On getting creative...

I have a theory.  Well, it's not so much a theory as a commonly accepted idea.  The idea is this: we all start off as creative children.  But as we grow up, our creativity is slowly beaten out of us.  We are told what is right and what is wrong.  What is normal and what is weird.  What is tasteful and what is trashy.  What is acceptable and what is embarrassing.  We are hit over the head, consistently and brutally, with these rules and conventions.  Slowly they begin to seep into our subconscious, until we know no other way to function.  We follow the rules we have been taught.  We do not act until authority tells us how to act.

I do not believe this is simply something that adults do to us.  I believe we do it to each other as well.  As we reach adolescence, we develop ideas about "cool" and "uncool".  Peer pressure becomes a tyrannical force.  Our freedom of expression is suddenly inhibited by a painful self-consciousness.

I was a creative child.  I loved to paint, write poetry, sing, tell stories.  I remember the sense of pride and satisfaction I used to feel about each of my creations.  The way I used to read aloud in class with dramatic expression, making funny voices for each of the characters.  I was fearless and free.  And then adolescence set in.

Suddenly, I was aware of being judged.  By teachers' grades, yes, but also by other kids' opinions.  I realised that what I was doing could be seen as "lame" or "uncool".  But it wasn't only that.  Every time I created something or performed to an audience, I was putting myself out there.  Not just my creation or my performance, but my entire self.  Like a prisoner in the lions' den, I was exposing every inch of myself to a potentially vicious attack.  I will never forget a time, in sixth grade, when I told some classmates I would be performing in the talent show.  I was excited to sing in front of an audience, but all they could see was an overweight eleven-year-old inviting their judgement.  "YOU're going in the talent show?" they said, "what are you going to do, EAT??"

"You're not an artist, you're just a fat kid!"

These are the kinds of put-downs we all experience growing up.  And we come out of it feeling closed-up and afraid.  Cowering in the corner, following the rules, keeping our thoughts safely within the box.  This is how we lose our creativity.

I'm painting a pretty bleak picture here, and of course it's not that bad.  Not everyone puts us down and stifles our creativity.  There are the good friends who encourage us to be artists, and there are the good teachers who nurture our sense of innovation.  But for the most part, I really do believe that we lose our creativity as we grow up.  And many of us spend our entire adulthood trying to get it back.

Last week I had an audition for a contemporary music theatre project.  So far so good - I've performed lots of contemporary music, and I'm no stranger to atonality and extended technique.  The problem was, they wanted me to improvise in the audition.

Now, I haven't improvised anything since high school jazz choir.  Amongst my peers, I was often the only one brave enough to try my hand at scatting.  Well, I say I was brave, but in fact I was always terrified.  I have very clear memories of standing onstage, my mic trembling in my hand, my face turning a deep shade of magenta, as I came up with some random syllables on notes that fit with the rhythm and the bass line.

"Scoobidy-bop... bee-dop.. dah??"

But this was something completely different.  There would be no rhythm or bass line in the audition.  They wanted me to make something up on the spot, all by myself!  And there were no rules or structure to guide me.  I could do anything, absolutely anything.  The canvas was completely blank - a terrifying prospect.

Luckily, I had a friend at the opera studio who was more than willing to help.  Alexey is a baritone who has done several workshops and masterclasses in improvisation, and he's an enthusiastic devotee of contemporary music.  He agreed to meet with me every day to help me learn how to improvise.

We began slowly, improvising together in simple games and exercises.  At first we tried humming the same note and taking turns to change pitch.  Then we tried repeating a cycle of notes, called a "loop" and taking turns to improvise over the loop.  This felt similar to the type of improvisation I had done in jazz choir.  Gradually we did more challenging exercises together and began to really communicate, responding to each other's melodic ideas and harmonic shifts.  It was a great exercise in listening.  After a while we could almost anticipate what the other person might do next.

But now it was time to take off the training wheels...

Wheeee!!!!!!!!

Now I had to learn to improvise alone, without the influence of another musician's ideas.  Again, I found myself overwhelmed by the idea of the blank canvas.  It was too much freedom to handle and I found myself freezing up.  Knowing that I could do everything, I did nothing.

I was also held back by self-consciousness.  I'm only accustomed to performing alone when there is a score to follow.  I can feel confident in this situation because I've prepared the music.  But there is no way to prepare for improvisation.  You have to perform freely, in the moment.  There is no composer to hide behind - it's just you and your instrument.

I told Alexey that it felt like there were two sides of myself fighting each other.  There was this crazy creative side who wanted to be free - and there was this strict, shy side that wanted to play by the rules.  He suggested that I could do an improvisation about this conflict.  So I began singing, and I introduced two musical ideas: one rigid, timid and rhythmical, the other crazy, impulsive and free.  I alternated between the two, envisioning a confrontation and a battle.  Finally, the music became more fluent and colourful.  I let the creative side win.

As we worked, I realised that I found it easier to improvise if I had an image or a story in mind to guide me.  So I tried "painting" other pictures with my voice.  Once, I improvised the story of a cat I always see outside my window.  This cat likes to stare at me from the neighbours' roof.  Sometimes I try to be friendly and wave hello to him.  But being cautious, as most cats are, he hides.  Then he slowly comes back, peering at me suspiciously...

I'm not sure about you...

