My Favorite Literary Heroines, Part Two

     Maybe Mary Lennox seems an odd sort of character for a child to emulate, as she is selfish and sour and has abominable manners when we first meet her. However, all that was the result of her lack of proper upbringing; her rich mother was too self-absorbed to pay any attention to her, and an ayah, no matter how efficient, is no maternal substitute. What I love about Mary is her journey from spoiled brat to loyal friend and companion. She is a hopeful heroine. She taught me that however unlikely the original material, there is potential to be a good person, and a happy one. She also taught me that happiness is acquired, not given, and never to be taken for granted.
     As fond as I am of Mary, my favorite character in The Secret Garden is Dickon. What a shame that the 1993 film sold him rather short! He's such a unique and fascinating person in the book, totally without pretention or preconceptions; he sees the good in everyone, even Mary, unquestioningly and unconditionally. Yet he is no "goody two shoes." Dickon is a great role model for both boys and girls.

     What young girl doesn't love Jo March? So ahead of her time! Jo is a heroine for the ages, never dated, always relevant. I hardly need to expound on her exemplary qualities, as they are well known to the billions of readers of Little Women, but I would like to stress what I think is her greatest quality as a role model, which she shares with Mary Lennox: her potential to be a truly good woman. More than her intelligence and independent spirit, young girls should learn from her struggles to overcome her faults. And, though many are disappointed that she doesn't end up marrying Laurie, they should realize that a good man is more than a handsome appearance and solid financial state, and a good husband is more than someone to pal around with -- not to take anything away from Laurie, of course; but Jo was really very wise in recognizing that marriage with him would have been a great mistake.

     I admit, I also had a soft spot for Amy when I was a kid. For all her selfish, pretentious little ways, she turns out great -- plus, she hooks herself a great husband in Laurie. Wrong as he is for Jo, he's just perfect for Amy and she for him. Amy has the tact, which Jo doesn't have, to handle him and his mercurial temperament; and her sense of the tastefully elegant serves her well in running hers and Laurie's house. I can't imagine Jo managing the household staff of such a grand house, or ordering a suitable dinner for Laurie's business associates, nor can I see her being hostess at such a dinner. No, Jo is much better suited for the academic life.

     No one ever seems to think of gentle Beth as a heroine. Indeed, in the first few years of my acquaintance with the March girls, Beth was my least favorite. Perhaps she was Tasha Tudor's least favorite, too; her famous color illustrations include none of Beth, except in the group portraits. But in recent years I have come to love Beth most of all. I think the reason some people find her unappealing is that she's so shy and timid; they equate that with "weak." The truth is, Beth suffered from severe social anxiety disorder -- but because she had such a good, loving heart, she was able to overcome her affliction when she saw someone in need, like the lame Vaughn brother or the poor children in her neighborhood. That takes real courage, the kind that too often goes unnoticed. I also think too many of us need to learn the difference between a virtuous prig and a genuinely good, pious, and giving person. Maybe the reason we do find it difficult to see the difference is that true goodness makes us uncomfortable with ourselves. Understandable. No one likes to face his shortcomings. We can all learn from Beth.

     Does anyone besides me not "get" Meg? Of all Alcott's character portraits, Meg is the least clearly drawn and therefore the least memorable. But maybe Alcott made her so on purpose. In almost every family, there is a Meg -- sort of "white bread," if you will, neither here nor there, not flawed enough to be deeply interesting to us readers, nor angelic enough to make us face, albeit reluctantly, our own flaws. Maybe Meg is supposed to be the note of calm and predictability in a gallery of such challenging characters.

     Moving away from Alcott and Burnett, I of course have to list Laura Ingalls among my favorite heroines, though she, being a real-life person, belongs in another category. And you may be asking, "Where is Anne Shirley?" Well, I confess -- Anne didn't come along till much, much later in my life, so perhaps I'll write about her later.

     So many great characters, so many role models! All I can say, along with Jo March, is: "Christopher Columbus!"

All of the above illustrations were done by the legendary and beloved artist, Tasha Tudor.



