Make Art Song Fun Again

A brief background on the vibrant history of European art song tradition. Spoiler: it’s actually fun!

Salons. In the modern context, they’re a place to get a new haircut or a manicure. However, in the late 18th century through the early 20th century, a salon was where guests shared political ideas, music, art, and poetry. In European salons, the seeds of revolution were planted alongside the spread of petty gossip and the first performances of famous lieder. Salons were organized social gatherings, often hosted by bourgeoisie and noble women who had the fortune of having ample space and a piano. Guests at a salon would typically be well-educated in religion, politics, philosophy, science, and the arts. In other words, art song tradition is as rooted in elitism, privilege, and the upper class as opera is, unfortunately. Poor folks were not singing Schubert around the piano.

Jeunes filles au piano (Girls at the Piano) by Pierre-Auguste Renoir, painted in 1892.

It’s difficult to overstate what salons and the social status of owning a piano did for the popularization of lieder– it’s likely there would not be a vital art song tradition without both factors. Although the piano was invented in 1700, most folks preferred the harpsichord until Bach was convinced to try out a piano in the late 18th century. Due to his wild popularity, other composers, such as Mozart and Beethoven, also began playing and composing for piano in place of the harpsichord by the late 1700s. 

The popularization of the piano coincided with the rise of the middle class. Owning a piano was a status symbol and signified increased leisure time, especially for women. Playing the piano was more common for women of the expanding upper middle class, and it became an expectation for women to study and play the piano gracefully. Despite this, women were not encouraged to pursue a concert career or to compose music. Clara Schumann was one notable exception to both of these rules.

A salon in the late 1700s.

While 17th and 18th-century salons originated as a social endeavor, throughout the 19th century, they became much more intellectual and political. Believe it or not, the American Revolution was a hot topic of political discussion in French salons of the late 1700s! As Europe ushered in the Romantic era, salon culture heavily explored literature, poetry, art, and music. Romanticism emphasized passionate love, appreciation of beauty, and the largeness of the natural world and humanity’s relation to it. Lieder was the perfect vehicle for these sentiments.

Unlike operas, musicians did not typically perform art songs for large audiences in concert halls– the songs, often played on the piano by the composer himself, were sung by lay people in salons. Although the two are so often grouped together today because 19th-century lieder is sung with a classical singing technique, opera and art song are pretty different. Operatic singing takes years of training and practice to execute, but lieder were meant to be sung by anybody for small audiences of friends while drinking wine and talking politics. 

That’s our guy Schubert at the piano!

Today, art song is used as a vehicle for building classical singing technique when the voice isn’t quite ready to execute the vocal acrobatics of opera or to fulfill university requirements for juries and recitals. While art song became increasingly virtuosic and challenging for the singer as the tradition developed in the late Romantic era and beyond, it was intended to be accessible, evocative, and fun. Yes, lieder were supposed to be fun, not something a sophomore vocal performance major halfheartedly sings for a panel of their university professors to get an A in voice for the semester.

Salons weren’t accessible or equitable; they were purposefully selective and elitist. They were literally bougie. However, the original purpose of art song, to exchange musical ideas and emotions among friends, has been totally lost in our modern classical music practice, and it’s time to bring it back. Art song is casual; it’s meant to be sung by anybody; you’re supposed to drink a glass of wine, make mistakes, and start over. The composer might play what they write and then change their mind and rewrite portions before the next performance. Maybe someone sings a song, and another wants to sing the same one, so it’s performed twice in a row; maybe they make up some words here or there. Perhaps it becomes a political song, or words change to tease someone in the room. It just isn’t that serious. 

Looking hot at my master’s recital. UNCG, May 2019.

For my master’s degree recital, I dressed in a golden gown and sang French, German, and American art songs for a polite audience that clapped at the end of my sets like they were supposed to. I didn’t speak with the audience or use music and was the only one singing. I had to do a comprehensive exam where I explained everything I knew about these songs to a panel of my professors to earn the right to perform them. Because I’m a bit of a weirdo, I did perform some new songs about Ruth Bader Ginsburg and included staging, but that’s because I’ve always wanted to make classical music a little less stuffy.

Only singing art song in recital is not salon culture. That’s relegating a vibrant and invigorating art form to academia’s boring and regimented walls. Performance art is alive! Lieder encompasses what it means to be human!

Consider this essay merely an introduction to my shifting perspective on lieder. Conveniently, I’m actually singing some Schubert and Schumann in what I would loosely consider a salon setting at the Germanic-American Institute in St. Paul this Sunday, February 26, at 4 pm. Don’t hesitate to reach out for details. If you’d like to purchase tickets, click here.

Four awesome Twin Cities singers (Eryn Tvete, Josh Diaz, Jimmy Finch, and myself) are performing on the program alongside our fearless pianist, Emily Urban. We will discuss our pieces before performing them, so the audience gets a bit of context. It feels like one small step toward salon culture and away from the stuffiness of recital halls. 

Singing songs with friends while drinking wine and discussing politics and current events sounds much more fun than cramming for an undergraduate recital. Let’s make art song fun again.

