Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part One

     In a couple of earlier posts, I mentioned my jaunt as an opera conductor—very briefly, as my jaunt was indeed a brief one. But I'd like to expand upon it now. For one thing, a friend and former colleague of mine is making her debut as a conductor even as I write this, and my thoughts are very much with her. For another, I am almost constantly plagued by the question of how properly to use—or perhaps not to use —the gifts with which God has seen fit to bless me. I don't mean to boast when I say that he has given me many gifts, none of which I deserve, all for which I am truly thankful; but I have to choose among them, if for no other reason than I am a very poor manager of time and resources. How to choose is the question.

     In 1990 I spent my third and last summer at the American Institute of Musical Studies (AIMS) in Graz, Austria. One of my mentors there was a coach from Germany by the name of Heinz Sosnitza. Herr Sosnitza was both beloved and feared by all at AIMS, as he not only loved music with the burning passion of a young lover, but as a coach was unflinchingly frank and did not by any means suffer fools gladly. I'll never forget one afternoon when I was looking for an available practice room in the Studentenheim (dormitory): I passed by the closed door of one practice room wherein I heard a young baritone singing the Count's aria from Figaro. As I rounded the corner, I came face to face with Herr Sosnitza, flannel nightshirt (I assumed he'd been napping) draping loosely over his copious belly, and a dark scowl knitting his heavy gray brows.

     "Grüss Gott, Herr Sosnitza," I began, but he cut me off with,

     "I hear someone singing the Count and bellowing like a bull!  I must help him!" And off he marched like an avenging Santa Claus. My mouth twitched in amusement, but I wasn't the least surprised. Having known him for three summers, I was by then used to his well-meaning, if blustery, forthrightness.

      Anyway, I digress.

     Sosnitza was the first ever to suggest I try conducting. "I know many women conductors," he told me, "and none of them are anything special. But you can be."

     I nearly burst into tears, I was so touched—and flabbergasted. Never had the idea of conducting, not even the palest shadow, entered my head. But, respecting Sosnitza's opinion as I did, how could I dismiss it? I owed it my most serious consideration, though I admit to having equally serious qualms.

     At the end of that summer I returned to Houston for my very first year as a full-fledged member of the music staff, after two grueling but exhilarating years apprenticing in the Studio. I requested and was assigned conducting lessons with HGO's Associate Conductor at that time, Ward Holmquist. Ward has a very clean, clear baton technique and proved to be a wonderful teacher. I not only enjoyed my lessons immensely, but actually began to believe I could be a conductor, a belief further encouraged by Ward's enthusiastic "You're a natural!" Nevertheless, I was ill-prepared for the memo I received near the end of that season: one of our shows, Grétry's Beauty and the Beast, would be touring in the summer; Daniel Beckwith, who had conducted its run that spring, would lead it for the first week of the tour, then the last two weeks would be conducted by ... me.

     I felt nauseous. Couldn't I start out with something smaller, a scenes program with piano, for instance? No—my first time wielding a baton in public would have to be in front of an orchestra, leading an entire opera.

     Fortunately, due to a plunge in finances, the tour was cut to just a single performance in Galveston. Since I was cheaper than Daniel Beckwith (in other words, I was on staff and my services were therefore gratis) I was to conduct the single performance, with just one orchestra staging rehearsal the afternoon of the show. How well I remember that drive to Galveston with Mark Trawka, the principal coach! I kept asking him, "Can we turn around? Do I have to do this? Can we just go back to Houston?"

     I remember not one thing about either the rehearsal or the performance. All I know is we all got through it unscathed, and I managed not to throw up on the podium. But I vowed that I would never again conduct in public.

     Right. If you want to make God laugh, tell him what your plans are.

     To be continued ...