My Favorite Literary Heroines, Part One

     First of all, let's take the word "literary" with a grain of salt, because I want to include heroines from juvenile books that critics may not put in that rather ambiguous category "literary fiction."

     Undoubtedly, my first heroine was Nancy Drew, and I'm sure she was the same for many a reader, for good reason. She was pretty, smart, quick-witted, resourceful, self-reliant, loyal, dependable, and had a host of wide-ranging talents: golf, tennis, skiing, ballet, tap dancing, piano -- you name it, she could do it. She was 16-18 years old and never seemed to go to school. She also never seemed to go to church. She never had to do chores or cook, because she had Hannah, the faithful housekeeper. She drove a blue convertible (in later editions, that is; in the early editions she drove a "maroon roadster";
the early Nancy also packed a pistol and wore loafers rather than the pumps of later editions). She was the only child of a wealthy, famous, and widowed lawyer who so respected her detective abilities that he often called on her to help him in his work. The police even kow-towed to Nancy. She had a fabulous boyfriend, even if he wasn't quite as smart as she. On top of all that, she must have had a skull of iron, because she was forever being knocked out by a blow on the head from behind (and no one ever suggested she have an X-ray afterward -- what the hell kind of father was Carson Drew, anyway?).

     Along with Nancy there were those other girl detectives created by "Carolyn Keene": the Dana Girls. They certainly never reached the iconic height that Nancy Drew did, but they had and still have a faithful cult following. Jean and Louise Dana are orphans raised by their sea captain Uncle Ned and his sister. They live most of the year in a girls' boarding school run by the kindly Mrs. Crandall. The older sister, Louise, is rather serious (though she isn't above a practical joke once in a while) and a bit more sensible than Jean, who has a tendency to be impulsive and emotional (hmm...they sound a bit like Elinor and Marianne Dashwood, don't they?). Both, of course, have an innate talent for detective work and somehow manage, in their semi-cloistered environment, to get involved in one adventure after another. To add to the shenanigans, they have comical nemeses in the form of the snobbish Lettie Briggs and her toadying shadow Ina Mason, their schoolmates at Starhurst School. Lettie and Ina try constantly to prove they are every bit as capable of solving mysteries as the Dana Girls, and are wont to play rather vicious jokes on them along the way. But, predictably, Louise and Jean always give them their comeuppance.

     I was never a Cherry Ames fan. For me, Sue Barton was the nursing bomb. Helen Dore Boylston, the author of seven "Sue Barton" books, was a nurse in real life; her experiences give her heroine and stories an authentic ring and credibility that the Cherry Ames books just don't have. Boylston also managed to create a lovable character in Sue, accessible, three-dimensional, with all-too-human foibles and fears; her two best chums, Kit and Connie, fellow nurses, are great characters in their own right, as is Sue's boyfriend and eventual husband, Dr. Bill Barry. Sue's journey, from her uncertain days as a student nurse, to her experiences nursing in the slums of Harlem, then a rural community, and finally a big hospital, to her true-to-life marital and maternal problems, is a journey that every young girl can identify with, whether or not she aspires to be a nurse. The fact that the actual medical information and nursing techniques described in the books are dated (they were written between 1936 and 1952) in no way detracts from the stories' appeal.

     Boylston also wrote four "Carol Page" books about an aspiring actress. In writing these, she relied on information given her by the famous stage star Eva Le Gallienne, who was her close friend and neighbor. Unfortunately, the "Carol" books are very hard to find and usually quite expensive due to their scarcity, but they're really wonderful.

    And then there is the irrepressible Trixie Belden. Trixie and her brothers and friends, who comprise the mystery-solving club, "The Bob-Whites of the Glen," provided so much delightful entertainment throughout my childhood and even now in my adulthood. They were funny, wacky, bumbling, and very, very human. They could have been anyone in my junior high school: there was Trixie, the cute, lively, street-smart one; her brother Mart, the brainy but wise-cracking nerd; her older brother Brian, just as brainy as Mart, but more sober and sensible; Honey, Trixie's best friend, pretty, wealthy, loyal, and sweet; their friend Diana, even prettier than Honey and even richer, but very insecure; and Jim, Honey's adopted brother, handsome, intelligent, thoughtful, not without a stubborn streak and temperament, and every girl's dream. Oh, and Dan, who joined the club a little later, a wayward boy with a heart of gold.