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‘Til Death Do Us Part: Frauenliebe und -leben Part 8

Who are we, if not the people we love?

This post belongs to a series formerly known as “Frauenbild Fridays.” Click here to see the original post.

Well, fellow feminists, we’ve come to the end of our first song cycle, Schumann’s Frauenliebe und -leben. Since this is a piece about a woman’s life and love, we can assume the last song features our protagonist on her deathbed, reflecting on a life well lived with her family and fulfilling career in the rearview mirror.

Wait, we forgot something– a woman’s life in this period wasn’t hers! 

The last piece in Frauenliebe, “Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz getan,” translates to “now you have caused me my first pain,” and refers to the death of our protagonist’s husband. Of course! It’s not her death that ends her life but rather her husband’s. We should have known.

At first glance, the lyrics remind me of the now defunct Hindu practice of Sati, also known as “widow burning,” where some women would burn themselves alive on the funeral pyres of their dead husbands, either willingly or unwillingly. In Frauenliebe und -leben, our protagonist metaphorically resigns herself to death as her husband’s body lies in front of her. It is a dark and macabre image.

I adopt a critical eye immediately, so I’d like to take a step back and assess two things before I get all cynical. First, Chamisso wrote these poems in the aftermath of the Sturm und Drang era, a precursor to the Romantic period translating to “storm and stress.” Alongside the stereotypical themes of the time, such as nature and romantic love, the romanticization of death and strong, negative emotion also pervaded literature, art, and music.

This is what comes up when you Google Sturm und Drang. Rock ‘n’ Roll, baby!! I’m moody now! Angst!! Turmoil!!! | Abraham van Beijeren, River Landscape

It makes sense that folks of the 1800s were obsessed with death and dying. 1840 was a time in which death was much more normalized than it is in our culture equipped with modern medicine. In the 1800s, the global average of childhood deaths was a whopping 43.3%. Nearly half of all kids died before they even reached adulthood! Of course, it wasn’t smooth sailing once the surviving children reached adulthood– the average lifespan in the 1800s hovered between 30-40 years of age. Next time I feel like I haven’t accomplished enough, I’ll just remember that if I had lived two hundred years ago, I’d probably be dead by now!

The second factor I’d like to assess is a little squishier: love. When someone close to us dies, a tiny part of us also dies because we are part of each other. Through seven songs, we discovered our protagonist’s intense love for her partner and expanded upon her experience to center herself rather than her husband.

Grandma and me at my high school graduation. I look awful, but I think she looks cute, so we’ll roll with it. I will not be taking questions about my sunglasses. Northfield, Minnesota, 2011.

My grandma died nearly seven years ago, leaving behind a little gap in my heart. A grandparent is often the first acute death young people experience, and it was difficult to cope when my grandma died. I’m fortunate that those closest to me have lived long lives thus far, so I haven’t experienced the pain of losing a parent, sibling, best friend, or significant other. However, I can still imagine our Frauenbild doesn’t know how to go on without her closest confidant– it was hard enough for me to reckon with my grandmother’s death.

In short, I think Frauenbild’s grief is warranted, even if her outlook is antiquated and colored by the views of men at the time. 

Let’s allow the lyrics to speak for themselves for a moment.

Translation from, surprise, Google Translate.

I do not know what Jessye Norman is doing with her rolled “r” here, and frankly, I don’t care.

The poetry in this piece evokes the acute pain of loss. Even in the translation, we can feel the burden of grief our protagonist is grappling with. The broken iteration of Seit ich ihn gesehen as a postlude is quintessentially Schumann and makes me cry, I won’t deny it. The piece is a beautiful end to the cycle, but not to this woman’s story.

Although her husband is dead, I want to hear an epilogue where she continues to grow alongside her grandchildren. I want to read her memoir recounting her travels with friends. I want our protagonist to volunteer at a hospital or mentor young colleagues in her field. I want her to go on living.

The beauty of existing as a 21st-century American woman is finally becoming the main character in our own stories. For so long, we lived in service to God and husband. We existed only to produce more people, which is a powerful job but limiting when we see all the options available for men.

I savor my worth as a human not being tied to whether or not I’m beautiful, married, or a mother. My value doesn’t lie in producing sons who can go on to do something great; I can be something great myself. Women have only experienced this power in the mainstream sense for a generation. I won’t take it for granted and I won’t let anyone take it away from me.

The death of our Frauenbild’s husband may have been the end of her story, but it’s not the end of our modern twist. After my grandpa died in 1999, my grandma went on to retire as the English department chair at Le Sueur High School, travel around Europe with her friends, and remain an integral part of my childhood. I’m sure she missed my grandpa deeply, but I only remember her as a sharp-witted, independent woman who lived and loved joyously. Although the grief of losing a loved one leaves a hole that no one can fill, our protagonist’s life will continue because it is her own, just like my grandma’s.

Thank goodness– I can’t imagine being a sidekick in my own story.

One of the last times my grandma was healthy enough to hear me sing live. Concordia College, 2014.

Now you’ve caused the first pain

But it hits me.

You sleep, you soft, merciful man,

The sleep of death.