Eventually I became bolder in my improvisation and began to take more risks.  Alexey encouraged me to explore thousands of sounds and effects.  He pushed me to try out as many different ideas as possible.  We played a game where every time he clapped his hands, I had to change to a different idea.  It was really hard, but it definitely helped me to keep the creative juices flowing.  The aim was to sing freely and intuitively, not to overthink anything.  If I stayed for too long on one musical idea, I might start thinking too much and get stuck.

By the time I arrived at my audition, I felt I had opened up a lot.  I had made all kinds of crazy sounds in the practice room, and I felt confident that I could improvise something interesting in front of the audition panel.  But an audition room is very different from a practice room, and it's always hard to perform under pressure.  When it came down to it, I didn't go nearly as far with my improvisation as I had in my practice sessions over the last few days.  I came up with a melody or two, I experimented a bit with vibrato and vowels, but overall I played it pretty safe.  Afterwards, I was disappointed in myself.  I couldn't stop thinking of interesting things which I could have done in the improvisation, and which I hadn't.  I was sure my improvisation had been really boring.  I walked home feeling like this...

*sad Charlie Brown music*

But the funny thing is, those interesting ideas kept coming to me.  It was like I had opened the floodgates, and now I couldn't stop creating.  I found myself coming up with little ditties in my head all the time.  Some were silly, some were annoying, and some were kind of good.  The difference was that I had stopped blocking myself.  I no longer worried so much about how good or bad my ideas might be.  I just let them flow.

In time, I realised that I was being far too hard on myself about the audition.  It didn't matter how well or badly I had improvised for the panel - the fact was that I had done it!  Before I did all that work with Alexey, I probably would have been too scared to improvise anything at all.  Now I was brave enough to create something in front of an audience and not worry about looking stupid.  For someone who always worries about looking stupid, that was a pretty big step to take.

We are all born creative, and then we learn to judge and fear.  But our creativity never leaves us completely.  It's still there, waiting in the corner, hoping to coaxed out and brought back to life.  So stop listening to those teachers who want you to conform.  Stop listening to those kids who tease you for being different.  Let yourself go and rediscover your creativity.

Being Romy: Ich bin so müde...

And just like that, it's all over.  After six weeks of rehearsals and four performances, it's time to say goodbye to Romy Schneider.

The last few weeks have flashed by in a blur.  As we got closer to opening night, I did a lot of last-minute research.  I spent hours with Romy's diaries and a German-English dictionary.  I read about her break-up with Alain Delon, her break-through with the director Luchino Visconti, her tireless filming schedules.  I watched more films, including Orson Wells' The Trial and the four-hour epic Ludwig - in which Romy played a very different kind of Empress Sissi under Visconti's direction.  The closer we got to the first performance, the more desperately I tried to get inside Romy's head and understand her completely.

Romy playing Empress Elisabeth of Austria ("Sissi") in Ludwig, 1972

We worked hard in the run-up to the shows, and we also had a lot of fun.  I was VERY excited about the costumes - maybe it's because I watch too much Mad Men, or I spend too much time browsing vintage stores, but I just loooove this kind of thing.  The day I saw my 60s housewife dress, I literally screamed.  The day the hairstylist arrived with her hairspray and rollers - well, I practically had an embolism.  From the rollers to the petticoats to the liquid eyeliner, I loved getting dressed up as Yellow Romy.  It was basically my idea of fashion heaven.

I mmmmay have started wearing a lot of headbands after this production...

Personally, my favourite part of the show was a strong idea introduced by the director.  Inspired by one of Green Romy's lines in the third act - "Je ne veux plus faire de l'art, je veux faire de la confiture" - the director decided that I would have a bowl of strawberries.  As I was playing the role of the perfect housewife and telling the press how happy I was in my marriage, I would slowly begin to take strawberries and crush them on the table.

There was a lot of discussion about what the strawberries symbolised.  Some people said the strawberries were life.  Others said that they were love.  For me, the strawberries expressed the truth.  Crushing the strawberries gave me a physical outlet for my feelings of anger and frustration: while I smiled and sang about the virtues of domestic life, my hands were telling the real story.

Also, FYI, squishing strawberries is a lot of fun.  Seriously, you should try it sometime.

The strawberries made an enormous mess, and, as the audience remarked, they also had a powerful smell.  Not necessarily unpleasant, just... very fragrant.  I don't think I'll ever be able to see strawberries the same way after this opera.  I squished them in my hands, I smeared them onto people's clothes, I danced on them, and I even fell on top of them.  By the end of the show I was completely covered in pink mush.  Many damp towels were needed.  I did not envy the costume lady, who was in charge of getting rid of the stains in my clothes every night.

So... many... strawberries...

As I mentioned in my last post, by the end of the show I was not only covered in strawberries, but I was also half naked.  At the end of the second act, I had to drink lots of liquor (ice tea, actually) and dance around like crazy while people stripped me - all of this while singing.  I don't have any pictures of myself in my underwear at the end of the show (probably for the best, really).  But I can say that for me it was a powerful moment in the show.  I had begun the performance looking composed, with perfect hair and makeup and a prim and proper-looking dress.  To lose control like this and get stripped down - both literally and emotionally - was an enormous transformation.  Especially for me - I don't know if I've mentioned this before, but I'm a bit of a control freak.

Losing control at the end of Act 2

Now it's all over, and I have never had a worse case of the post-show blues.  I feel exhausted, drained, empty.  There's a dull kind of lingering sadness.  I don't want to do anything.  I struggle to get out of bed.  I can't think straight.  I do stupid things, like scanning a whole load of groceries at the cash register before realising I've left my wallet at home.