     All of these vivid, unforgettable characters and their adventures gave me such reading pleasure as a child and adolescent, I can't help keeping them with me now that I'm middle-aged, and I suspect, if I live that long, they will keep me company into my old age.

     

My "Friendship" with Barbara Pym

     For every passionate reader, there are certain authors he or she turns to again and again for the simple reason that reading them is like a cozy get-together with old friends. For me, one of those authors is Barbara Pym. Every couple of years, I re-read some of her novels to cleanse my reading palate and wash off the literary excess accumulated from reading more verbose writers. Her ability to paint a vivid character portrait with a single phrase, the humor that sneaks up on you and tweaks your most ticklish spot, and her uncanny gift for moving you unexpectedly with a strangely detached yet penetrating pathos -- these are the qualities I cherish in her writing. The fact that she was English and wrote the most "English" of all twentieth-century English novels further endears her to this unabashed Anglophile. Whenever I discuss her with an Englishman, his first comment is, "She's very English." To which I reply, "Yes, that's one of the reasons I like her so much."
     It was my love for Jane Austen, to whom she is often likened, that first prompted me to seek out Pym. I ran out of Jane and needed to find more of her ilk. Oddly, the first time I read Pym, I didn't care for her and couldn't even finish the novel, which was An Academic Question. In retrospect, I think that was the wrong novel to start with, it being one of her posthumously published novels that she never got around to revising herself. (Hazel Holt prepared the manuscript for publication.) I decided to give Barbara another chance a few years later, happily with Excellent Women, her most widely-read title and considered by many to be her best. I was hooked for life. Lesson learned -- when embarking on a writer who is new to you, always do a little research first, to find out which is his/her most popular and/or acclaimed work. No point in trusting your own judgment and risking a less than impressive first impression.
     Unfortunately, since she is dead, there will most probably be no more new Pym for me to delight in, though I understand there is still unpublished material lying around. After devouring all her novels, plus A Very Private Eye (diaries and letters), A Lot to Ask (Holt's biography), and many critical writings on her work, I scouted around for similar authors ("similar" according to reviewers and dust jacket blurbs): Anita Brookner (too relentlessly sober), Elizabeth Bowen (too dense with sensibility), Muriel Spark (too barbed and quirky), Elizabeth Taylor (closer, but still too far), and others. (With the exception of Spark, I do very much like these authors for their own particular merits, and read them regularly.) I came to the conclusion that no one quite matches Pym's unique blend of gentle/wry/subtly bawdy humor, her detached/penetrating perspicacity, and that dead-on-target verbal economy which is the hallmark of a truly gifted writer. So I will content myself with re-readings every couple of years. After all, I don't see even my very best friends more often than that, so each reunion is truly a time to treasure. Why should Barbara be any different?

The Bitter and the Sweet

     As this is the first Thanksgiving without Dad, I can't help being more than usually reflective. I remember that in earlier years, Dad's main culinary contribution to our Thanksgiving meals was his mashed potatoes, made extra special by adding an egg while smashing the still-hot potatoes. (Don't worry; the heat was enough to cook the egg.) Though my intellect perceives his physical absence, my heart and deeper instincts know that the cliché is true: he is still with us in spirit.

     My father was not a talkative man, except when people encouraged him to speak of his experiences in World War II. At family gatherings he usually sat quietly at the head of the table, eating slowly while listening to the constant babble going on around him. Ours is, after all, a family dominated by strong, opinionated, funny women with penetrating voices. (There is also my laid back brother with his dry, sly wit.) In later years, when Dad was even more quiet, I wondered what he thought of all our chatter on literature, films, and food. He certainly shared few of our tastes—while we would devour Austen, he preferred war accounts; while we would laugh over It's Complicated, he preferred Zulu; and while we would rhapsodize over poached salmon with asparagus vinaigrette, he would happily consume a plateful of fried rice with sardines.

