What's the first thing a soprano does in the morning? Goes home.

Or how about this one? A Spanish tenor, a South African baritone, an English bass, a Chinese mezzo, a German dramatic soprano and an American coloratura soprano walk into a bar ...

Well, okay, it’s not a bar, it’s a theater canteen. And it’s not a bad joke, it’s just intermission at the opera.

After the show is over, some of the singers return to their homes (they’re fest at the theater and they live in this town), and the others, working as guests, return to their hotel rooms, only to leave the next morning for their respective homes. No, not Spain nor South Africa, China or America, but to some town in Germany where they have set up shop for their freelance opera career, and where they now call “home.” Home is, after all, where your stuff is.

But after six weeks of intense rehearsals, this strange brew of a cast and crew has somehow become your family. And your best friends are the characters of various television series you’ve downloaded to keep you entertained [cue theme song]:

♫ ♫ I’ll be there for you ‘cause you’re there for me, too. 

doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo doo....♫ ♫

The scenery may be different, and the plot is not the same, but each production gives you a very familiar feeling - to rehearse, make new friends, perform together and share in this imaginary world for a few hours in front of a live audience, celebrate afterwards and then sleep peacefully. It is not always wine and roses, but it is always very real. At least to me.

Ever since I started this business, I envisioned having a home base (i.e. somewhere to put my stuff), somewhere to come back to between adventures. Some adventures lasted longer than others and ended up becoming home base by default - Düsseldorf for six years, Coburg for four. And then I was free. Free to choose where I wanted to live because nothing and no one was determining that for me. So, for various good reasons, out of all the cities in the entire world, I chose Frankfurt.

Although I so much enjoy being greeted by the Frankfurt (Mainhattan) skyline upon returning home from another town, and although I adore my apartment and my neighborhood - and the people I’ve known in Frankfurt, some for almost 10 years - I’m realizing that “home” has to be something more than just a place to hang my proverbial hat. 

Even in the most familiar of surroundings, amongst my belongings -- my vintage copper kitchen utensils, my couch, my bed, my pictures, my towels, my 31 pairs of shoes -- I am still not always quite as comfortable as I am when living out of a suitcase in some crappy little apartment doing what I believe to be what I was put on this Earth to do.

We are not really connected to any place or even to any people except our parents, our siblings and eventually our partners and children. So aside from that, what comprises a “home” and how do we know where we belong? And will we recognize it when and if we get there?

Maybe it is a bad joke, after all.

Confessions of a Staunch Perfectionist

This is a photograph of me right after I pulled my head out of my ass (and you thought I was naturally brunette - ha!).

At some point in the last few weeks, I discovered that it’s okay to make mistakes - probably because I’ve made quite a few recently and survived. But why this pearl of wisdom has eluded me for so long is a mystery to me, especially since I can now remember having learned this lesson decades ago: a pivotal moment in my life which determined the professional path I would soon take to the stage. 

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In my elementary school, as in many others, lunch was served in a multi-purpose room. During lunch time it was the cafeteria, obviously, and throughout the day it was used as a gymnasium, an assembly room and, for the school performances, a theater. 

Three staff members from Cragin Elementary will always remain emblazoned in my memory: Mario the Italian janitor, Goofy the Mexican janitor (we called him Goofy because he was always wearing a T-Shirt with Goofy on it), and Mrs. White, the cafeteria monitor. I would love to know how this woman, hailing from what sounded like New York or New Jersey, ended up in Tucson, Arizona supervising a bunch of school kids while they ate. Her voice could penetrate the entire gymnasium when she shouted “Quiet!” (pronounced:  kwaaaaaa-yit), or “Announcement!” (pronounced: a-naaaaaaaaaauuuuuuuns-smint).

The rule was, when Mrs. White shouted “Quiet!” we were supposed to be, well, quiet. Sometimes she would even say “Silent” (pronounced: soooooy-lint), that’s how kwaaaaa-yit we were supposed to be. And if you weren’t quiet, you got in trouble. She would point at you with her wrinkly, sausagey pointer finger and say, “You! To the stage!”

(Can you see where I’m going with this?)

Yes, in this multi-purpose room, there was a stage, and when you got in trouble during lunch, the only way Mrs. White could keep an eye on you was if you went to the stage. We didn’t have to actually stand ON the stage, rather at the edge of it, where we could put our lunch tray up on the stage floor and continue eating while standing. Alone. For all the other kids to see.

