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.

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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. 

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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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Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 5

My sister got married in May of 2021, during an exhilarating time when most people recently became vaccinated for COVID-19 and began crawling out of their shells. People were ready to attend a wedding and have a great time. We all wanted the day to be perfect for my sister, an angel baby of wonder and beauty, who deserved the best day ever.

Angel baby of wonder and beauty, 2021.

The bridal party got ready at my parents’ house, and everybody appreciated how relaxed it was. I did Kayla’s makeup in the bathroom, where I spent every morning obsessing over my appearance for fifteen years. My mom laid out a spread of sandwiches and pasta salads on the coffee table purchased years ago. Dad and I spied on the couple’s first look from the bedroom window, gazing out into the greenery and marsh of the backyard. It all felt so familiar, and yet there was a buzziness surrounding every aspect of the morning. Our song for today, written nearly two hundred years ago, captures that same anticipatory emotional state.

Sun: shining. Tank: clean.

When I look back on my sister’s wedding day, I think about everyone in the bridal party sitting cross-legged in our sweatpants on the living room floor, eating lunch, and cracking jokes like it was a typical day. We excitedly awaited my brother-in-law’s arrival, enjoyed the casual, candid photos, and fastened all of the buttons, of which there were many, on my sister’s beautiful ballgown-style wedding dress. That was probably my favorite part of the entire day– when I felt my sister’s unusually expectant energy resonate through such a familiar space. She was all smiles, a little ball of happiness. The house was electric.

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It seems like the excitement of such a momentous occasion hasn’t changed much since 1840, but there’s one significant emotion missing from most American weddings today: dread. Listen, if you feel differently, let me know; I’ve never been married. Our Frauenbild is saying goodbye to female company as she enters a life of servitude to her husband and children. Bye sisters! Bye friends! What a bummer. Let’s experience this whirlwind of a piece together, shall we?

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I’m back to Barbara Bonney for this one.

Google Translate, baby!!! Who needs a poetic translation anyway?

My sister wasn’t weighed down by a feeling of existential dread on her wedding day because she wasn’t shifting her relationships– I think we can all happily agree that marriage no longer means cloistering oneself away from friends and family. However, it does seem that connections outside of immediate family still tend to weaken over time. Maybe for modern folks, the life change of marriage isn’t what makes adult friendships so tricky to maintain, but rather the pull of so many responsibilities in a thousand different directions. We’re all incredibly busy people, and we can only allocate so much attention to each facet of our lives. Friendships often suffer first and worst in our hectic lives, which is a mistake. I am a massive advocate for prioritizing non-romantic relationships for personal well-being. 

Was this post just a long con to get you to admire my table setting? Maybe.

It’s Friendsgiving season. For anyone reading over the age of thirty-five, Friendsgiving is a Thanksgiving celebrated with friends as opposed to family, often held the weekend before the traditional holiday but sometimes in place of festivities with family at all. Little pumpkins and an orange plaid runner decorate my table, and I even have festive rings hugging the cloth napkins I purchased. I mean business. The guests in question this evening are friends I’ve had since childhood, people who know my innermost thoughts and my most embarrassing moments. They have seen me throw tantrums over my hair and laugh at inopportune moments. I’ve been looking forward to hosting them for a couple of weeks now because spending time in their company genuinely makes me feel whole. Friends outside of the partnership of a romantic relationship are imperative to my happiness, and you need them, too. So does our Frauenbild. 

I don’t have much to say about feminism today (a supreme shock, I’m sure), and maybe it’s the season, but what I’d like to allow us to reflect on today are relationships. The people closest to us make our lives worthwhile, enable enjoyment, and restore our spirits. I think that’s part of the reason I look back on the morning of my sister’s wedding day with such joy– I could feel the positive energy emanating from some of the people I love the most.

We have these little computers in our hands that connect us to anyone in the world, yet many of us feel increasingly disconnected. Take this opportunity to text or call a friend, see how they’re doing, and ask about their day. They want to hear from you. I need to do this too. We may not have worriedly said goodbye to all of our friends on our wedding day like our Frauenbild, but we still let relationships fade slowly by the day, week, and year when we don’t prioritize the connections that enrich our lives so profoundly.

Happy Friendsgiving.

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I yawn in my childhood bed, sleepily blinking my eyes awake to the view of old photos on the wall. My sister is wide awake, atypical for her night owl self. We’re opposites in that way.

“Today’s the day!” I shout in a sing-songy voice, quoting Finding Nemo. “The sun is shining; the tank is clean!” We’ve laughed through this quote on monumental days for as long as I can remember.

We make our way to the bathroom, and I notice a tight, 1980s curling iron stuffed away in a drawer under the makeup I’ll be using today. I cringe and remember the time I tried curling my hair in 8th grade, and it was a total disaster. I threw a tantrum and was late for school. I sigh and move past the unpleasant thought– there will only be happy tears today.