     Just the other day, my mother and sister and I were talking about the merits of freshly grated coconut. We recalled how Dad would take a coconut and crack it over a pan in the sink—he turned the coconut over and over in his hands, somehow found exactly the right spot, then whacked it with the blunt side of a cleaver. The two halves always broke cleanly without shattering, and the pure coconut water would gush out into the pan. After cracking all the coconuts, he would then sit in the middle of the kitchen on his special grater—a sort of wooden footstool-like contraption with a round, serrated blade protruding from one end.



     He'd place a large cake pan underneath the blade, sit on the grater, and scrape one coconut half after another until there was a snowy mound of moist, fragrant flakes in the pan. Then he would give me the shells so I could scrape out what meat was left with a grapefruit spoon. Ahhhh....... Packaged coconut tastes like Styrofoam beside such ambrosia! My mother would wash the freshly grated meat, squeezing all the good milk out to be used in the broth of ginataan, the Filipino dessert "stew," a warm concoction containing sweet potatoes, sweet rice balls, and bananas; the meat was usually used for palitaw, delectable poached patties made of sweet rice flour, coated with fresh coconut and sprinkled lightly with white or brown sugar.
 

ampalaya, or "bitter melon"

 

     Dad's home-grown produce showed up on our table regularly. He loved growing the vegetables he grew up eating in his native country: ampalaya (known to non-Filipinos as bitter melon, the odd-looking green squash with little irregular bumps all over it), sitaw (very long, skinny green beans), and Philippine eggplant and tomatoes. He would tend to his garden whenever the weather allowed; in the hottest summer months I remember him in his wide-brimmed straw hat, long white pants, and long-sleeved white cotton shirt, working among his vines and shrubs until Mom called him in to supper: "Basta kanà!" ("Enough now!")

     We miss him, of course. I look at his rocking chair in the living room, and, with my mind's eye, I see him sitting there, and with my mind's ear I hear myself asking him, "Are you cold? Do you want your balabal (blanket)?"

     Thanksgiving is not the same. But we are not without him.

A History of Reading

     If I had to characterize my family with one word, it would be "readers." We are all of us passionate about the written word, and not a family meal or gathering goes by without some discussion about literature and heated opinions on film adaptations of our favorite books. Although our individual tastes in authors and genres differ somewhat, they find a solid common ground in the works of Jane Austen, a taste which was cultivated long before Colin Firth's Darcy, Emma Thompson's Elinor, and the Jane Mania which those now beloved portrayals ignited.
     One of my earliest memories is of a book my sister Celia made for me before I began school -- it was an alphabet book with drawings of various things that began with each of the letters. With that simple tool, she taught me to read. I remember one particular day not long after, when I opened one of her "Dana Girls" mysteries and found to my delight that I could read it! I was so excited, I ran to her, flourishing the book and panting: "Listen, listen! -- 'Louise Dana, a pretty, dark-haired girl of seventeen, paused in the doorway with an armful of paper novelties.'" (Have any of us voracious readers ever forgotten the first real sentence we were able to read?) From that day, a whole world of adventure, romance, humor, and sorrow opened up before my eager eyes. It was somewhat of a damper when I did begin going to school and found that I had to revert to "See Tip run. Run, Tip, run."
     If the school year was spent reading the chronicles of such fascinating personages as Dick and Jane and their little dog Tip, my parents provided more than a compromise. Every Sunday after church during our summer vacations, they took my siblings and me to the library on post (we were living in Ft. Sam Houston). We were each allowed to check out five books for the week, of any genre and author that appealed to us, and we were encouraged to read them all before the next Sunday. Admittedly, I didn't always manage to finish my five, but I gave it a good shot, and zipped through the "B is for Betsy" series, Beezus and Romona, the "Little House" books, and other juvenile fiction including one of my very favorites, They Loved to Laugh by Katherine Worth. After starting piano lessons, I broadened my reading list with lives of the composers.
     While Celia was the one who taught me to read, it was my brother George who sparked my interest in the actual physicality of books -- the quality of the binding, the art of illustration, fine editions. Every Christmas he gave me a treasure. One was Alice's Adventures under Ground in a facsimile edition of Carroll's handwritten manuscript; others were first issues of the famous and beloved Tasha Tudor-illustrated editions of The Secret Garden and Little Women; he also gave me my first Jane Austen -- Pride and Prejudice -- in the Collins dark blue leatherette binding, which is my favorite edition of Jane's books. These trophies grace my shelves to this day, though I have since purchased other editions of the same titles. (I have never believed in having just one copy of any favorite!)
     I am forever grateful that I come from a family that places such importance on reading, which I truly believe is the bedrock of education. Before you place a child in front of a computer, put a real book in his hands. You will have given him one of the greatest gifts ever to be had in life.
    

