In early January of 2009, I was competing in Denver, CO in the Metropolitan Opera Young Artist Competition preliminary competition. I got there about an hour before my time (which is my normal thing) and settled in. I tried to cover my nerves by talking too much chatted a little with people I knew from school who were there, looked over my music, sipped my water, etc. I had just come off of my Christmas vacation where I had sung at my church to rave reviews (of course…those are easy to get at church), I had had coachings with a very good local coach, I had worked on all my arias for several months to a year with my new and brilliant voice teacher and my hair was doing everything right that day. I was feeling pretty good. Then I sang...
Let me make one thing very clear: I sucked. I totally, completely, embarrassingly sucked that day. I was 29 years old with a master’s degree in voice performance, which should have made me a contender, but instead, I sucked so hard I really wanted to run away from the place and never come back. For my first selection, I sang…or butchered, rather…Donizetti’s “Regnava nel Silencio” from Lucia di Lammermoor. I ran out of breath on nearly every phrase…and I don’t mean I felt like I was running out, I literally ran out. I struggled through every single note I had to sing, and I was sure everyone could hear it. And to make matters worse, the judges asked me for a second selection. (While that might seem like a compliment, I think they had just decided to let everyone sing two arias that day.) I would’ve been quite content to walk off after my first aria and go start my crying in the bathroom, but I had to fumble my way through a second piece. I was still feeling out of breath after every phrase. And I was horrified.
I couldn’t understand how a 29 year old with a good voice teacher, a graduate degree, and a modest amount of performance experience could suck so badly in one day. I mean, sure, I was working a day job at a bank where I used my voice all day, and sure, I wasn’t getting regular lessons with my teacher due to schedule and finances…but what singer out there wasn’t doing those same things? Why was my voice such a problem for me?
And I noticed something else that day: the good singers that day really just opened their mouths and a great sound came out. Sure, for some of them their technique wasn’t completely even up and down the scale, but when it came time for them to sing, they just inhaled and sang. Why couldn’t I do that? For me, I would inhale, think about opening my voice, force my throat to open as much as I could, and sing through whatever semblance of “open” I could create. I felt like I was squeezing tooth-paste through a tube. I knew it wasn’t supposed to feel that way, but it took me so long to manage an “open throat” in my lessons. And even then, I couldn’t sustain that position for more than 15 minutes at a time. Just the simple act of beginning the sound was a huge ordeal for me. And I was noticing more and more vocal fatigue as I got older…which is what had brought me to my new teacher in the first place.
So directly after the Metropolitan fiasco, I went and cried for a while. Then, I had to go to work at my day-job. As I sat at work, I pondered why it was that other singers there that day, whether their technique was good or not, had more ease of vocal production then I did. Could it be something wrong with my voice? Nah. I had seen an ENT a year ago who said my voice was fine. My folds looked healthy. Was it my technique? Well, yeah, it wasn’t totally solid yet. I figured no one could suck as much as I did at my age and actually have good technique. But why was it so bad? Why did I feel like my voice and technique were never improving and even getting harder and harder to handle? I thought your late twenties into your early thirties were supposed to be when your voice was at its best, but it felt like mine was circling the drain.
I also thought about how I used to dance ballet when I was younger. (I know this is an abrupt transition, but just go with it.) I danced at my local company as a student for eight years, but my bow-legs, hips, and chest (thanks, Puberty!) killed my dream of being a ballerina. I had realized I wasn’t that talented at ballet a couple of years before I quit, but I kept doing it because I liked it so much. This was my truly horrifying thought: Was that what I had been doing with singing? Was I actually a completely untalented hack who keeps going when she should stop? Did that major university give me a master’s degree out of pity? I must have just been fooling myself all these years about having talent of some kind. How sad. And how completely heart breaking. I should probably just resign myself to being a church choir member (unpaid) and leave it at that.
This was my conclusion at the end of the day of the Met competition. Luckily for me, it was not the end of my singing...the sad conclusion to all the time, effort, and money put into the craft for nearly fifteen years. It was the beginning of a journey of a different type. It was a journey that gave me a new direction and passion, in addition to saving my singing.
Up next: Heading to the doctor.
Let me make one thing very clear: I sucked. I totally, completely, embarrassingly sucked that day. I was 29 years old with a master’s degree in voice performance, which should have made me a contender, but instead, I sucked so hard I really wanted to run away from the place and never come back. For my first selection, I sang…or butchered, rather…Donizetti’s “Regnava nel Silencio” from Lucia di Lammermoor. I ran out of breath on nearly every phrase…and I don’t mean I felt like I was running out, I literally ran out. I struggled through every single note I had to sing, and I was sure everyone could hear it. And to make matters worse, the judges asked me for a second selection. (While that might seem like a compliment, I think they had just decided to let everyone sing two arias that day.) I would’ve been quite content to walk off after my first aria and go start my crying in the bathroom, but I had to fumble my way through a second piece. I was still feeling out of breath after every phrase. And I was horrified.
I couldn’t understand how a 29 year old with a good voice teacher, a graduate degree, and a modest amount of performance experience could suck so badly in one day. I mean, sure, I was working a day job at a bank where I used my voice all day, and sure, I wasn’t getting regular lessons with my teacher due to schedule and finances…but what singer out there wasn’t doing those same things? Why was my voice such a problem for me?
And I noticed something else that day: the good singers that day really just opened their mouths and a great sound came out. Sure, for some of them their technique wasn’t completely even up and down the scale, but when it came time for them to sing, they just inhaled and sang. Why couldn’t I do that? For me, I would inhale, think about opening my voice, force my throat to open as much as I could, and sing through whatever semblance of “open” I could create. I felt like I was squeezing tooth-paste through a tube. I knew it wasn’t supposed to feel that way, but it took me so long to manage an “open throat” in my lessons. And even then, I couldn’t sustain that position for more than 15 minutes at a time. Just the simple act of beginning the sound was a huge ordeal for me. And I was noticing more and more vocal fatigue as I got older…which is what had brought me to my new teacher in the first place.
So directly after the Metropolitan fiasco, I went and cried for a while. Then, I had to go to work at my day-job. As I sat at work, I pondered why it was that other singers there that day, whether their technique was good or not, had more ease of vocal production then I did. Could it be something wrong with my voice? Nah. I had seen an ENT a year ago who said my voice was fine. My folds looked healthy. Was it my technique? Well, yeah, it wasn’t totally solid yet. I figured no one could suck as much as I did at my age and actually have good technique. But why was it so bad? Why did I feel like my voice and technique were never improving and even getting harder and harder to handle? I thought your late twenties into your early thirties were supposed to be when your voice was at its best, but it felt like mine was circling the drain.
I also thought about how I used to dance ballet when I was younger. (I know this is an abrupt transition, but just go with it.) I danced at my local company as a student for eight years, but my bow-legs, hips, and chest (thanks, Puberty!) killed my dream of being a ballerina. I had realized I wasn’t that talented at ballet a couple of years before I quit, but I kept doing it because I liked it so much. This was my truly horrifying thought: Was that what I had been doing with singing? Was I actually a completely untalented hack who keeps going when she should stop? Did that major university give me a master’s degree out of pity? I must have just been fooling myself all these years about having talent of some kind. How sad. And how completely heart breaking. I should probably just resign myself to being a church choir member (unpaid) and leave it at that.
This was my conclusion at the end of the day of the Met competition. Luckily for me, it was not the end of my singing...the sad conclusion to all the time, effort, and money put into the craft for nearly fifteen years. It was the beginning of a journey of a different type. It was a journey that gave me a new direction and passion, in addition to saving my singing.
Up next: Heading to the doctor.
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