The abandoned one looks ahead,

The world moves on.

I have loved and lived, 

I go without you.

I find joy in those around me,

The grief dulls every day,

Where there was lost happiness

New life grows.

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.

____________________________________________________________________________

 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.

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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Hey, if you like what I’m doing, won’t you consider donating?

Frauenbild Friday: Frauenliebe Pt. 1

I. Seit ich ihn gesehen (Since I saw him)

Clara Schumann at the piano. © img.apmcdn.org

I carefully considered which songs to start with, but the choice is clear– I have to start with Frauenliebe und –leben, poetry by Adelbert von Chamisso, and set to music by Robert Schumann.

Robert Schumann (1810-1856) was a prolific composer of German art song and was one of the finest composers of the Romantic era. One of my favorite bits of lore about Schumann is that he allegedly used a mechanical device to strengthen his weaker fingers while playing piano, which permanently damaged his hand. His wife, Clara Schumann, reportedly discredited this, but she may have had a vested interest in debunking this theory as Robert was studying with her father. Who knows! If you know the actual truth, tell me. Regardless, Schumann gave up his dreams of pursuing a performing career to compose.

It is more than worth noting that Schumann’s wife, Clara, was a respectable composer in her own right and a far better pianist than he ever was. However, because she was a woman, she is remembered by history as Robert Schumann’s wife as opposed to a musician and artist worthy of our attention. This lack of performance has shifted recently as more musicians wish to interpret the compositions of female composers, both past and present.

Frauenliebe und –leben was composed during Schumann’s famous Liederjahr, or year of song, in 1840. In that year alone, he wrote 138 songs. Busy bee!! Eight songs make up the song cycle, written for female voice and piano. Mezzo-sopranos often perform the cycle today, but I don’t know why other than the fact that it doesn’t have soaring high notes. 

Here’s our set list:

1. Seit ich ihn gesehen (Since I saw him)

2. Er, der Herrlichste von allen (He, the most wonderful of all)

3. Ich kann’s nicht fassen, nicht glauben (I cannot grasp it, believe it)

4. Du Ring an meinem Finger (You ring on my finger)

5. Helft mir, ihr Schwestern (Help me, my sisters)

6. Süsser Freund, du blickest mich verwundert an (Sweet friend, you look at me in wonder)

7. An meinem Herzen, an meiner Brust (On my heart, at my breast)

8. Nun hast du mir den ersten Schmerz getan (Now you have caused me my first pain)

Performing Frauenliebe und -leben in recital at Concordia College in Moorhead, MN with the incomparable Stephen Sulich at the piano.

I love this song cycle. I sang it at my senior voice recital at Concordia College and would like to sing it again. The music is genius, and the sentiment is sweet. Sometimes, in the frenzy of examining literature and art through the feminist lens, we obliterate the presence of romantic love. This omission is not necessary and is frankly ridiculous. Being in love with somebody is excellent! I simply seek to explore the sentiments of a woman who doesn’t define herself by a man. Her love is her own choice and is one of the many beautiful things about her, and it is certainly not the most interesting. Suppose this song cycle was just called Frauenliebe, fine. It’s about a woman in love. But it’s not. It’s called Frauenliebe und –LEBEN (leben means life in German), which implies that this woman’s life was wholly dedicated to loving this man. She is not alone. Many women today still live entirely for someone else, whether it be their husband, children, parents, or a caregiver role in some other capacity. I’m not advocating for selfishness, but I am supporting a self-fulfilling existence, or at least allowing for that option. Screw being a Frauenbild, live your life for yourself, enriched by others. 

So who is our Frauenbild turned protagonist? Chamisso and Schumann didn’t give me a lot, so she gets to be whoever I want her to be.

Elly Ameling, a prolific interpreter of art song. Expect to hear a lot more from her.

English translation sort of by me, sort of by Google Translate.

Bridgerton was the most popular show on Netflix when it premiered in 2020, and I was one of its many viewers. I even started reading the books–despite the cringe-inducing romantic smuttiness of it all, one of the appealing factors is the deep feeling the characters express for each other. This outpouring of love is quintessentially romantic, reminiscent of our first Frauenliebe song. So what would this love at first sight look like today? Even the phrase makes me roll my eyes, but I’m reminded of when I spent all night texting boys on my flip phone who would never like me back. Now that makes me cringe. I crafted the perfect witty response, gave out careful compliments, and listened intently as they vented about school or girls, as if being the one who was there would enlighten them to my sheer perfection. It was profoundly anti-feminist, trying to be whatever I thought these stupid boys wanted me to be. Alas, eyes glued to the screen, I did it anyway. It was all-consuming; my entire brain focused on the screen of my phone, waiting for it to light up. I imagine our protagonist was subject to the same creeping obsession with being loved. That’s a human experience– we seek love from others. Exhausted from work, she scrolls mindlessly through a dating app, disillusioned from mediocre conversations and lukewarm connections. She starts another interaction out of boredom, but this guy seems different. He’s not perfect, but he grabs her attention. Six feet tall, since that seems to matter on here.

See you next week for more FrauenFUN!!!

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.