A Different Kind of Grief

      When I was in college, I stopped going to Mass and turned away from my faith. I played hooky and flunked most of my classes. I embarked on a series of, shall we say, "inappropriate" relationships. I suddenly couldn't write poetry anymore. Twenty-eight years later, my therapist put me under hypnosis one afternoon and asked me to complete this sentence: When Alice died ___ . In a later session, she told me what I had said: I died too.   

      I lost my older sister Alice to an unexpected, violent death when I was eighteen years old, and I never connected her death—or rather, the repression of my grief over her death—to the downward spiral my life took shortly after. It could very well be that everyone around me saw the connection, but I was so deep in denial, it took twenty-eight years and a hypnotherapist to open my eyes. With hindsight, of course, it all seems very logical. Textbook, you might say.

     In the meantime, I had returned to the Church and followed a call to religious life, as my readers already know; after nearly two and a half years in the monastery I returned to my parents' house and have since then devoted my life to helping my mother care for my infirm father. In the subsequent years, I watched his steady physical decline, thinking almost daily of the time he would leave us for that better world which is our true home, and praying that my recovered faith would stave off a repeat occurence of long ago, when Alice died and my repressed grief caused me to turn away from God. More than losing my father, the thought of once again losing my faith, perhaps forever, terrified me. Death, after all, is inevitable—but being deprived of Heaven is a consequence of one's own will and free choice.

     Did I actually choose, all those years ago? Was it a conscious choice? Obviously not, since it took me twenty-eight years to realize what happened. But that's precisely why I was so terrified about my father's imminent passing. Would my faith now prove stronger than my subconscious?

     Only one thing can stay the soul in the midst of all that fear: prayer. That wordless kind of prayer when you place yourself like a trusting child in God's loving arms.

     When my father did enter eternal life last week, I felt no sadness for him. I was and am sad for my mother, but not for him. He's home at last. My heart and mind—and my subconscious—are certain of that. I couldn't grieve for Alice when I was eighteen, and I can't grieve for my father now—but thank God in heaven, the reasons are completely different.

My Father

MSG Benjamin C. Austria

"...the time of my departure has come. I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, will award to me on that Day, and not only to me but also to all who have loved his appearing."  2 Timothy 4:6b-8

 

 

 

On What an Opera Coach Does

     Some years ago when I was working for the Houston Grand Opera, I was asked by the editor of the company's official magazine, Opera Cues, to write an article discussing exactly what was involved in my job. My official title was Assistant Conductor/Assistant Chorus Master; the editor was interested primarily in the first part of that title. In all major American opera companies, "Assistant Conductor" doesn't necessarily imply that that person is a conductor per se; he/she may or may not actually conduct performances. Rather, it is an all-embracing term, just as maestro is in Italian. An assistant conductor is a pianist and a coach; someone who has various skills, including basic conducting skills, with which to execute numerous jobs in the opera house. "Assistant Conductor" is the formal title used on paper. Around the theater, that person is usually referred to, simply, as a "coach"; in an opera program, on the page listing the cast, etc., he/she is usually listed under "Musical Preparation."

     Here is the article that I wrote for Opera Cues:

     "I work at the opera."

     "Oh, really? What do you do, exactly?"

     "I'm a coach."

     "Oh." Puzzled look.

     And that's where I usually leave it, unless I'm pressed for further information—in which case I feel compelled to ask, "Are you sure you want to know? Have you got an hour?"

