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. 

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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?

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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.

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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. 

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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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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.

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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.

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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.

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 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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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. 

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.

‘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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Grit

People who hear me sing often tell me that I am talented. This compliment is supremely flattering. However, I am not an exceptionally talented singer. Hear me out.

Last week, as I prepared for Friendsgiving, I listened to one of my favorite podcasts, The Jordan Harbinger Show. I enjoy the variety of experts and subject matter he explores with guests on his show, but I only recently began listening to the podcast. This week, he aired an episode from the vault, and I was thoroughly inspired by their conversation. As someone entirely outside of the corporate sphere, the name Angela Duckworth and the book “Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance” were altogether unfamiliar to me. Forgive me if you’ve read the book or followed her work for ages– I’m a newbie!

Duckworth describes talent as a person’s innate ability to learn and apply a specific skill. This definition has not been my experience as a singer, much to my embarrassment and shame. Vocal concepts have taken me years to master, while the most talented singers come by their basic technique naturally. I had a lot of vocal practices straight up wrong. However, I have always been a talented musician, and that’s different. 

Around the age I began piano lessons. Honestly, let’s just say I’m sharing this because it’s cute and call it a day.

My parents inherited my great-grandma’s upright piano when I was young. Grandma never played, and although my mom took lessons as a kid, she didn’t keep up her practice. Naturally, like any bumbling toddler, I eyed the instrument with curiosity, and it wasn’t long before I explored the keys on my own. “Explored” might be too kind of a word– I’m sure my mom would say I pounded the antique keys with my tiny fists and screamed along to my improvised compositions.

At the age of four, I was a little young to begin piano lessons, but my mom couldn’t stand the racket of my exploration any longer. She enrolled me in classes with a kind and patient woman named Carol, who taught in a home studio just a few blocks from our house. I often think of those afternoons since I teach my students from the same books my mom purchased for me twenty-five years ago—Faber and Faber Piano Adventures; what a lasting legacy you cultivated.

The piano was notably easy for me. I sped through the first couple of books, recited my notes with ease, and played with a general understanding of musicality atypical for a little kid. I wasn’t Mozart or anything, but my teacher mentioned I had an unusually developed ear to my mom. She gave me extra theory assignments when she realized I might be learning my pieces by ear rather than reading the music. Both aural skills and music reading are imperative for a high level of musicianship, and for her observation early on, I am grateful.

Like many of my fellow millennials, I was placed in my elementary school’s gifted and talented program and was proud that school was easy. Without realizing it, my little brain created the mindset that if I had to try, it meant I was stupid. I didn’t want to try; I only wanted to succeed easily and breezily. Because of this attitude, I stopped liking the piano when I had to start actually practicing. 

This is the only picture I can find where I’m holding a flute. I’m sure my mom has many at home. All-State Minnesota Orchestra Woodwinds Section, Summer 2010.

I began playing the flute in fifth grade, coincidentally around the time piano became a chore. My childhood best friend’s mom is a professional flutist and college professor, and I patiently awaited being old enough to take lessons from her. I loved the flute. At first, I just couldn’t get the embouchure right, making me want to quit immediately. However, I initiated a viable sound after spitting rice outside for a few days to get my lips in the correct shape. It was thrilling. I looked forward to lessons with my friend’s mom and took pride in being the best flute player in school. Aside from spitting rice, I didn’t have to work hard to improve– I was a natural.

A couple of years after I initiated weekly lessons, another student my age began studying with the same teacher. She was also a naturally talented musician, but she quickly surpassed me in skill because she worked hard to succeed. There was a critical difference between us–she practiced intently every day while I practiced maybe twice per week, haphazardly, just enough to get the assignment under my fingers. Her advancement angered and embarrassed me because I stubbornly stuck to a talent-or-nothing mindset. Around this time, I quit piano, stopped practicing flute entirely, and my musical focus shifted again, this time toward singing.