Now I had been to the stage on several occasions - playing clarinet in the school band, singing in the school choir, or acting in the school’s Christmas pageant written by my sixth grade teacher, Miss Rinker (who, incidentally, took our class to go see La Traviata, and even gave me a ride home in her Toyota Chinook). But I had NEVER been to the stage for getting in trouble. Except for one day ...

One day in third grade during lunch, the girl sitting next to me asked me a question. I don’t remember who the girl was, or what she asked me, but those of you who know me well, know that I love to finish my sentences, and I don’t like being interrupted. It was, then, most unfortunate that Mrs. White shouted “Quiet!” at the precise moment that I was in the middle of giving this girl her answer.

“Yyyeeeeeeeeeewwww! To the staaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-jjjjuh!”

I couldn’t believe it. I had to go to the stage? Moi?? But I was so well-behaved! 

I was traumatized. I couldn’t help it. My eyes welled up with tears and my chin started to quiver. I began to cry. “But I was just answering her question!” I pleaded (already trying to shift the blame away from me, of course, another favorite trick of mine). Mrs. White didn’t scream. Instead she spoke very softly and sweetly and tried to console me by saying, “It’s okay. Lots of kids have to go to the stage.” I remember looking across the stage at Tina Springer with her big, blonde ponytail, smiling at me. I don’t know why she had been sent to the stage, but I do remember that she played the lead role in Ray Bradbury's “All Summer in a Day” -- our class project about making films. I was a cameraman. I was robbed (that’s probably why she had to go to the stage - for stealing the lead role away from me!).

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Never again did I have to go to the stage, not in that capacity at least. The few times I got “in trouble” after that were very perplexing, probably because I never intended to misbehave in the first place, nor have I ever learned how to deal with it. 

It’s hard to believe that this deficiency in my basic human training still has an effect on my adult life. Just a couple months ago when I’d forgotten a bit of staging during a rehearsal and got yelled at by the director, the nine-year-old girl in me heard Mrs. White’s booming voice saying, “You! To the stage!” (confusing, indeed, since I was already on it), welled up with tears and ran offstage. Perhaps it was then, when I later apologized to the director for my outburst, and when he told me what a great job I was doing, that I realized getting in trouble is not equivalent to dislike, and perfection is only a goal, not a reality.

Armed with this new attitude, I went to an audition last week with an aria that I hadn’t sung in quite a while. Somewhere in the middle of the da capo I got lost. The two bars rest turned into a rather long interlude when it occurred to me that I should have been singing for the last four bars. Oops. Thinking that the pianist might go back and pick me up where I sort of left off (which would have been an amazing feat on his part in the midst of all that baroque ornamentation), I dared re-entry at an appropriate cadence. I noticed he was playing the final bars of the piece long before I was finished, so I just stopped and began to laugh. “Sorry,” I said, “I must’ve gotten lost!!” The adjudicators laughed as well, and said they hadn’t noticed since they were already discussing amongst themselves (hopefully about my fabulous phrasing, impeccable intonation and captivating character). “No problem, I’ve already sung the highest note,” I joked. “Yes, we noticed!” they replied.

I left the stage feeling better about that audition than any one I have ever sung. If for any reason they should decide not to hire me, I know it’s not because of my musical screw-up. Don’t get me wrong. This doesn’t mean that I’m happy about it when things go awry during an audition, or especially during a performance -- like forgetting the words to my own aria, or not finding my prop until I trip over it (not that this has ever happened to me -- especially not on Friday during my performance of Un Ballo in Maschera). The little slip-ups along the way are nothing to fret about. It only gives me gray hair -- which is precisely why I dye it! (see photo).

Being a great artist is not about avoiding mistakes. It’s about masterfully covering them up.

Size Doesn't Matter

"Oscar" in Verdi's Un Ballo in Maschera

 When I was preparing for my stint as Oscar in Un Ballo in Maschera, I made sure to bring plenty to do during my down time -- unwatched episodes of my favorite TV shows, a book, music for an upcoming concert. After all, Oscar only has two short arias to sing, and a couple ensemble numbers. I’m just the substitute for the house soprano who will be singing the bulk of the performances. Piece of cake. No biggie. Little did I know, however, that the director had something else in mind for this character. And as my colleague got sick during my first week of rehearsal, it was all of a sudden upon me to “create” this surprisingly demanding role. 