If you're not familiar with this phenomenon, I should say that the post-show blues is a pretty common affliction.  It happens to a lot of people, albeit not always to this extent.  I guess it's a combination of exhaustion and grief.  You put all of your adrenaline and stress into one project - and then you crash.  You dedicate yourself to a show completely - and suddenly it's gone.  There's a big empty space where it used to be.

This is pretty much how I've been feeling all week.



Luckily, I have new projects to focus on.  And it's a good thing too.  If I wasn't motivated to learn all this new music, right now I would probably still be in bed eating Nutella with a spoon.

As it is, I'm now trying to get back into a normal sleep schedule (staying up until 2 and sleeping in until 12 is no longer acceptable), and trying to get my energy up again with lots of exercise and healthy food.  And I'm taking it all in.  It's been a week since we finished the show, and it's only now that I'm beginning to see the whole picture.  It's only now that I'm able to take a step back and reflect on everything I've learned.

Tree... tree... tree... Oh wait, it's a forest.

Perhaps the reason I'm taking so long to process this, perhaps the reason I've been feeling so much sadness, is that I'm not only saying goodbye to an opera.  I'm saying goodbye to a person.  A person with whom I've become very intimate in the past two months.  When I first heard that we would be doing an opera about Romy Schneider, I didn't think much about it at all.  I didn't know who she was, and I didn't think it really mattered to me.  After all, as a mezzo I was certain I would only get a minor role in the opera - a reporter, a friend, or maybe the mother if I was lucky.  But from the moment I was cast to play Romy, I resolved to learn as much about her as possible.  I immersed myself in her world, reading her diaries and letters, watching her films and interviews.  I had never been so fully involved in a role before.  It was a life-changing experience.

How can I put into words everything that I have learned from Romy?  In many ways she was like me, in many ways she was completely unlike me.  And in many ways she was everything that I aspire to be.  Romy always lived in the moment - something which, as a chronic worrier and overthinker, I hardly ever manage to do.  This was what made Romy such a powerful actress.  Whatever she was feeling or being in that moment, she would throw herself into it completely.  It's easy to see this from her diaries.  Every time she started a new film she would say "this is the best film I have ever done", or "this is the best character I have ever played", or "this is the best director I have ever worked with".  And for her, in that moment, it was.  There was no past or future for her - there was only the present.

When I watch Romy in her films - especially her later ones - I get the feeling that she is not acting or playing a role.  She is being the role.  Every emotion, every bit of text, is completely genuine.  This, to me, is what true acting should be.

Romy in L'important c'est d'aimer, 1975

Actually, I think my extreme case of post-show blues is a good sign.  It shows that I am mourning the end of something truly significant.  I wouldn't be this exhausted if I hadn't thrown myself into the project so fully and recklessly.  Normally I play it safe.  Normally I hold something back.  I'm too afraid to dive in completely, to go all the way.  But with this role, I stopped protecting myself.  I let go.  I allowed myself to get lost in a character, in a feeling, in a moment.

Channeling Romy's intensity onstage.

This is what I have learned from Romy Schneider - to stop thinking, stop controlling, stop doubting, and just be.   It's an invaluable lesson for an actress, and one which I hope I'll never forget.  Romy had a short life, a life full of mistakes and achievements, successes and failures, joys and tragedies.  She may have died young, but you could never say that she didn't live wholly.  Thirty years after her death, there is still so much to be learned from her passion and commitment in everything she did.

As I say goodbye to this opera and to the actress who inspired it, I am eternally grateful for the opportunity this project gave me to grow as an actress and a singer.  I will never forget the experience of playing Romy Schneider onstage.  And I will never forget what Romy taught me: to give myself - my entire self, and nothing less.

All production photos courtesy of Emilie Lauwers

On being sexy...

Picture this: I'm lying face-down on a table, wearing nothing but a short chemise.  My arse, in all its pink-and-white cotton Primark glory, is out in the open for everyone to see.

I also happen to be covered in strawberries at this point, but that's a story for another day.

A year ago, I would have found this situation mortifying.  These days, it doesn't feel like such a big deal.

This is the second opera this year in which I've performed in my underwear.  It might sound a bit crazy, but actually it's pretty good training for me.  In the course of my opera career, I will probably have to perform many more times in my underwear - or less.

Opera has changed a lot in the last fifty years.  Directors these days want realism.  They want sex appeal.  Gone are the days of buttoned-up corsets and petticoats: modern productions are more likely to show you naked in bed with your lover, or painting your nails in your lingerie.

Showing skin onstage is a pretty daunting prospect.  Whether you're skulking around in a skimpy dress, dancing around in your skivvies, or even doing the full Monty, you can't help being painfully aware that you're being watched.  Not just by yourself or your boyfriend/girlfriend - but by an entire audience.  A whole crowd of people are watching you.   And that means you don't just have to be brave enough to reveal your body.  You have to really sell it.  You have to be sexy.

Hopefully a bit sexier than these blokes.

You know those girls who are always look sexy?  The girls who love to strut around in heels with their gorgeous hair and smouldering eyes, flashing their cleavage and wafting their perfume wherever they go?  Well, I am not one of those girls.

I hate perfume.  I prefer running shoes to heels. And my cleavage?  It doesn't quite, um, cleave. And yes, I have a tendency to wear cotton pants from Primark. They happen to be very comfortable!