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Dear Reader, you’re likely beginning to notice that I had many musical professionals available to me as a child, and you’re right. I’m incredibly fortunate, but that’s a story for another time. However, I have one last teacher to introduce to the mix–my high school voice instructor. As luck would have it, I grew up with the most wonderful neighbor who also happened to be a retired opera singer and voice teacher. In middle school, I became interested in musical theatre but knew my vocal chops weren’t up to snuff. My voice was decently impressive for a teenage girl, but this wasn’t enough for me– I needed to be gifted and talented like I was in everything else where I excelled. We started lessons when I was fourteen years old. I desired to belt Popular from Wicked, but she had other ideas. She sneakily instilled in me a passion for opera and art song, and I left musical theatre mostly behind after high school. I graduated as a “smart girl” who excelled in academics, singing, flute, and theatre. I was proud of my achievements.

Go Raiders. Northfield, MN, June 2011.

If you’ve been keeping up with my blog posts, you’ll remember that I entered college to become an educator rather than a performer. However, if you’ve met me, you’ll know this would not have been compatible with my personality and interests– I changed my major to voice performance by the end of my sophomore year. At Concordia College, I was a moderately big fish in a comparatively little pond. I was the only mezzo-soprano performance major (more on that later), sang with The Concordia Choir, and had the full attention of a small voice and coaching staff. I placed at the NATS competition three out of my four years (don’t talk to me about my sophomore year) and always got the lead role in opera scenes. Although I didn’t get many solos with the choir and didn’t qualify for senior honors, I still blazed through my classes and performances with relative ease. I wasn’t trying yet, which was a pity. I regret this immensely.

Concordia College, 2015.

Upon graduation, I had to decide if I would admit that I was not a natural singer but had the potential to achieve vocal greatness if I worked for it. As it turns out, I was not a hot commodity for graduate schools or young artist programs— I was singing in the wrong fach with faulty technique and a misguided sense of artistry. Although I would continue to make a few wrong turns, I recognized that to become a real performer, I would finally have to try. No matter how gifted and talented a musician I was as a child, that wouldn’t cut it in the professional world. Coasting on raw talent doesn’t usually work for anyone in any career.

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This realization brings us to grit. The title of Angela Duckworth’s book spoils the definition of grit in psychological terms: it combines passion and perseverance for long-term goals. Interestingly, she also defines passion as consistency over time rather than a highly emotional state fueled by obsession or infatuation. I have been consistently passionate about singing for a very long period, even when it betrays me or when I don’t reach a particular goal related to my career. While listening to the podcast, I felt a sense of pride. That old flame I wrote about a few weeks ago is grit.

I sometimes feel like my passion for singing has worn down over the years, but by Duckworth’s definition, it hasn’t. My practice has only become more disciplined and focused as I’ve learned how to try. Unsurprisingly, actually trying didn’t come naturally to me. I didn’t know how to practice or study because I never “had to.” Of course, this is ridiculous–imagine how much more I could have achieved if I had exerted any real effort to improve my singing before the age of 25!

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I wish I had been a natural at singing. Envy bubbles up inside me when I see twenty-two-year-old singers who are already incredible and graduating from prestigious conservatories. That’s what the entertainment industry longs for most– a natural. Everyone loves a natural talent, even if they play, perform, or sing like someone who had to work super hard to level up their skills. However, I can’t let myself get jealous. It’s not fruitful. I was never going to be opera’s next star at twenty or even twenty-five. What I built throughout my twenties instead was grit, and I didn’t even know it.

“Never take advice from someone who’s falling apart,” Taylor Swift croons during the last song on her newest album, Midnights. I’m painfully aware that I don’t have much about living figured out, but I know that cultivating grit has made me feel meaningful and worthwhile even when I have little to show for myself. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” They don’t tell us in music school that we have to try and fail hundreds of times, and we still might not succeed in the traditional sense. Performer and athlete are the first job titles that come to my mind that require a substantial dosage of grit, but we’d all be better off upping our “grit score,” as Angela Duckworth describes it in her book. Trust me, you are unstoppable where passion meets perseverance, even if you feel incredibly low.

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I wish I could tell my childhood self that it is noble to care, ok to try, and normal to fail. If I put in minimal effort as a kid, it was impressive to succeed, and I had an excuse if I failed or fell short of my goal. I sound like a talented singer now, but trust me, it has taken years of practice and instruction to get me where I am today, and I still have so much further to go. I’ve touched on this in previous posts, but you never really “make it” as a musician– there’s always another level to unlock.