I spot some old hot rollers tucked away next to the useless curling iron and recall carefully rolling up my sister’s hair for Rock ’n’ Roll Revival–a much more successful bathroom adventure. That’s the energy we’ll channel.

The Rock ‘n’ Roll Revival memory in question, 2013. Unfortunately, no photographic evidence remains of the Great Curling Iron Debacle of 2006.

I stop cracking jokes, so I don’t smear the makeup on her smooth, glowing face. She looks beautiful. Her bridal party arrives throughout the morning, each member cooing over her appearance and filling the room with joy. 

I run out of good hair day luck and struggle with my own. It’s the 8th-grade catastrophe all over again. One fake eyelash falls like a black spider into the sink, and I kiss that idea goodbye. Who needs falsies, anyway? The sound of excited chatter and laughter fills the house. It’s ok if my curls don’t fall in my face quite right and my eyelashes come unglued; today isn’t about me.

We throw the dress over her head. Poof! A quote from Anastasia, another childhood favorite, pops into my brain. “The Russian circus– I think it’s still in here!” I meticulously begin fastening every button, step by step. Everyone is watching; the photographer snaps a photo.

She looks perfect. No dread, no second thoughts. Only joy, surrounded by her best friends and family for life.

Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 3

A warm-up room in Manhattan, 2018. Bonus points if you know where I am.

I walk onstage, sweating in my flattering black dress and kitten heels, staring out into a dark auditorium. A dozen other young artists are staring back nervously at me, but I don’t deserve to be here. I’m the worst singer; I’m too old, and they only hired me because they love my friend. I’m going to sound like a stubbed toe. 

I wait in the wings and absentmindedly run my fingers over the curtain. The soprano onstage in a tight-fitting red dress effortlessly executes a difficult cadenza; the audience is captivated by her vocal fireworks. I can’t possibly expect to sing well after hearing her perfectly executed aria.

I scan my application for the hundredth time, ensuring everything is perfect. The committee will likely receive way better applicants than me; my project is garbage, and so is my singing. I hit submit and sigh.

It’s one of the many buzzwords surrounding mental health that comes up so often that it has become less effective, but yes, it’s imposter syndrome, and I don’t know a single singer who doesn’t suffer from it at least a little bit. Given the sheer number of rejections we receive from auditions and harsh feedback from voice teachers and coaches, it’s no wonder that most singers feel inadequate, just like our protagonist in Ich kann’s nicht fassen, nicht glauben.

A sweet voice for a sweet song.

I prefer to think of the third song in Frauenliebe und –leben through the lens of her imposter syndrome rather than her eye-rolling worship of a man she “doesn’t deserve.” Give me a break. How many of us have started dating a man only to discover his sink is full of dishes and he doesn’t replace the toilet paper roll? This dude was absolutely not perfect, especially since it was the 19th century. He probably smelled like a troll. The fact that our Frauenbild is experiencing imposter syndrome over a stinky gentleman is ridiculous. I’ve known enough men to know there’s not a single one for whom I’m not “good enough.” The bigger question for the modern woman is finding someone whose personality, goals, and ideals align with her own. I hope our Frauenbild turned protagonist has found these qualities in her smelly man. (I’d like to add here that she is also probably stinky. Everyone reeked in 1840.)

Let’s take a peek at our lyrics and translation.

You know the drill. Thanks, Google Translate.

A word on “slurping blissful death”– this translation is incredible and often changes to something like “savor” or “drink” in a poetic translation, but justice for “slurp.” It’s such an evocative image, even if it disturbs the romantic aura of it all. 

Women are statistically less likely to apply for jobs in which they do not meet all qualifications than men. Women are more likely to apologize when an apology is not warranted. Women are likelier to add unnecessary exclamation points in emails to soften their tone. Women are less likely to ask for a raise when they deserve one. We are constantly diminishing ourselves to make others comfortable. We need to stop doing this, even when it’s hard!

I tell a similar story often, and I’ll tell it again here. Before I start, I want to clarify that this is not a sob story and that I do not feel bad for my past self, so put your tiny violin away.

Boys did not seem to like me that much in high school or college, at least to my knowledge. I grew up in the midwest, where people are overly polite and concerned with being nice, especially women. “Minnesota Nice” is worn like a badge of honor where I was raised. I’ve always been loud and opinionated, and I don’t shy away from showing my intelligence and capability where my input is appropriate. That can be off-putting in a culture that rewards niceness, particularly in women. By the time I obtained my degree, I had fully convinced myself that I was obviously fat and ugly (problematic language, but it’s how I felt), and that’s why boys weren’t that into me. When I moved to North Carolina for graduate school, I was almost shocked by the shift in attention from men. I was precisely the same, and yet I was suddenly “sweet,” “smart,” and “nice.” People in the south thought I was nice. At my core, I am a kindhearted person, but I do not think most people would describe me as nice in the midwest. I am too boisterous. Even though it was difficult, I’m glad I didn’t change who I was to make myself more palatable to men.