I've never really been called sexy.  Cute, maybe.  Pretty, perhaps, on a good day.  But not sexy.  And so I never thought I could be "sexy" onstage.  I could do happy, or angry, or evil, or silly... but sexy?  That was completely out of the question.

When I look in the mirror, "sexy" is not the word that comes to mind.  I'm not overweight.  But I'm not model-thin either.  Nor do I have a perfect hourglass figure like Jessica Rabbit.

I'm sure Jess would have no problem performing in her underwear.

I have cellulite.  I have a belly.  And I have my "wobbly bits", as Bridget Jones calls them.  To a certain extent, I have accepted this state of affairs.  It's my body.  It's the way I am.  Even if I worked out two hours a day, I would probably keep the same basic shape.  Partly because of genetics, partly because of my natural build, and partly because of my insatiable addiction to chocolate. 

Let's face it, that's not going away anytime soon.

But there's a big difference between tolerating what you see in the mirror and being able to parade it around in front of an audience.  The first time I had to perform in my underwear, I felt horribly, painfully self-conscious.  I was certain that nobody would want to see what was going on underneath my clothes.

 

Eventually, I realised that I could be just as sexy as the next girl.  Sexiness has nothing to do with how you look.  Sexiness is an attitude.

In this first opera, all the women were supposed to be underwear models, so we all performed in various forms of lingerie.  And it was very interesting to watch how different people handled it.  We are not ballet dancers or supermodels, after all - we are opera singers, and we come in all different shapes and sizes.  At first I thought that the slimmer girls would have an easier time of it.  But it didn't work that way at all.  The girls who were built like models were not necessarily the girls who looked like models onstage.  It was the girls who felt confident.  The girls who felt comfortable in their own skin.  Tall or short, thin or curvy - if they loved their body, it showed.  And it was beautiful.

Personally, I was lucky enough to have some positive reinforcement on my side. My boyfriend, bless his heart, was extremely supportive.  He knew I didn't feel confident about performing in my underwear, and so every day that I rehearsed the opera he sent me a confidence-boosting message (my personal favourite: "I looked up sexy in the dictionary and I saw your name").  My boyfriend always saw me as sexy, and he would love it if I could see myself the way he saw me.

But in the end, my confidence couldn't come from my boyfriend or anyone else.  It had to come from within.  And gradually, as I rehearsed day by day, I began to lose my inhibitions and self-consciousness.  I began to own my body, even to be proud of it.  My walk, my attitude, the way I held myself - all of these things began to change.  And I learned what it really is to be sexy.

Playing Junon in Acteon - photo by Emilie Lauwers

Real sexiness has nothing to do with your appearance. Real sexiness is a state of mind. It's about knowing who you are and owning it. Embracing every pimple, dimple, and roll of fat.  Showing them with pride, because they are a part of you. Speaking honestly, moving with dignity, and acting with conviction. True beauty comes from true confidence. Nothing is sexier than that.

So now that I'm performing in my underwear for the second time, I don't really mind at all.  If people are going to see my arse, they're going to see my arse.  It's my arse, and I happen to think it's a pretty good one - even if it is clothed in cheap cotton.

Rest assured, though - I will wear something a bit nicer for the performances.

Being Romy: Schauspieler sind so zerbrechlich

Last week we were performing lunchtime concerts at the opera house and I had an encounter I'll never forget.  A woman from the audience approached me, and with shining eyes she told me that she was going to see her first opera next week.  "It's so powerful, what you opera singers do," she said, "it's so full of emotion."  Having experienced a short concert of arias, she couldn't wait to experience this kind of emotional intensity for the length of a full opera. 

She was going to see Tosca, by the way, so I don't think she'll be disappointed.

This woman's words astounded me.  It was wonderful to see such an enthusiastic newcomer to opera.  But more importantly, her reaction to the music reminded me of what it is I actually do.  As an opera singer, sometimes I get so caught up in the technical details - the text, the stage directions, the high notes - that I forget what this is all about.  Opera is not about singing with impressive ability in foreign languages.  Opera is about the power of emotion - pure, raw, human emotion.

This is something I've always known of course - it's the reason I was drawn to opera in the first place.  And yet so many times I've forgotten it.  As I've studied, practised, and worked on my technique and my languages, I've often lost sight of the powerful emotion and drama behind the music.  I've often become disconnected from the meaning.  I don't know why this has happened.  It's inexcusable really, and embarrassing to admit.

Beethoven would have disapproved.

Playing Romy Schneider is changing all of this for me.  This opera is showing me just how much I can become emotionally involved in a role.  Of course I have cried in operas before - when I was sitting in the audience.  But until last week, when I cried real tears over the death of my fictional son, I had never before cried onstage.

I never thought I could get so upset about an opera while I was playing in it.  But in this scene, knowing the whole story, knowing that it actually happened, I felt overcome with emotion.  Romy lost her son David to a terrible accident when he was only fourteen.  Not long before the accident her first husband, David's father, had committed suicide by hanging himself.  For anyone to experience so much trauma and loss in such a short amount of time must have been unbearable.  But what made it even worse for Romy was that she had to relive every moment of these tragedies as they were reported in the press.  It's not just that her life was sad - it's that her life was never completely hers.

