A Woman or a Two-Toed Sloth, It Matters Not

     About ten years ago, a young female pianist/coach, who was at that time in the Houston Grand Opera Studio, asked me if my being a woman was in any way a hindrance to me in the opera business. I remember being a bit surprised at the question, as it had never been asked me before. However, I didn't have to ponder over my answer: I told her frankly that my being a woman was never an issue, at least, not to my knowledge.

     Several years before this event, an internationally known woman conductor came to Houston to conduct one of our main-stage productions. I was Assistant Chorus Master, and had charge of the chorus for most of the rehearsal period while our Chorus Master was out of town on another job. The working relationship between the conductor (who insisted on being called "Maestro" rather than "Maestra") and me was quite amicable. She respected my abilities, and I respected hers. However, her relationship with the orchestra was not a happy one. I wasn't privy to the details, but apparently her behavior towards them and towards one player in particular prompted a letter of complaint to the HGO administration from the orchestra as a body. They felt she treated them as second-rate (this was the Houston Symphony, mind you, one of the finest orchestras in the country). My respect for her lessened considerably, though she and I continued our outward professional relationship. After the closing performance, I went backstage to say goodbye to her. Her very last words to me (and I paraphrase, due to the intervening years and my fuzzy memory) were, "Power to women!" and she made a fist and raised it in the air. I confess, it left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. The very first thought that came to my mind was, "That's not why I do this."

     When HGO asked me to conduct a mainstage production, I knew it was because they felt I was able to do so. I accepted because I knew they had faith in me, and because I felt I should meet the challenge. I also knew that they would have asked me if I had been a man, if I were from Zimbabwe, if I had seaweed instead of hair, or if I were a two-toed sloth. All they cared about was whether or not I could wield a decent baton and do a good job. (Well, actually, I would have my doubts about the two-toed sloth.)

     My being a woman was never an issue. The issue was my ability. Also my professionalism and my respectful treatment of others. My gender was never used by anyone as an excuse or a platform, nor did I myself use it as such. And I did what I did because I loved it and knew, with hard work and perseverance, I could do it and do it well.

     And I should say that, had that woman conductor I spoke of earlier been a man, I still would have respected him less for his treatment of the orchestra.

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part Three: Burial

     Since my Elixir of Love performances went so well, I was asked to conduct second cast subscription performances of Carmen the following season. "Subscription" refers to those performances open to subscribers and the general public. There are also student matinées (usually two), for which the show is cut down to a length suitable for children's attention spans, and high school night, for which the show is performed in its entirety; the matinées are not open to the general public. High school night is always a fun night in the theatre, as the students dress as if going to the prom and try to behave as sophisticated and nonchalant as possible.

     So I was to conduct the second cast subscription shows; my colleague Jim Lowe (who was my prompter on Elixir ) would lead the student matinées and high school night. This was to be Jim's conducting debut. He has since enjoyed quite a bit of success with the baton, including the Tony®
award-winning Broadway revival of Anything Goes.

     Unlike my experience with Elixir, for which I was impeccably prepared by Patrick Summers (not to mention coddled and protected and generally made to feel cosily safe), I was pretty much on my own with Carmen. The conductor for the first cast, the imposing Alain Lombard, did not, of course, give me private coachings in his spare time, though he sometimes handed me the baton in his stagings, after I told him that neither I nor Jim were to have any rehearsals with the orchestra. Both of us simply had to plunge into performance, as I had to do with Elixir. Maestro was appalled at this, but I assured him it was the norm, at least at HGO.

     Despite Maestro's kindness, I felt lost at sea without Patrick to guide me. This did not bode well for my future as Maestra Austria. Jim and I practiced a great deal together, each of us taking turns waving baton and playing piano. We forged a great alliance for which we were both grateful.

     The night of my first performance, I asked Jim and my friend/colleague Carol Anderson, who was one of the coaches on Carmen, to keep me company (hold my hand) before curtain and also during the intermissions. I just knew I couldn't bear to be alone, prey to my own nerves. Carol and I did the same for Jim—in fact, we were all there for each other in this way for all the performances. (Music buddies are the BEST.) Also, the afternoon of my opening, I received a message on my answering machine at home from Maestro, wishing me luck, which I thought was very kind of him.

     When I heard the stage manager's announcement over the speakers, "Maestra Austria to the pit, please; Maestra Austria to the pit," I wobbled my way to the pit door and up the stairs where another stage management person waited to cue me in. While she waited, telephone to ear, I asked her, "Do I have to do this?" She gave me a half-sympathetic, half-rueful smile. My cue came, and I walked in, following the cramped and jagged route to the podium that had been shown to me earlier. The next thing I knew, I was face to face with the cello section, and several of the orchestra players were pointing frantically to the podium behind me. In my nervous daze, I had passed it by completely! (Afterwards, Jim told me he was watching the "maestro monitor," saw the top of my head cross the screen, and thought, "Where's Leticia going?" I told him my subconscious was telling me to enter the pit, exit through the other side, and keep walking till I was back safe in my apartment.) Realizing what I'd done, I couldn't help laughing. I climbed onto the podium, bowed to the audience, turned back to the orchestra, and heard the principal violist quip heartily, "Well, that was a good start!" I was still laughing as I picked up my baton and gave a vigorous upbeat to start the show.