One of my goals coming out the other side of my vocal injury is to take up space in every room I occupy. If I sing at a concert, an audition, or a recital, it’s because I deserve it. I warrant my significant other’s love for me because we are a good pair who complement each other well. I deserve every job interview I am granted, gig I land, and scholarship I obtain. When I’m in a room, I take up space. People notice me. I want them to see you, too. I don’t apologize for who I am, and I don’t think there’s a better person at being me.

Our Fraunebild deserves her happiness, too. She is good enough.

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I lay my head on his chest, and his fingers interlace with mine. I feel his breath rise and fall steadily, like a clock ticking.

“I love you,” he whispers in my ear. Butterflies enter my stomach; my spine shivers with admiration and fear.

“How do you know?” I ask shakily.

He smiles and doesn’t say anything. I ask again, “what are three things you like about me?”

Laughing, he answers, “It’s not particular things. I just do.”

Worry and guilt wash over me. My brow furrows. Eventually, my novelty will wear off, and only inadequacies will be left. Will he still love me when I’m no longer shiny and new?

He clasps my hand harder and kisses my head as if he guesses what I’m thinking. He knows.

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Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 2

Ol’ Rob and Clara having a great time at the piano. Image courtesy of pianostreet.com.

Alright, here we go. You’ve been on a couple of dates, texted back and forth about your music tastes, consumed too many glasses of wine together–and this new person is the BEST! They’re perfect for you, and you can’t get enough of every part of them. Unfortunately, you haven’t had that exclusivity chat yet, and you think, “there’s no way this person will settle for a loser like me.” Today, we continue our journey of reimagining Robert Schumann’s Frauenliebe und –leben with the second song in the cycle, “Er, der Herrlichste von allen,” which translates as “he, the most wonderful of all.”

When I auditioned for graduate schools, the typical university required recordings of songs in English, Italian, German, and French, in addition to an aria in any language. Since I was preparing this entire song cycle for my senior recital, the obvious choice was to choose one of the songs from Frauenliebe und –leben as my German piece. I picked this one.

Mere months after being rejected at my dream graduate school. Obviously I recovered.

I chose this song at the time because my hand-boiling, exhale card-holding pianist suggested it, and I unquestioningly followed everything he said. I remember deciding to start with this song for my audition at Rice University instead of one of Cherubino’s arias from Le nozze di Figaro. (My transition from fake mezzo-soprano to shoddy soprano is a discussion for another time, but go ahead and put a pin in that.) I began the piece, and all I could think about was how bad I sounded, how much better everybody else was than me, and how I didn’t deserve to be there. I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Apparently, the panel agreed– I didn’t get in. I wish I could go back and tell Victoria to screw the singing and get the unadulterated adoration and joy of the lyrics across, and I could solidify my technique later. I’m still learning that lesson. 

What a beautifully bizarre album cover.

Revisiting this piece has set my brain on fire. It is exhilarating and heartbreaking; I love the aesthetic little pianistic turns in the vocal line and the energetic accompaniment. The short postlude neatly ties a pretty bow on the dreaminess of our Frauenbild’s devotion. Her words are a declamation of what she believes to be unrequited love. As I listened to this piece, I thought, “I can’t wait to have my voice back so I can sing this.” I didn’t fully comprehend this song a few years ago. I postulate that my insecurities, underdeveloped technique, and lack of mature artistry prevented me from interpreting these songs with the nuance and enthusiasm they deserve. I am itching to give them another go.

All that to say– this musical diary entry is more than the average love letter. Let’s take a peek at the translation.

Translation mostly by Google Translate, if I’m being honest.

Had I been paying closer attention, my insecure, young self could have channeled our narrator’s emotions into my performance. Like the Frauenbild, I didn’t feel like I was good enough– she didn’t deserve her perfect man, and I didn’t meet the standards for an academic institution. 

The idea of a man writing about a woman who didn’t feel she was enough for an allegedly perfect man doesn’t sit right with me. I have to remember when Chamisso and Schumann wrote these poems and later songs– in the 1800s, women were still considered subservient to men. God first, husband second, then children, wife last of all. A woman’s husband is closer to God than she is. Stay obedient; Eve was the one who ate the apple, and women throughout history must continue to pay. Women exist to pump out babies until they die in childbirth–can you tell I’ve been watching House of the Dragon? Thanks to the advent of education, medical advances, and birth control, women worldwide have diversified their purpose beyond serving only the interests of men. 