Why does Romy Schneider get to me so much?  Certainly she lived a difficult life, full of tragic events, but there's more to it than that.  I think Romy felt things very deeply.  She was an intense woman full of emotion.  And as we relive her life onstage, I can't help but feel everything with the same kind of intensity that she did.  I am learning a lot from Romy.  Unlike me, she would certainly never forget the emotional content of an opera.

As we continue working on this opera, I feel that I'm getting both closer and farther away from knowing who the real Romy Schneider was.  Our libretto is mostly based on the public Romy - quotes from interviews, lines from her films, rumours and speculation spread by the press. But what about Romy herself?   Can we ever really know who she was?

Celebrity is a strange way to live.  Like most child stars, Romy didn't really have a childhood: she went straight from living at a boarding school run by nuns to becoming a famous actress.  From the time she made her first movie at 15 years old, Romy lived in the public eye.  She could never truly be herself without being aware of how others saw her.  And as she grew older, there wasn't a single aspect of her life she could keep private.  A broken engagement, a divorce, a miscarriage - every event in her life, no matter how personal, was covered in detail by the press.  Even when her son David died, a reporter entered the hospital disguised as a nurse so they could take a picture of his body.

For me one of the saddest moments in this opera is my aria in the third act: "Früher habe ich mich selbst davon überzeugen wollen das ich einen Alltag wie alle andern haben kann.  Heute weiss ich, das ich so einen Alltag nicht leben kann." (I used to want to convince myself that I can have a life like everyone else. Today I know that I can not live a life like that.)  As Yellow Romy, I am the part of Romy that wants to have a traditional, normal life.  The sad truth is that for a famous actress this kind of life was impossible.



Romy and her son's grave in Boissy-sans-Avoir

With the public watching her every move, it must have been impossible for Romy to have any kind of life at all.  And yet I believe she did.  I believe Romy had a true self, one she kept safe from the relentless clutches of the magazines and newspapers.  And I believe we can see glimpses of it in her films.

In her films Romy felt a certain safety, a certain freedom that she didn't have in real life.  Here she could express herself with real intensity without being analysed and criticised personally.  Here she could be herself, her true self, safely hidden behind the mask of a character.  Within the confines of her films, she had the freedom to live authentically.

I recently watched Romy's last film, which she made shortly after her son's death.  In La Passante de Sans-Souci, Romy plays a woman who adopts an orphaned Jewish boy during WWII and escapes to Paris with him.  The boy in this film is the same age as Romy's real son, and it's heartbreaking to watch the way she interacts with him.  In one scene, they are having Christmas dinner after discovering her husband has been sent to a concentration camp, and she asks the boy to play his violin for her.  You can see the real Romy in this moment, crying for her son.

It is in her films - especially her later films - that we can see pieces of the real Romy.  She was a deeply intense and emotional woman.  A woman who felt everything to her very core.  She was strong and vulnerable at the same time.  She endured overwhelming sadness and anger, and she survived.  She was both extraordinary and human.

 

Who was the real Romy Schneider?  Perhaps we will never completely know.  I would like to think that.  I would like to think that although she sold so much of herself in films, in pictures and interviews, there was a part of her that she kept just for herself.  A part that was sacred and real, and not for anyone else to see.

 

We have less than two weeks left before the first show.  We know the words, we know the music, we know the staging.  But there is still something to discover before we perform this opera.  Somewhere in the middle of all this, in the middle of all the quotes and lines and hearsay, in the middle of Romy Schneider and ourselves, there is a truth to be found.  The text and the music and the staging are only a part of it.  At the heart there is this truth, this emotional core.  If we can find just a small part of this truth and express it to the audience, it will stop being words and music and staging, and it will become an opera.

On getting through the rough patches...

Imagine this: you're at a concert and you hear a very promising young singer with a beautiful voice.  But when you ask about her you're told she's a lost cause.  She's hit a rough patch lately, it's affected her singing, and now it's too late for her to get back on track.  She's missed the boat now - no career, no future, nothing.

Sorry honey - the Career Boat couldn't wait for your personal life.

It sounds pretty brutal, doesn't it?  Unfortunately there are people in the singing business who really think this way.  To these people, the singing business is a rat race.  If you get lost or fall behind at one point, you've missed your chance.  You'll never make it.

To these people, your singing career must run on a tight schedule.  There are deadlines for everything.  If you don't achieve X by the time you're 25, you're a failure.  If you don't achieve Y by the time you're 30, you're done for.

To these people, there is no excuse for gettting distracted or held back.  If you let your personal life affect your singing, you aren't focused or dedicated enough.  If you can't always cope, you aren't strong enough.

Frankly, I think these people are full of crap.  How many singers do you know who NEVER get distracted by their personal life?  How many singers have you met who practise regularly and perform consistently EVERY SINGLE DAY, regardless of circumstance?  I'm pretty sure I've never met anyone like that.  That doesn't sound to me like a human being.  That sounds to me like a singing robot.


Sings a perfect high C... completely devoid of emotion.

The truth is, we all go through rough patches.  We all go through difficult times - breakups, bereavement, depression, addiction, and the list goes on...  This past week, many people have been sharing this brilliant blog post by Hyperbole and a Half on her experience of depression.  Seeing so many people share this post and relate to it, I couldn't help but think what a pervasive feeling depression is in our culture.  How many of us have felt deep unhappiness at some point in our lives?  How many of us have felt desperate, numb, anxious, lonely, or hopeless?

We all go through painful times like this.  And in the short term, it can feel like a disaster.  It can seem like you'll never recover.

