question I got asked in some capacity over and over on Sunday is, “I don’t know.” I don’t know what comes next. So many of my friends seem to know by now. Their careers are stable; they’re buying houses and having children. I don’t covet a traditional path, but I envy the certainty of knowing where life is going. When I sat in my undergraduate voice teacher’s studio ten years ago, crying because I wanted to change my major from vocal education to vocal performance but was scared I couldn’t do it, I chose this. I chose the “I don’t know,” I chose uncertainty, rejection, and instability. I chose it ten years ago. 

    The fact is, I really like my life right now. I’m physically and emotionally close to my family and friends and cherish the life I’m building with my boyfriend, who I’ve been with for nearly two and a half years. I love my home and the people I spend time with. I enjoy my students, my puppy, and my flexible schedule. However, a piece of the pie is still missing: the performing career. I can’t help but think that if I die without exhausting every viable avenue to a classical singing career, even in a less traditional capacity than I had previously imagined, that would be my life’s biggest regret. I allow myself to be happy in my comfort but know that my most prominent desire currently lies unfulfilled. For that reason, I look forward to jumping back into the world of opera when I am fully healed. I just like it too dang much.

    I can’t audition for agents, sing at competitions, plan an audition tour to Europe, schedule recitals, or audition for gigs in my community. That’s okay. Those opportunities will still be there in a few months. It is a season of gratitude, and I can be thankful for the fantastic people in my life and the privilege of healing. The in-between space isn’t the worst place to be. After all, I can sing again, and it feels great.

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Sunset in Antananarivo, Madagascar, June 2022.

Hello, I’m Victoria.

I am a classically trained soprano, and have spent years studying and performing operatic repertoire, American musical theatre, church music, and art song. My voice has sent me around the world, but I’m currently based in Minnesota. For my singing website, visit victoriaericksonsoprano.com.

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