     Don't get me wrong—it's not that I don't like talking about my work; it's just that it's hard to describe in twenty words or less. Being a coach, especially one employed at a major opera company, is a multi-faceted, highly specialized job, the qualifications for which are daunting enough to send some pianists fleeing to other lines of work; nor are all of them willing to remain behind the scenes, or to expend their skills playing music that wasn't written for the piano. Still others start out believing that opera is their calling, only to discover that it's more demanding and time-consuming than they had bargained for, so they leave the business in favor of another career. I myself have had fleeting visions of donning a MacDonald's cap. But only very fleeting. Despite the suffering we may undergo learning a Strauss score, or sitting through a three-hour supernumerary rehearsal and playing maybe ten notes, those of us who do stick with it take great pride in "playing" our part in this amazing art form.

     After a few dogged years of freelancing (which means spending more time driving from job to job than actually playing the piano), I was very fortunate in 1989 to be accepted by the Houston Grand Opera Studio, one of the best apprenticeships in the country, not only for singers, but also for young coaches. In addition to taking language classes and conducting lessons and being coached by more experienced colleagues, it is very much on-the-job-training, doing all the things regular music staff members do, only in lesser amounts and always under the supervision of the Head of Music Staff. Those who rise to the challenges and successfully make it through their apprenticeships are ready to be full-fledged music staff members at any opera house.

     So what exactly does a coach do? One of my favorite duties is working one-on-one with singers, helping them to learn new roles, rework old ones, and sometimes to prepare oratorio solos or recital programs. This of course means that we coaches must be familiar with the "standard repertory" (a mere five hundred years' worth) and all the different vocal styles and musical traditions associated with the various eras and composers, e. g., the vast differences between Monteverdi and Verdi or Piccini and Puccini. We are not voice teachers, whose main concern is vocal technique; however, we have to know enough about technique so that we can offer a singer well-informed criticisms, such as, "Your open e vowel loses focus in the middle register"—which, by the way, is a common problem particularly in female voices; but let's not go into that.

     Speaking of open e vowels brings us to language. Knowing the correct pronunciation of Italian, French, and German is absolutely essential, as well as having a healthy knowledge of grammar and vocabulary. Proficiency in Russian, and nowadays Czech, is helpful but not obligatory—a good thing, since my Russian is limited to da and nyet and my Czech is zilch. Fluency is a nice bonus, but, life being short, one is better off just knowing one or two languages as intimately as possible, definitely Italian since it is the most extensively used. Singers should do their own translating, although they sometimes need our help with more obscure words or cross-eyed syntax. Diction, however, is beaten into them (er, that is, fine-tuned) by the coach. Also fine-tuned are notes and rhythms, interpretation, intonation, phrasing, musicality, and—well, everything. Furthermore, in helping a singer learn a role, the coach must sing all the other roles (while playing) so that the singer can learn his cues. (Did I mention this was a tough job?) Hopefully, this whole process will enable the singer to go to his first rehearsal with confidence and aplomb and ultimately deliver a fine performance.

     The first rehearsal of a production can be a bit unnerving for the coaches. Another of our duties is to play for all stagings in the rehearsal room, as well as technical rehearsals in the theater. If the conductor is an unknown quantity to us, we pray to the powers above that his or her beat pattern is clear and that we won't get dirty looks if we stray slightly from the tempo; otherwise, we're in for three or four weeks of Rehearsal Pianist Hell. Fortunately, in my own experience at least, that has rarely been the case.

     Before all those rehearsals and coachings even begin, there is our own preparation to worry about. Depending on the difficulty of the score and whether or not we've played it before, we can spend weeks or even months translating, studying, and practicing. I spent four months learning Elektra, for example, admittedly only a one-act opera, but chock-full-o' notes that don't lie easily under the hands. Operas, after all, were not written for the piano; we cease to be pianists and in effect become orchestras with only ten fingers. Needless to say, above-average technique and musicianship are definite assets. And because we are the "orchestra" in rehearsals, we must spend long hours studying the orchestral score, comparing it with the piano reduction in the vocal score so that we know what instrumentation we're trying to simulate at any given moment; also to correct errors and add important things from the orchestral score which have been left out of the piano reduction.