But then, somehow, you do recover.  And what happens next?  According to these rat race fanatics, you should be written off as a singer.  You've lost too much time.  You'll never catch up.

I refuse to buy into that kind of thinking.  If I had bought into that kind of thinking, I would have given up singing ages ago.

Like most people, I've been through a few rough patches in my life.  Two major ones come to mind, both of which I've written about before.  Both of these times were a huge crisis that felt like the end of the world.  Both of them left me with more than a few scars.  And without a doubt, I lost a lot of time to them - time I could have spent becoming a better singer.  Nonetheless, I am very glad I lived through these rough patches.  In fact, I wouldn't want it any other way.

Wait, what??

Let me explain.  Firstly, in my early twenties, I struggled with an eating disorder.  When things started to get out of control I took a year off from studying music.  I stayed enrolled in the university, but took only academic courses.  I continued taking singing lessons - privately.  A lot of things happened in that year.  I shaved my head.  I got a boyfriend.  I learned about literature, philosophy, history, and Russian film comedy (yes, it does exist, and it was one of the best classes I ever took).  I made some new friends.  And I stopped binging and purging.

When I came back to music the next year, I got a lot of compliments on how much my singing had improved.  It seemed I had taken a huge leap forward in developing my singing technique.  To some people, it might seem that I had lost a year to my eating disorder.  But I hadn't lost a year - I had gained the rest of my life.  I came back with way more strength and confidence than I'd ever had before.  Overcoming my eating disorder had taught me to love myself.

My second major rough patch came after I finished my masters degree in Glasgow.  Following a bad breakup and an unsuccessful run of auditions, I lost my confidence and gave up singing.  I think this is actually a pretty common thing for singers to do - in fact, some people would say that if you haven't ever considered quitting, you haven't ever considered the reality of how tough this industry is.  Anyway, for me giving up on singing was exactly what I needed to do in order to realise just how much I wanted to sing.  By the time I left my office job to join the opera studio, I was absolutely certain that I wouldn't be happy doing anything else.  And I haven't looked back since.  I quit singing once.  Now I know I will never quit again.

Full steam ahead!

There are times when I wish these rough patches hadn't happened.  There are times when I wonder wistfully to myself, how much further ahead would I be by now if I hadn't gone through all that?  If I hadn't wasted all that time being sad, or doubting myself, or getting overwhelmed - how much more would I have progressed as a singer?

But that kind of thinking isn't constructive, and in fact it doesn't make any sense.  The truth is, if I didn't go through those rough patches, I wouldn't be the person I am today.  My rough patches made me stronger, more confident, and more determined.  They gave me wisdom and emotional fortitude.  They made me a better  person - and, I believe, a better singer.

We all go through our rough patches.  It doesn't mean we're weak - it only means we're human.  Nobody should ever be written off because they're struggling through a rough patch.  It may seem right now like they're falling behind, but they might just be getting ready to soar.  In the end, it's not about the time we lose struggling through the rough patches.  It's about the power we gain as we leave them behind.

Being Romy: Elle est moi et tu es moi

Do you know who Romy Schneider is?  Until recently, I had no idea who she was.  And yet Romy Schneider is the reason I haven't cut my hair since January.  She's the reason I've been watching French and German movies from the 60s and 70s.  She's the reason I've had my head in a score for the last three weeks.  And she's the reason I found myself walking home on Friday night feeling overwhelmingly sad.

Romy Schneider was a famous Austrian film actress.  I am one of three singers who will be playing her in a newly commissioned opera this June.  Ever since I was cast as one of the three Romys (more on that later), I have been reading all about her and watching her films.

I am really excited to be cast in this role because, to be honest, it's the first time I've been given a real role. Oh sure, I've had opera roles before. But up to this point, I've only been cast in two types of roles. Either I'm a boy - a page/solder/messenger/whatever who sings maybe 5 bars of insignificant music...

"Your majesty, I tremble in your presence whilst wearing this adorable historically accurate uniform to deliver an important message in recitative"

...Or I'm part of an ensemble like the Three Ladies in Magic Flute - three women who are completely anonymous and interchangeable.

Which one are you again?

This is the first time I've been given a character with real complexity and emotional depth. And not just any character, but a real person - a famous real person. This is a unique opportunity in terms of preparing a role.  It's not every day you can see your character in films, books, and television interviews.

Romy Schneider was born in Vienna in 1938.  Like many young actresses, her life was full of glamour and tragedy. There is a lot to say about Romy's life and career, but I'll try to summarise it for you briefly here.  Romy first achieved fame as a teenager by playing Empress Elizabeth of Austria in the popular "Sissi" film trilogy.

If you enjoy period costumes half as much as I do, trust me, you will LOVE these films.

She then outraged her German fans by becoming engaged to French actor/director Alain Delon and moving to Paris.  From the sweet and innocent Sissi, she moved on to more gritty and mature roles in French film.  Alain Delon later broke off their engagement, but they remained lifelong friends afterward.  Romy went on to marry twice and have two children.  Her firstborn, a son named David, died in a tragic accident when he was only 14.  He punctured a femoral artery when climbing a spiked fence.  Romy witnessed the accident herself and she was never the same afterward.  She turned to drinking.  When she was found dead in her Paris apartment at the age of 43, there was some speculation that it was caused by a lethal mix of alcohol and sleeping pills.