It’s easy for me to focus on what singing has taken away from me, but today, I’ll thank singing for teaching me grit. It’s one thing to be gifted and talented and another to do something with that.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

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.

Ghost School

I drive the familiar highway northwest, reminiscing on the countless trips back and forth over four consequential years of my life. I remember when Taylor Swift’s Red came out over fall break in 2012, and we blasted the album multiple times on a carpool trip back to campus. I recall belting Wicked with my sister as she prepared to help me move back into an apartment during my junior year of college. I even drudge up the sleepy ride back from a Macklemore concert in the Twin Cities with friends right before he became famous; thank you very much. This trip was before every Concordia alum moved to the big city, aka Minneapolis, post-graduation. I swear, most Cobbers are either in Minneapolis or Fargo now. I guess I’m one of them.

Very menacing!!! Photo courtesy of the Concordia College website.

What is a Cobber? At Concordia College in Moorhead, Minnesota, our mascot is an angry ear of corn named Kernel Cobb, who inspired the slogan, “Fear the Ear.” This is serious and not a joke. Roll Cobbs!

The campus is mostly the same, although a giant “Welcome to Concordia College” sign spans loudly across the skyway connecting the central part of campus to the sporty side. I didn’t go to that side very often. 

There’s already snow on the ground and a noticeable chill in the air– it’s funny how big of a difference three hours north makes. I recall many pitch-black nights walking with my fellow Concordia Choir members from rehearsal to dinner, barely breathing because it was so freezing. Up north is a different kind of cold. That cold hits different, as the kids might say.

See, doesn’t he look a little chilly here? Photo courtesy of THE Concordia College website.

The building I walk toward hasn’t changed much. A jokester has put a crimson-red scarf on the small statue of Paul J. Christiansen outside of the recital hall– I smile. Someone always did something like this. Most of the faculty names on the doors remain the same as when I left seven years ago, though the space is notably missing the legendary name of René Clausen. His spirit haunts this space.

The halls are bustling with students; it’s a Friday afternoon, and I’m guessing The Concordia Choir still meets at 4:30 sharp. Everyone stares at me as I pass by, making a beeline for my favorite practice room. Everybody knows everybody at Concordia, especially in Hvidsten, the music building. I’m too old to be a student; there are no guest performers or faculty on the schedule, so who am I? I flash my fake, midwestern smile without making eye contact and keep walking. My room is open.

Basking in the glow of my insecurity mirror, November 2022.

I always liked this room because the mirror made the space feel larger. Many hours were spent picking apart my appearance in this broom closet. I remember a specific day when I wore a pair of jeans that had grown slightly too tight and a sweater that never looked right on me. Still, I stubbornly wore the outfit anyway, and I barely got any practicing done that afternoon because I was just staring at my body in the mirror, willing it to change. “I’ll start doing My Fitness Pal again today,” I told myself, my eyes welling up with tears. “I need to run more. I won’t go to Mick’s (the Thursday night spot for Concordia students) this week.” Poor Victoria. How would she feel now, staring in the same mirror, fifteen pounds heavier than the last time she looked into it? Yet another sign of my failures.

I try not to think too often of how past Victoria would feel about me because I know she’d be disappointed– I established that last week. It’s hard not to think of her in this space filled with ghosts, demons, and memories. But past Victoria was an idiot and didn’t know anything. She had so much to learn. I banish those thoughts and warm up for my brief rehearsal with the exhale-card-holding pianist. Yes, he’s back. If you haven’t gathered this, he’s a recurring character in my life.

The one and only. Post-junior recital, April 2014.

“Erika!” He exclaims as I walk into the recital hall. There are no demons in here, only friendly ghosts. I have positive, warm memories of this space. Whether it was hours-long coachings with Dobby the house-elf (as he will henceforth be known in this blog), aria class, or waiting for my entrance as Cenerentola for opera scenes, the energy in the recital hall was always dynamic and inviting. As we drop needle on my pieces and I sing out into the hall, I think of every solo performance I sang on this stage over four years. It feels like home.