     Basic conducting skills are necessary, since we are often called upon in performances to conduct off-stage instruments (called "banda") or chorus. This involves gluing your eyes to a television monitor, which displays the (hopefully) friendly image of the maestro, and relaying his (hopefully) clear beat to your banda or chorus. Personal note: I defy any of my colleagues to tell me that this is a gratifying task. To quote one of them: "It's either completely wrong, or nobody notices it." At its worst, off-stage conducting can be stressful and thankless; at its best ... nothing comes to mind.

     Sometimes we do come out from behind the scenes to play a keyboard part in the orchestra, or to play recitatives. (Another personal note: I love playing recitatives!) Then there are various kinds of auditions for which we function as accompanist: those for the company itself (called "house auditions"), those for the Studio, and also those for chorus. The latter two fall into the category of "cattle call" auditions and require the pianist to play up to five or six hours' worth of arias in one day. I'm frequently asked by people not in the business, "Do you practice these pieces or rehearse with the singers beforehand?" Ninety-nine percent of the time, no. As I mentioned before, standard repertory should be as familiar to us as the Pledge of Allegiance, so no matter what piece of music the singer puts in front of us, we can probably play it in our sleep (and I'm sure all of us have, at one time or another). Every once in a while, though, someone will sing something totally obscure, usually with about two-hundred notes per square inch for the pianist, in which case we mentally utter a string of swear words and call upon our sight-reading ability.

     In many cases, all of the aforementioned skills and qualifications constitute only a starting point for those coaches who decide to branch out into prompting, chorus preparation, or conducting. Some people consider such a decision to be a definite move upward, implying, perhaps unintentionally, that being a pianist/coach is something that should eventually be risen above. I beg to differ. Although I myself have "branched out" into chorus preparation, then prompting, and most recently conducting, and have enjoyed all three, I always return to the job I love best. Coaches, after all, play a major part in providing the very foundation upon which a performance's musical and linguistic values are built, and without the rehearsal pianist there can be no rehearsing. Nuts and bolts. We are essential.

     So the next time you're at the opera, and you open your program and see those names listed under "Musical Preparation," give a silent round of applause. We'd appreciate it.

Opera Cues, Vol. 40, No. 4, Summer 2000

My "Friendship" with Helene Hanff

     For the life of me, I can't remember if I first met Helene by reading her book 84, Charing Cross Road, or watching the film based on it starring Anne Bancroft and Anthony Hopkins. Whichever it was, we became instant "friends."
     Her little book, a cult classic, introduced me to an author whose writing made me feel as if she were sitting across from me, drinking coffee and chatting. It made me want to read all her books, which I have, many times, always with the homiest pleasure. In them all I could hear her, with a voice throaty from too many cigarettes and martinis, talking to me of her old apartment in a New York brownstone, her actress friend Maxine with the flaming red hair, and her 20-year epistolary friendship with a prim and proper London bookseller named Frank. I commiserated with her during those early years when she struggled to be a playwright; I laughed with her over all the escapades she shared with Maxine; I felt her joy every time she received another book and letter from Marks & Co, where Frank worked. And I made it a point to buy all the books she bought, because I trusted and shared her tastes -- except in novels. One thing Helene and I never agreed on was novels. She didn't care for them; she preferred real-life accounts by real-life people. I prefer to escape real life every once in a while.
     Helene taught me that I don't have to write about lofty things, or things outside myself, to be a good writer. Everything she wrote about could have happened to anyone. Her gift was in making those ordinary events extraordinary and immensely entertaining, with her humor, honesty, and self-effacement. She makes you feel as if she were speaking to you one-on-one, in plain, everyday language. This is the true reason I turn to her books again and again.
     If anyone wanted to start "chatting" with Helene, I would recommend they start with either 84 or the first book she wrote, Underfoot in Show Business (a very funny account of her early years as a struggling playwright); then definitely follow up with The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street and Q's Legacy (both sequels, if you will, of 84). I consider those four books to be her "canon." The others, Apple of My Eye and Letter to New York, are also delightful, especially for those who are planning a trip to New York, or just love the city.