Romy Schneider, 23 September 1938 – 29 May 1982

I could spend years researching Romy Schneider.  But I don't have years - I have weeks.  There is less than a month to go before the premiere of the opera, and as we only got the score three weeks ago, I have lots of work to do!  When I'm not in rehearsals, or watching Romy Schneider films, or taking vitamins to help my hair grow out (we'll be getting "vintage" hairstyles in a few weeks and I've been told my hair needs to be longer), you will find me studying my score and listening to the helpful midi file which the composer has sent us.  Between the films, the music, and the staging rehearsals, I am just starting to get an idea of who Romy Schneider was...

Now, I mentioned that there are three of us playing Romy Schneider in the opera.  We have not been triple-cast in the same role.  Nor are we playing Romy at different ages.  We are all playing Romy at the same time.  Romy Schneider was a complicated woman full of contradictions.  And so we are each playing a different side of Romy's personality - Red Romy, Green Romy, and Yellow Romy.



The three Romys

We are a trio of sorts, and we often sing together.  But this is no anonymous ensemble like the Three Ladies.  Within the trio, we are very different personalities with very different fears and desires.  As our librettist explained to us, each colour represents a different aspect of Romy's life, and a different neurosis.  For Red Romy, the neurosis is attention.  Red Romy is obsessed with fame - with her relationship with her critics, the public, and the press.  For Green Romy, the neurosis is perfection.  Green Romy is the driven workaholic who always wants to be the best in her field.

For Yellow Romy - that's me - the neurosis is home and family.  Yellow Romy wants a marriage and children.  She wants a real home, where she can live a "normal" domestic life.  She is convinced that this is the only thing that will make her happy.  And when it doesn't make her happy, she can't face the truth that it isn't enough.

Fortunately - or perhaps, unfortunately? - pop culture is full of examples of women like this.  When I first encountered the idea of Yellow Romy, two TV characters immediately sprang to mind...

Betty Draper from Mad Men

...and Bree Van de Kamp from Desperate Housewives

These characters are something of an archetype.  They represent women who were raised to believe that the perfect domestic life - a husband, a home, and 2.5 children - is the only thing they should want, and that it should fulfill them entirely.  Inevitably, these women find that it isn't enough - maybe the marriage is dysfunctional, or maybe the kids are psychopaths, or maybe even when everything seems to be perfect it just feels empty.  But their real unhappiness is too difficult to bear, and so these women cover the truth with denial, pearl necklaces, and lots of valium.

Before I start launching into feminist theory though, let's get back to Romy Schneider.  As I've dug more into the role of Yellow Romy, I've discovered that she's more than just a desperate housewife.  She's an actress who's desperate for some stability in a very unstable life.  And that is something I can relate to very deeply.

I have been living abroad for almost four years now.  And while I'm glad to be following my passion and pursuing a career in opera, I often feel a bit lost at sea.  My family is in Canada, and even my boyfriend is miles away in Sweden.  My current flat isn't really my home - it's just a box that I'm inhabiting for the time being.  It feels blank and temporary.  I don't even have an oven or a microwave, or a real bed, or a stand-up shower. 

I have one of these.  For the record, it sucks.

I am always on the move, always figuring out what comes next.  It feels unstable, uncentred, insecure.  And while there's a part of me who is super-ambitious and determined to do whatever it takes to be an opera singer, there's another part of me that's very tired of all this upheaval.  A part of me who would love to settle down somewhere and start a family.  A part of me who looks with envy at other people my age who are "real grownups" with houses, husbands, cars, gardens, children - the works.

My boyfriend is lucky enough to live in a house in Gothenburg - a real house!  To him it's normal, but to me it's a huge luxury.  The last time I visited him he was completely mystified by my enthusiasm for staying in, baking bread, and cooking meals.  When he wanted to go out with friends, all I wanted to do was drink tea and watch television.  I know it must sound boring, but for me it was such an amazing novelty.  I don't have a home like that in Ghent, and it's something I miss a lot.

So I completely understand Yellow Romy's desperation to create a family and a home.  And I completely understand the conflict she feels between her ambitions as an actress and her yearnings for stability and domesticity.

Hmmm....

It's an amazing experience, being able to delve into a role and inhabit a character's world.  But it can also be overwhelming.

I have a lot of emotional content to explore as Yellow Romy, from the tense duet I sing with my husband about our dysfunctional marriage, to the ironically triumphant canon I sing about giving birth at the hospital while he stayed at home sleeping.  When I'm not being controlled by my husband or abused by my stepfather (Romy's stepfather allegedly took an "unhealthy interest" in her, and he probably sexually abused her), I'm being micromanaged by a fame-hungry stage mother (Romy's mother managed her career and often appeared in films with her when she was younger).  And as the more maternal of the three Romys, I am often sympathising with the others' suffering.  I absorb Green Romy's anxiety as she's bullied by a power-hungry director.  I absorb Red Romy's grief when Alain Delon leaves her.  It's a lot to take in.

This is why, walking home on Friday night after a run-through of Act 1, I found myself feeling extremely depressed.  I have experienced so many intense emotions this week as Romy Schneider.  It's exhausting.

Is it possible to get too much into character?  Can a role be dangerous for your mental health?  As a friend told me yesterday, the line between yourself and a character can at times be very thin.  But for reasons of self preservation, it's important to remember that the line is there.

And so, as I go into another week of being Romy Schneider, I'm doing my best to continue identifying with her.  But I'm also remembering the line, no matter how thin it is - for safety's sake.

On believing in yourself...