Oscar is on stage for practically the entire show - and when I’m not on stage, I’m either going to the bathroom, getting a drink of water, or changing my costume. So, snacking in the cantina or working crossword puzzles in the dressing room is not an option. Every opening and closing of the curtain is controlled by my character. Every entrance of every player depends on my gesture. The handing over of props and costumes, the switching on and off of the lights.... I am the puppet master, and it’s far bigger a responsibility than I was expecting when I packed my suitcase to come to this small town just six weeks ago. 

By no means am I complaining. I love the power vested in me, so to speak, to run the show. Here I was, expecting to sing one of the smaller roles in the opera, and I ended up practically having the lead. 

Big things come in small packages.

It makes me wonder, then, why I would get so bent out of shape in my old job when I often had to play second fiddle to other colleagues, sometimes even guests who were hired over my head to do roles I could well have done myself. 

Perspective, that’s why. 

As someone else was getting paid to sing Musetta while I had to sing 27 performances of an operetta, I could only think what an injustice was being done to me (and my résumé), and I let my pains be known. It was difficult for me to try and grasp their perspective - it’s cheaper to hire someone for only 10 Musettas compared to 27 operettas, and besides, they trusted in my ability to deliver what an operetta requires: nimbleness, strong dialog skills, stage presence, stamina. So, that's actually a good thing, right?

Through this past experience, I’m doing my best now to relate with my counterpart, the house soprano, who is approaching this situation from the other side of the spectrum. She has played much more significant roles during her time in this theater, has an engagement in a bigger house next season and even sings in New York from time to time. And now, as her final role in her home of six years, she’s been handed this bit part. Bad timing, that’s all. 

The hard reality is - and my colleague knows this as well as I do - no matter how much fun we’ve had with Oscar in this particular production, on paper it’s just a supporting role with two easy arias and a few ensemble bits. It’s not going to make that big of a difference in her career if she sings it or not. From my point of view, however, this “bit part” literally saved my life. Regardless of talent, my career path has not been as swift as hers. The offer to sing this role came at a time when I wasn’t sure whether to throw in the towel (see previous entry: Get The Fall Rolling)  Financially, Oscar came to my rescue, too.

Size doesn’t matter, because it’s all a matter of perspective. What’s important to you might be peanuts to someone else, and what seems to you to be an insignificant task might be the job offer of a lifetime for another. As I try to convey time and time again on this blog, opera is not always about the singing. And no matter how big and famous I get, I hope to always remember how I felt during this time - being grateful of the precious little gift that is being an opera singer.

Auld Acquaintance, New Again

One of the many colleagues I hope to meet again

This is the second time that I’ve spent New Year’s Eve in a theater with people I barely know. Six years ago, I had to jump in for double performances of Wiener Blut in Ulm, and ended up on the roof shooting firecrackers and drinking champagne at midnight. I would see some of those people three years later when I jumped in at the same theater for Mary Magdalene in Jesus Christ Superstar. And last year I filled in for Ines in IlTrovatore in Wiesbaden, where the director’s assistant was the same girl from Ulm back in 2005.

This time around, I celebrated New Year’s Eve in Hagen, where I’ve been hired as a guest for the double cast of Oscar in Un Ballo in Maschera. I’ve only known the colleagues here for four weeks, but ran into another guest soprano I used to sing with four years ago in Coburg. My new neighbor who is collecting my mail while I’m away is also a former Coburg colleague, working this season in Frankfurt.

So, what do we learn from all of this? The opera world is small, that’s for sure. Leave a good impression everywhere you go, you may need a favor later. I also learned that I love being amongst “theater people,” define that how you will. Furthermore, I also reaffirmed the fact that I really love to dance. But that’s another story.

Not only is the opera world small, but now for the first time I actually feel like I’m part of it. Instead of standing outside in the cold, looking through the frosty window at the happy people inside, I’m amongst them, cozy by the fire with my feet up, reminiscing about the operatic events of the past year:

New Year’s Eve 2009 I sang in a gala concert for the Kammeroper Frankfurt with some of my closest friends and favorite colleagues. The next day I headed back to Mönchengladbach where I wrapped up the production of Miss Donnithorne’s Maggot, one of the most challenging roles I’ve ever sung, if not the most challenging. While I was there, a colleague got sick, so I took over a few of her performances in Der Vetter aus Dingsda (and happened upon two tenors who had done the show with me three years previously in Coburg - see above: small world).