I often look back on my time at Concordia resentfully. When I graduated high school, my goal was to go to Concordia, sing under Dr. René Clausen with THE Concordia Choir, and direct a high school choir. Boom. I had it all figured out. However, by the end of my sophomore year, I realized I didn’t like choir much and that I loved opera. I changed my major to vocal performance, but I didn’t want to quit choir because my friends were there, and I liked going on the tours. Seriously, that’s what kept me in Concordia Choir. I was also hung up on prestige and ~social currency~. I can admit that now. It all looks so silly in retrospect.

The community of choir brought me back every time. Graduation concert, May 2014.

I spent years undoing how I sang at Concordia– high larynx, darkened vowels, little vibrato. Regardless, those hours spent in the South Choral Room meant something to me. The demons haunting my memories were actually friendly ghosts.

I gained so much from Concordia that I couldn’t acknowledge for so long. The faculty at this small school supported me unequivocally. I got to travel the country once a year for free and sing with a nationally renowned choir. I went to Italy, for crying out loud! I was an incredibly naive young woman and became a person in a welcoming, safe and encouraging environment. I made friends for life here, and even though we didn’t connect at Concordia, I wouldn’t be with Casey if it wasn’t for that place. It’s where I met Dobby, who shaped my artistry more than any other teacher or mentor in my entire artistic career to date.

My perspective on Concordia shifted, finally, after seven years. Regardless of whether or not my audition from this weekend leads to a contract, I’m thankful for the haunting feeling that I made a mistake releasing itself into the universe. I’ll never know whether transferring to a conservatory would have changed the trajectory of my vocal career. I’ll never understand why I stayed at Concordia. I just did.

If you read my latest Frauenbild Fridays post, you’ll know that one of the rings I wear is a ruby class ring from Concordia. When I lived in North Carolina, nobody ever asked about the ring except to note its beauty, and that was a rare comment. Being back in Minnesota, however, I get plenty of remarks from fellow Concordia graduates or folks who know about the Cobber ring tradition.

My church choir has a new alto, and she is the sweetest lady. On Sunday, she asked me if I was wearing a Cobber ring. I smiled and exclaimed, “Yes, I’m a Cobber!” The change had already taken root. I usually brush Cobber comments off, but two days ago, I was grateful and proud to be a graduate of Concordia College. I surprised myself yet again. I’ve learned that surprises are everywhere if you pay attention. 

There’s only one way to end the reflection on my undergraduate institution, and it’s this: 

Roll Cobbs!

Christmas Concerts, 2013.

Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 4

It’s January 2019 in Baltimore; it’s cold and rainy, but I can remember no snow on the ground. It’s the day after an audition, and despite the bottle of wine my friend and I consumed together the night before, I’m still up early. After listening to The Daily podcast from the New York Times, a ritual of mine since 2016, and consuming my first cup of coffee from a cobber-adorned Concordia College mug, my friend is still asleep. I open up Netflix on my computer and watch an episode of Adam Ruins Everything about marriage. By the time my friend awakens, I’m ready to rant.

I think I need to bring back the Baltimore trucker hat.

Even then, I knew I would eventually like to be married to somebody. Still, the whole business just smelled like a scam, and it was enormously affirming for both of us to have the wedding industry exposed by Adam. Because gender roles are thoroughly ingrained in our culture, getting married is still a bigger deal for women than it is for men. As children, my friends and I surfed the David’s Bridal website and created our dream weddings. To this day, I have a wedding ideas Pinterest page that my friend and I have added to over the years. It’s less Tangled-themed than it once was but still lightly Rapunzel-adjacent. It’s a beautiful (fake) wedding.

When American couples get engaged, the woman with perfectly manicured nails usually creates the social media post. It will probably be her most-liked post ever, at least until she has the wedding and then a baby. She could get the best promotion known to humankind or find the cure to all cancers, and that ring on her finger would still be the most celebrated milestone of her life. 

Ah, the good ol’ days.