I have always been a singer first and an actor second.  I started developing my musicianship and my singing technique long before I started to act on stage.  I took piano lessons and sang in choirs, and later on I began private voice lessons.  But I never took acting classes or joined a drama club.  In the course of my singing career, acting was something that just kind of happened to me.  It was like those parents that teach their kids to swim by throwing them into a pool.  At one point someone just plopped me on a stage and said "act".

I suppose some people would respond to this approach well.  They would act naturally, using their intuition.  But not me.  My response was more like this...

Uhhh... what?

I'm not the kind of person who listens to their intuition.  I like to learn things methodically.  I like to know exactly how I'm doing something, and why.  So when I was told to act, without any tools or method, without any guidance or technique, I got scared.  I didn't understand what to do.  I guess I saw that there was no one right answer and that kind of freaked me out.

As I continued my singing education, I never felt confident about my acting.  I thought some lucky people were just naturals at it, and I wasn't one of them.  People were always telling me that my acting was a weak spot.  And so I kept telling myself the same deadly words. 

"I can't."

These insidious words stayed with me all the time.  Eventually, they were what caused me to shy away from opera and pursue concert singing instead.  By singing in concerts, I could avoid the scary prospect of running around onstage, doing all kinds of crazy things and acting all kinds of crazy emotions.  I could essentially isolate my technique and musicianship and just be a "singing head".

Park and bark - sounds pretty good to me!

Eventually it dawned on me that nobody makes an entire career singing concerts anymore, and I began seriously pursuing opera.  But by this point it was too late.  I already had a firm idea fixed into my head: I can't act.  And so, even now that I am in an opera studio, this idea holds me back every day.

It's not that I don't try to act.  Of course I know it's something I have to do.  But I never do it with any amount of conviction.  I never take risks.  I never really go for it.  And it shows.  I'm always being told that I wasn't expressive enough, I didn't go far enough, I didn't make it big enough.  It frustrates me to no end.  I want so much to be that powerful actor that gives the audience goosebumps.  But what really happens is that I try just hard enough so that I can tell myself I'm trying.  I'm too afraid to really do it.  I'm too afraid to take the plunge.

Eek!

This week we did some sessions with a fantastic Belgian director, and he saw right through me.  He knew there was a step to be taken and I didn't dare to take it.  He asked me about my background, and I explained it to him.  I told him how I had worked in an office and sung in concerts, and I hadn't had much experience in opera.  I told him that acting was still very new to me.  I told him I wasn't a natural like some people were.  I told him that nobody had ever properly taught me how to act.

Basically, I told him a load of excuses.  And he dismissed them all.

This director told me a difficult truth.  A truth that's always been somewhere, tickling at the back of my mind.  A truth I've always brushed away, because I didn't want to believe it, because I couldn't bear facing it, because I couldn't stand thinking about what it implied.  The difficult truth is this: nobody can teach me to act.  It's just something that I do.  And either I do it or I don't.

In fact, the difference between acting and not acting lies in two very powerful words.

"I can".

President Obama's advice on acting.

The director told me it was very simple - either I go for it all the way, or I never dare and I never learn to act.  After this moment of truth, he asked me to sing Prince Orlovsky's aria, and to go as far with it as I could.

For those of you who don't know, Prince Orlovsky is the host of the big party in Die Fledermaus.  He's a very strange man, and a complete alcoholic.  In his aria, he explains that if his guests don't keep up with his drinking he will throw them out the door.  So basically I had to act drunk and aggressive, and make my imaginary guests feel as uncomfortable as possible.

I had a long table and some chairs to work with.  And as a starting point - this is just a starting point, mind you - the director told me to try prowling around on top of the table like a lion.

Prince Orlovsky meets the Lion King.

Normally I would freeze up in this situation.  I hate doing crazy things like this.  I always feel like I'm going to "do it wrong" and end up looking stupid.  But this time was different.  This time I told myself "I can".  I gave myself permission to act as stupid and weird and drunk as I could possibly imagine.

I prowled around like a lion on top of the table.  I swiped at imaginary guests with my paws.  I took off my shoes and threw them away.  I rolled around in a drunken stupor.

I stopped worrying about doing things right and lived in the moment.  And you know what?  It was pretty good fun.

In retrospect, I think it was the first time that I really acted.

Dr Strangelove, or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love The Stage.

All this time, I have been trying to act, but at the same time I've been saying to myself, "I can't".  I can't, I can't, I can't.  These may seem like only words, but they are actually extremely dangerous weapons.  If you say the words "I can't" to yourself enough times, the words turn into a belief.  As the belief strengthens, it turns into the type of action - or lack of action - which reinforces itself.  The more you tell yourself "I can't", the more true those words become.

The words you say to yourself are incredibly powerful.  They have a strong influence on how you think and act.  If you turn "I can't" into "I can", eventually you will start to think and act like someone who can.  But only you have the power to make this change.

When I gave up singing and went into arts administration, I remember that a small part of me hoped that someone would try to stop me.  A small part of me wanted someone to say "no, you are a really good singer and you can't give up".  But nobody did this for me.  Nobody told me I should keep pursuing singing.  That was something I had to figure out on my own.

When it comes down to it, there is only so much encouragement and motivation that you can expect from your friends, your teachers, and your mentors.  When it comes down to it, you have to be the ones who believes in yourself.  You have to be the one who says "I can".  Once you say that, and really believe it, you will be amazed by just how true it is.