But boy, oh boy, these cultural norms are hard to overcome. Women color their hair, starve their bodies, paint their faces, cultivate the perfect wardrobe, remove unwanted body hair, inject Botox, and undergo plastic surgery in an effort to obtain an unattainable beauty standard. It signals that we are more beautiful and, therefore, superior to the other women around us and palatable to men. Sure, a woman can be intelligent, hardworking, funny, and brave, but men will only acknowledge those traits in a pretty package. It’s social currency. A man can look like a stubbed toe and be the most successful person in the world.

So what’s our Frauenbild turned protagonist to do? Certainly, she’s not worshipping this modern man, but she must reckon with her insecurities. I imagine this man is also grappling with his shortcomings; we just don’t get to hear that in the original poetry. We all want to be the best version of ourselves for the person we love.

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“He’s too good for me,” I sigh as I pull on mismatched socks and my tan, heeled boots. He’s so thoughtful when I can be so loud. I watch his delicate mouth as he speaks; his eyes light up–he has a fiery mind and strong optimism. I have a sharp tongue and snort when I laugh.

He speaks. I’m not listening. His eyes perfectly match his wrinkly button-down shirt–my eyes aren’t that blue; they’re more of a bluish-green. Not so striking. How are his eyes so blue? I wonder if his parents have blue eyes. I wonder if I’ll ever meet them.

I shift my focus to the cellulite on my arms, the size of my nose, the softness of my stomach. Will he be disappointed? Does he wish I was thinner, prettier, quieter? I’m still trying to ignore what makes me frown in the mirror. Body neutrality, or whatever.

Crap, he can tell I’m not listening. Nod. Smile. Laugh. No, don’t do that; he’s not funny. He’s cute when he’s trying to be funny, though.

Yeah, he’ll leave for someone hotter, more intelligent, more successful. Better. His eyes probably light up for everyone; his hand gently touching mine isn’t unique.

 Love is such a scam.

Frauenbild Fridays!

In German, Frauenbild translates to  “female image.” I remember first hearing the term in a course on Song Literature (yes, that’s a real course, and it’s two semesters) during my graduate degree, and it stuck with me.

A Frauenbild is the Madonna of the Madonna/whore complex. She is the perfect feminine image. She exists to assist a man on his journey to self-actualization; she is a prop, a manic pixie dream girl. Frauenbild is just another way of describing the male gaze; the idolatry and objectification of a woman, the act of putting the female figure on a pedestal, and expressing disgust, disdain, and disappointment when she falters. 

A Frauenbild is quintessentially romantic.

Admittedly late Romanticism, but a Frauenbild in action.
Edmund Blair Leighton, 1890.

I am a classically trained soprano and have spent years studying and performing operatic repertoire, American musical theatre, church music, and art song. Western art song was born in Europe during the Romantic era and encompasses the genre of poetry set by a composer for solo voice and piano accompaniment. Art song was often a way to have fun– anybody wealthy enough to have a piano could invite friends to their salon and sing songs together while they drank wine. Think of it as an old-time karaoke night. 

Today, art song lives on in the recital hall, and unlike the salons of France and Germany, it has become a tool for developing vocal technique and musicality for the young singer. Nobody is drinking whiskey and shouting Erlkönig anymore, and frankly, that in and of itself is a tragedy.

If you haven’t seen Jessye Norman’s bizarre Erlkönig, you haven’t lived.

Back to the Frauenbild– she is everywhere in art song! The presence of an unattainable feminine ideal during this time is not shocking, as our 19th-century composers and poets were nearly all men, and feminism as we know it was non-existent. Women were objects of male affection. For example, take Frauenliebe und -leben, written by Adelbert von Chamisso and set to music by Robert Schumann. It’s an entire song cycle about a woman falling in love, getting married, having babies and her husband dying. It’s also the only major work from this era and genre centering around a woman’s life. (Someone will challenge me on this, I’m ready to be proved wrong.) Anyway, the ONLY MAJOR WORK ABOUT A WOMAN’S LIFE, and men wrote it. Again, not shocking, just a little disappointing.

An illustration of our Frauenbild from the book Frauenliebe und -leben by Adalbert von Chamisso, illustrated by Paul Thumann.

If you’ve never heard of German art song (also known as Lieder) before this moment, I invite you not to dismiss this as stuffy nonsense. I love these songs. I don’t want people to stop performing them. I’m tired of classical music hiding in the walls of academia, destined to rot in a museum instead of blossoming in a state of rebirth into mainstream culture. They’re just songs, and I want to have some fun with them.  I want to imagine what the Frauenbild in Die schöne Müllerin was thinking (certainly not about the narrator) or who the woman behind the blue eyes in Brahms’ Dein blaues Auge could be. Did Clara Schumann have blue eyes? Let me know. 

Welcome to Frauenbild Fridays.