Until the sexual revolution and feminist movement of the mid-20th century, a traditional American woman’s job was to get married and raise kids. Maintain the house and the children, and serve your husband unquestioningly. It makes sense that weddings primarily focused on the bride because marriage was the pinnacle of a woman’s life. It was the fulfillment of her purpose. Many women today continue to make motherhood the primary focus in their lives as stay-at-home moms and don’t get me wrong, I respect that because that is their choice– hopefully, no one forced them into this role. American women have many options at their disposal today, and I celebrate women who choose to be stay-at-home moms– they are empowered in their decision. There are so many pros and cons to having one parent stay home. The burden of that choice in heterosexual marriages often still falls on the woman, but again, more on that later. I can’t espouse all my opinions on feminism all at once, nor can I fully comment because I am not married, nor do I have children.

Despite a shift in gender norms, I still notice that in the weddings of heterosexual couples, there is much more emphasis placed on the importance of marriage in the bride’s life. Listen– that Pinterest board is waiting if I get married. I want to look ridiculously hot and take that ring photo, as long as my nails don’t look too crusty. My hair and makeup will be flawless, my bachelorette party fabulous, and the flowers will be pristine. I love a party– despite my commentary about the culture of weddings, do you really think I’d miss out on that if I could help it? Maybe I’ll be more emotionally invested in the wedding itself, but I’d like the marriage to be equally crucial for both of us.

See, I’ve already had the experience of sweating off my makeup while wearing a wedding gown! Hedy LaRue in How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, College Light Opera Company, 2014.

Before you get too angry with me, I want to be clear that I’m not saying that getting married is stupid or overrated. Marriage is an incredible milestone and a celebration of a union, an equal partnership, between two individuals who want to build a life together. That is something to be celebrated. I am, however, advocating for two equal voices in a marriage that each bring something to the table– maybe more like two puzzle pieces fitting together than one person completely giving themselves over to the other person’s wants and needs—in other words, an actual union.

That’s not what was happening for our Frauenbild in 1840. She basically sings a hymn to her ring–an intentional choice on Schumann’s part–and vows to give herself over entirely to her husband. Yuck. BUT AGAIN, I’m not here to completely write off ol’ Robby or even Adelbert (ol’ Bert? What do you think?) because modern gender roles are entirely different from those in the 1800s. I can’t expect radical feminism from these guys. Anyway, she sings this hymn to her ring because she is a virginal woman who puts God first and her husband second, and becoming a wife is the premiere joy and duty of her life. 

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The queen of art song herself. Elly Ameling, 1980.

I actually mostly did this one myself, thanks! But I still checked Google Translate, you know, just in case.

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Listen, there’s some nice stuff in here. The beautiful ring reminds us of the love our protagonist shares with her future husband, the open celebration and acknowledgment of their intense feelings for one another. Love is beautiful, and an intention to stand by someone even after the honeymoon phase is admirable–something I think most of us, deep down, seek to have in our lives. But if our Frauenbild is a modern woman, this is just one significant milestone in her life and equally important to the man in question. She doesn’t serve him or cease to exist outside of him. Instead, she is enhanced and supported by his devotion, as he is by hers. Together.

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Edit: this is a work of fiction and I am NOT ENGAGED!!! This is purely imaginative!!!

Four rings adorn my fingers. I close my eyes and imagine there are five. Picturing my dry, winter-worn hands and stubby fingernails, I gaze at my right hand. The first, a ruby class ring, catches the light and draws fellow graduates into my sphere. The second, an old costume ring representing my birthstone, glistens in wintry blue. On my left hand, I notice the third ring, an understated opal reminding me of my Grandma, which nestles on the fourth– a ring from one of my best friends. It simply says, “I am enough.” 

There is a fifth ring curled up against those words. I know I am enough, and someone else thought so, too. It’s affirming, somehow–external validation and all.  I am the same person, whether the ring is snugly fitted on my finger or sitting on a bedside table. It sparkles in every light; it weighs magnificently on my finger, golden and perfect. I’m proud to wear it, happy to show it off, and delighted to add it to the collection. 

Welcome to the party, little ring. I didn’t become a whole person when I slipped on this precious ring. It’s merely another rung in my journey. Each of my rings reminds me of something I cherish: my education, my favorite color, my family, and my personal growth. And now, a new ring. This ring reminds me of the love I share, the union I’ve formed with another person—what a lovely reminder to have.