My favorite of all Helene's books



On Being in the Houston Grand Opera Studio

     Well, it was somewhat different in 1989 than it is today. First of all, it was called simply the Houston Opera Studio; they added "Grand" years later, I suppose to clarify that it is indeed the training program of the Houston Grand Opera. The second big difference is that back then, the Studio was a joint program of HGO and the University of Houston; its directors/founders were David Gockley (General Director of HGO) and Carlisle Floyd (UH). Studio members took their language classes on campus with UH faculty (they had their own private classes apart from the university students). Studio singers also sang roles in UH opera workshop productions, for which the Studio pianists served as coaches and repetiteurs. To complicate matters further, the singers studied voice with Elena Nikolaidi who, due to her advanced age and lack of a driver's license, had to have all lessons (for which the Studio pianists played) at her home, twenty minutes from UH and fifteen from the opera house. All this was in addition to the members' work with HGO: singers, as they do today, performed small roles and covered principle roles; pianists served as assistant coaches on various productions as assigned.

     Needless to say, there was a lot of driving involved. A typical day for me would be to go to the opera house in the morning for a coaching, then drive to UH for Italian class; after lunch, to Niki's (Nikolaidi) house to play a couple of voice lessons; dinner; then back to UH to play the last hour and a half of the opera workshop rehearsal; and finally, back to the opera house to play for a two-and-a-half-hour chorus rehearsal. Somewhere in there I also had to find time, either at UH or at the opera, to practice the shows I was assigned to. By the time I got home, around 10:30, I'd usually be too wound up to sleep right away.

     The Studio terminated their affiliation with UH in the early '90s, so now the members have all their classes and lessons at the opera house, which makes their lives ever so much easier.

     My first year began with the 1989 fall repertoire, which consisted of Giulio Cesare, The Mikado (with Eric Idle as Koko -- pinch me!), and the premiere of Tippet's New Year. I was assigned to the first two, thank goodness; knowing now how stressful it can be to work on a newly written opera, if I had started my first year in the Studio with one, I don't think I would have stayed for a second year! It was also fortuitous for me that Cesare was to be conducted by none other than Nicholas McGegan, with whom I had done Saul a few years earlier, so I knew exactly what to expect musically. Since I felt so comfortable with Handel, and also since Mikado is a very easy "play" pianistically, I wasn't unduly nervous about my very first assignments with a major company. (Sadly, McGegan's mother passed away just before tech rehearsals, so Craig Smith came in to conduct performances.)

     I remember waiting to play the second half of a run-through of Cesare. It was only a rough run in the rehearsal room with piano, and the singers were marking (not singing full out), but the sheer beauty of the music suddenly brought tears to my eyes. It was at that moment I knew I was in the right place, doing the right thing. All the doubts I had had till then about my own abilities shrank beside the pure love I had for the music.

     Later that first year I played for Rigoletto and Butterfly, then they contracted me to stay through the summer for an unforgettable production of Carousel. What made this show special was that we hired one of Agnes de Mille's dancers, Gemze de Lappe, to remount de Mille's original choreography. (The dancing you see in the 1950's film is not hers, and really can't compare, in my opinion.) Playing dance rehearsals for Carousel was one of the highlights of my career, mainly because of the thrill seeing that incredible choreography come to life, but also because of Gemze herself -- such a lovely person. It was a pleasure and honor to work with her.

     My memory of my second year is rather hazy; I just know that I worked as hard as I could, even giving up my one free day a week to practice. Being in the Studio, whether you are a pianist/coach or a singer, means that you're constantly scrutinized and evaluated. You are essentially being paid and given free coachings and lessons so that you may become the kind of singer or pianist/coach any opera company in the world would be happy to have work for them. You are accepted to the Studio in the first place because the staff of HGO believe you have this potential.

     All my hard work paid off -- near the end of my second year, I was asked to join the  music staff as an Assistant Conductor for HGO, and as a full-fledged Coach (faculty) for the Houston Grand Opera Studio.