Then followed “Frauen, Natürlich!” at the Kammeroper Frankfurt - a somewhat silly music theater project in which I sang Mahler songs and tenor arias. Warum nicht? And then in the summer we did Die Lustige Weiber von Windsor in which I played the “parade” role of Frau Fluth. With the con tempo modern music ensemble, also in Frankfurt, I premiered a music theater piece called “The Real Buenos Aires” - a literary, dramatic, musical collage (at least that’s what they were calling it) based on a novel by Argentinian author Raul Argemí.

Those productions, as well as two weddings, a Christmas Eve mass and a handful of concerts, including part of Schumann’s Spanisches Liederspiel at my alma mater in Arizona, rounded off a fairly busy business year. And shortly before rehearsal begin for Un Ballo in Maschera in Hagen where I am now writing this, I sang a Gershwin recital which was extremely rewarding and of which I am especially proud. 

2010 was also a record year for auditions - seven! Doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s more per year than I’ve done since I got to Germany 12 years ago. Sometimes it takes an event like New Year’s Eve to look back and see the things you’ve actually accomplished in a year. Still, despite all my sowing, I was only able to reap about half of what I need to live on, which means I’ll have to cross my fingers that 2011 is doubly lucrative.

On the plan for 2011, I’ve got a bit part in Il Barbiere di Siviglia here in Hagen, one opera gala concert, and Die Zauberflöte with the Kammeroper Frankfurt. Seems rather grim, but I have to remind myself that last year at this time, I had no idea that I would have as much work as I ended up having. Besides, I can be sure that I’ll meet a familiar face or two along the way. 

We now return to our originally scheduled programming of cynical, critical takes on the opera world at .... the Grahamophone!

Are You Chorus or Against Us? Three Essays on Identity and Existence

WHAT’S ON YOUR MIND?

As I was walking down the Freßgass’  (Frankfurt’s fancy-schmancy pedestrian zone), I overheard a conversation between two teenagers on a date. The boy was frustrated that his girlfriend wanted to update her facebook status on her smart phone: “Why do you need to tell 500 people where you are right this very second and what you like or don’t like?” 

I can totally understand this dilemma -- facebook gets out of hand sometimes. One positive thing the facebook status has done for us, however, is force us to check in with ourselves from time to time. Take a quick peek under the hood - how’s everything running? 

What’s on your mind? Christine Graham doesn’t feel like singing.

From my current perspective - lounging on my fabulous corner sofa, the night sky aglow with light of the full moon, the last little bit of Nero D’Avola ready to sip, all cozy in my flannel shirt, sweats and fuzzy slippers -- the last thing that would occur to me to do right now is sing. Granted, it’s late at night, and the last thing my neighbors would want me to do right now is sing - and I won’t disappoint them. 

I sometimes feel guilty calling myself an opera singer if I don’t always have a song on my lips, buzzing to be sung. But I was relieved to find out, when reading an interview with rising star Peruvian tenor Juan Diego Florez, that he never sings when he’s at home. “Why not?”, they asked him. “I don’t feel like it,” he answered.

And why should he? 

Even though I spent an hour today coaching my audition arias with one of  Oper Frankfurt’s finest pianists, even though I had fun watching the video of my recent Gershwin recital, and even though I enjoyed rehearsing some music for an upcoming concert, right now in this very moment, I don’t feel like a “singer”. I’m just a woman sitting on the couch trying to put some ideas down on paper.

This is very hard to explain, and probably a stupid topic for a blog article (which also makes me doubt calling myself a ‘writer’), but it’s most likely something you’ve experienced yourself:

Oh, you’re a pilot! Well, that must be exciting, traveling so much. 

Oh, you’re a doctor! Well, you must feel so powerful, having people’s lives in your hands. 

Oh, you’re a cashier! Well, that’s .... interesting.

Chances are, the latter is the most interesting of them all. But because of his or her job, pun intended, the cashier may get short-changed. 

I guess I resent having a title, and having that title define who I am. True, true, I may be absolutely fabulous, charming, witty, and at times even glamorous, but it has nothing to do with me being an opera singer. That’s just how I am. Even if I were working the till at Aldi.

Christine Graham is glad she doesn’t have to work at Aldi. Yet.

Incognito in La Traviata, Seattle Opera 1996 (I'm on the right)

ARE YOU CHORUS OR AGAINST US?

Of all the existential crises one has to endure as an opera singer, probably the most damaging to the identity is being labelled as a chorister. There is a legendary stigma that goes with accepting a job in an opera chorus, the fear of a huge letter ‘C’ stamped on every résumé you send out, if not directly on your forehead. I have heard it to be true - once you sing in an opera chorus (beyond your initial years as a student or apprentice, that is), theaters will be hesitant to give you a job as a soloist.

