One of the most rewarding aspects of being a coach, especially one connected with a fine training program like the Houston Grand Opera Studio, is working with some of the top young talent in the business. When they come to the Studio, these singers are at a very crucial and exciting juncture in their development: most of them are fresh out of conservatory or graduate school, but not yet ripe enough for a full-fledged professional career and all the pressures such a career entails. Their voices are still developing, their techniques still settling, their artistry and dramatic skills still in their infancy. The majority remain in the Studio for two years, some for three. It was always thrilling for me to watch them grow during that time, as singers, artists, and human beings.
A good percentage of Studio singers, I would say about 90%, go on to have viable careers in opera. Of that percentage, out of the fifteen years I was with the Studio, there were a handful of singers of whom I could confidently say were extraordinarily and uniquely gifted. The voice itself, surprisingly, wasn't the single most important thing for me. Neither was that mercurial quality called "drive," nor a reliable technique, nor dramatic instinct, nor superior musicality (not the same as superior musicianship, which is, alas, even rarer). All those things are givens in anyone who ultimately enjoys a major operatic career. No, what struck me as extraordinary in these few singers was a certain quality that is difficult to articulate - and since the word "passion" has become almost meaningless in its overuse, I will avoid it like the plague it has become. Instead, let me simply tell you a story.
In 1996, the Houston Grand Opera brought its production of Four Saints in Three Acts to the Edinburgh Festival. In its cast were several Studio singers, one of them the now renowned bass-baritone Eric Owens. After the Festival, some of the singers including Eric, and I, as their pianist, stopped for a couple of days in London where auditions had been set up with a few General Directors. The day before the auditions, I and another singer we'll call "Jim" took Eric on a whirlwind tour of the West End. It was Eric's first time in London and he was as excited as I remember being on my first visit. When we got to Piccadilly Circus, Eric espied a Tower Records and asked if we could go in. Jim and I remonstrated at first, saying there was so much more to see in so little time, but Eric kept begging, "Please, please, puh-leeeeze, can we go in? Just for a few minutes?" Now, there are music stores in every city all over the world, but Eric's boundless enthusiasm for music was such that the very sight of CDs for sale was irresistible to him. Me, I could have passed up that Tower Records and waited till I was back in Houston to shop for CDs. After all, London awaited! But this was Eric's day, so we indulged him, and he came out of the store happily dangling a bag full of treasures. A couple of hours later found us at Covent Garden. Eric all but went into a rapture of glee at the sight of the opera house and demanded I take a picture of him in front of it. "Someday. Someday - !" he said. Years later, when Eric did indeed make his debut at Covent Garden, I thought back to that moment and thought, "You made it, Eric. And you deserve it."
Eric's vocal gift is obvious and indisputable. His musicality and musicianship are impeccable. His theatrical instinct is strong and growing ever stronger, along with his gift for communication. But that utter, complete, almost childlike, absorption in music - and I'm certain that music is always playing on his subconscious' turntable - is what makes Eric extraordinary. Throughout his two years in the Studio, and especially on that day in London, I fervently hoped that that particular trait would stay with him always, would never grow dim as it does in so many musicians. I knew that if it stayed as vibrant as it was then, it would on an unconscious yet potent level inform every performance throughout his career, and in turn stir even further in his listeners the fervor that brought them to the opera house and concert hall in the first place. It would mold him into an artist of profound and unshakable integrity, one that would always place the music before everything else, keeping him its devoted servant, because I believe that true greatness comes only when one realizes that the thing one serves is far greater than oneself.
I've read a few articles about Eric in the past few months and, judging from his own words, I know he is still that kid in a candy store I knew in his Studio days. That extraordinary spark, given to so few, hasn't dimmed one jot. Keep it burning, Eric.
Thoughtful post. Eric was fortunate to recognize bliss when he felt it. It seems as if he's one of those people who don't second guess themselves. They know what they are meant to do with their life. I like the way you conveyed this. Your writing style is lovely.
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