Singing in the chorus forces you to give up many things:

• The characters you play don’t have names. 

• You play as part of a collective, and therefore have little or no say in rehearsing with a director (unlike the soloist who stays up half the night with the director, knocking back shots of whisky and talking about character development...).

• Your schedule prevents you from doing much else (hence no time to audition for those solo roles that you won’t get anyway because of the scarlet ‘C’ on your forehead).

• You give up hearing the sound of your own voice, because there will be some bitter diva-wanna-be standing next to you (or more likely, square in front of you) singing your same part in your ear.

But there is one thing that the chorister has that the soloist does not have:

Money.

In Germany, the most opera-friendly country on Earth, the theaters realize what they take away from a singer once he or she is given a position in the chorus. So to compensate, they are given a decent salary - sometimes up to twice as much as that of their soloist colleagues. Ergo, the chorister has one more thing that the soloist relinquishes in exchange for applause:

A life.

The girl in the chorus has those boots you’ve always wanted but couldn’t afford. She’s making a down payment on a car, and not worried about the monthly costs that follow. She knows that she’ll be done with rehearsal at precisely 1:00 p.m. and that she has every Monday off. She can schedule appointments in advance. If her dream of singing that two-line solo in Der Rosenkavalier is fulfilled, she’ll get that extra bonus to put in her kid’s college fund. Oh, and she can afford a kid, because her slot in the chorus is guaranteed to her, even after a paid maternity leave. The theater just hires someone to take her place until she gets back.

For about 5 minutes, I considered applying to be one of these substitutes. I mean, if I’m just a substitute, I won’t have to have the ‘C’ for chorus tattooed on my forehead, will I? And I certainly don’t think any less of the friends I know who have gone into the chorus for financial reasons, or even artistic ones. The chorus is just as much a part of an opera as a solo role is. Goodness knows it would be nice to sit back and relax and not have to think about money (or anything else for that matter) for a while.

Aside from some scheduling difficulties which may ensue, I just wasn’t able to warm up to the idea to auditioning for the chorus. Despite the fact that it would only be temporary, in a way it feels like giving up. Giving up the dream of doing what I already do, just more often and for more money. Giving up the time to organize more recitals like the one I just did with Gershwin music. Giving up the fight to prove to all the theaters who have turned me down that I’m damn good at what I do. But most importantly, giving up the way in which I prefer to experience opera theater - as a soloist.

Who knows? Maybe I wouldn’t get any other offers during that time, but I just have the feeling that, as soon as I sign on the dotted line, that’s when the soloist offer of a lifetime is going to present itself - and I would be contractually obligated to decline. Even worse, what would happen if I auditioned for the substitute job in the chorus ... and didn’t get it?

Sometimes, we do what we have to do to earn money.

And sometimes, we do what we have to do to keep our pride in tact.

After an audition.

YOU STILL HAVE TO AUDITION?

Of all the opera singers I know, only about about two or three of them no longer have to audition. And that’s just an assumption I’m making - I’d have to ask them to make sure that that’s true. I figure once you’ve sung at the MET, no one’s really expecting you to show up with 5 contrasting arias and a résumé.

This assumption is also one people make of me at this stage in my career (‘people’ as in regular people, not opera people). It’s true to a point - I no longer have to audition for the Kammeroper Frankfurt. And the last couple of guest contracts I’ve had have been almost handed to me. The audition was just a formality to make sure I didn’t suck. For the most part, however, potential employers won’t be familiar with the extent of my artistry, or know me well enough to trust that I’m reliable and capable. There’s no reason I should not have to go audition in person. It’s just part of the process, like any other job interview. 

There are, of course, a few differences in this job. It’s not like working at the bank for ten years and being rewarded with a gold watch and two more weeks of vacation. It’s not like working your way from dishwasher to restaurant manager -- and tell me honestly, how often has that happened, really? Unless you really fight your way to the top, no matter how exceptionally good you are, you never have to stop proving it.

For the ‘regular’ people out there, before you ask me why I still have to audition,  here are some of my previous blog entries which might help you to understand the job-hunting process of an opera singer:


Running to Stand Still

Expecting the Worst Got the Best of Me (Volume II)

Time is on my side

Have Voice Will Travel

Operatics Anonymous 
Single White Diva