     There were two very scary moments in the first act. First, our children's chorus, usually so spot-on, decided to take their own (faster) tempo and I nearly couldn't get them back on, but finally did somehow. Then, at the end of the recit before the "Habanera" the flute player missed a very crucial solo cue, which caused my Carmen, brand-spanking-new to the role, to stare at me like a deer in headlights. It seemed like a full five minutes before she finally sang her next line of recit, but it was probably in reality only five seconds. Still, these two minor glitches were enough to send me back to my dressing room at intermission badly shaken. Thank goodness for Jim and Carol, who assured me that what I thought were near-disasters were hardly noticeable. In fact, they were smiling broadly—and sincerely—when I came weeping through my dressing room door.

     The rest of that performance, and my subsequent three performances, went amazingly well, aside from only one slightly rocky Act II quintet. Jim's shows, too, went very well, despite a tuxedo malfunction during high school night, when his baton nearly became hopelessly entangled in his vest. But at least he managed to find the podium.

     Came my last performance. I had decided by then, in fact, I had decided at the end of my opening night, that I would retire my baton for good. I just coudn't take the stress. It was a different kind of stress from what I was used to: it was knowing that I was responsible for the entire musical welfare of a show that was performed for 2500 people at a time, many of whom had paid a great deal of money to see it. Performing as a pianist was another thing entirely; that kind of stress, if I can indeed call it that, I could handle. As a pianist, the music came directly out of my hands, and I could control it directly. If a flutist missed an important cue while I was conducting, I couldn't play it for him; if the children's chorus ran away with the tempo, I couldn't sing it for them. Therein lies the difference. All right, maybe if I had persevered, garnered more experience, I eventually might have known how to prevent/fix such things. But I simply didn't want to find out if I could, going through in the meantime what was near torture for me.

     So that last performance, when I gave the final cut off, it was all I could do to keep from throwing my baton into the air. Instead, I fairly danced my way out of the pit and onto the stage, where, with a broad smile of relief, I took my final bow as Maestra Austria.

Walking onstage for my bow. This was not taken at my final performance. You can tell, because I'm not dancing.

 

Birth and Death of a Conductor, Part Two

     Several years passed after my Beauty and the Beast experience before anyone made any serious suggestions to me about conducting again. There was one half-serious suggestion, made by the Head of Music Staff Richard Bado, that I conduct second cast performances of Romeo and Juliet, but that was dismissed almost immediately it was brought up. I think my deep reluctance to remount the podium was apparent to everyone.

     Everyone who knew me, that is. In 1998, HGO acquired a new Music Director in Patrick Summers, one of whose first missions it was to start using prompters on a semi-regular basis. I was the first "guinea pig" prompter—I wrote about that venture in an earlier post, in which I mention that one of the duties of the prompter is to conduct rehearsals in the maestro's absence. After serving as prompter for Patrick in a few shows, he summoned me to his office one day and told me, without any preamble, "I'd like you to conduct second cast Elixir [of Love]." As I had no ready answer, after a few seconds' silence he added firmly, "I think you should."

     I don't think Patrick knew of my one previous conducting experience, nor my reluctance to repeat it. He knew I had some baton technique, not only from seeing me conduct rehearsals, but also through my lessons with him on prompting. I knew (a) he wouldn't have asked me to conduct performances of anything if he didn't think I were capable, and (b) he was my boss. So I said yes. I had a few months to prepare, plenty of time to panic.

     I was very, very fortunate that Patrick conducted the first cast of Elixir and that I was his prompter on the show. That was the best preparation I could ask for my own performances. Patrick was more than generous in giving me coachings in our spare time, going through the score phrase by phrase, he at the piano, me conducting. He was so thorough, exacting, and supportive, I just couldn't panic, and though I was a bit nervous before my first performance, I knew I could conduct that score from memory (which I mostly did, actually), and was confident that the orchestra, well-trained as they were by Patrick, would be supportive of me as well, even though I had no rehearsals with them.

     I was also very fortunate in my cast, all of whom except the Dulcamara were either Studio or ex-Studio singers. I knew their voices, their breathing, their musicality, so well from years of private coachings, conducting them was almost second nature.

     Thirdly, I was fortunate that I had a prompter of my own to help keep the ensemble tight between stage and pit.

     My three performances of Elixir went very well. I was happy, Patrick was happy, the cast and orchestra were happy. Maybe conducting wasn't so bad after all!

     To be continued . . . .

Post-performance in my dressing room with family. The tails are a bit big.

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 ...

The Anxiety-Ridden Chorus Master

     It is one of the greatest ironies of my life that I spent so much of it working with choruses, given that I've always had a deep-rooted aversion toward that job. I wrote before that I was enlisted at a very early age (third grade) into accompanying for school choir concerts; by the time I was in middle school, I was official accompanist and rehearsal pianist for our mixed choir and madrigal group. (It wasn't until seventh grade that my choir director discovered I also had a good voice and had me sing in all the a cappella pieces.) Had I known that being rehearsal pianist also meant actually taking over in the absence of the choir director, I would have turned tail and run.

     There was one particularly painful day in the eighth grade when Miss E. had to be absent and she asked me to take the class, with one of my classmates at the piano. My pianist belonged to that elite group of pretty, popular girls that lived in the richer neighborhood; they were already under the impression (thanks to the veneer of cool aloofness behind which I hid my social anxiety disorder) that I thought my musical gifts made me superior to everyone else. In truth, she and her group, many of whom were in the choir, intimidated me to the point that I was certain my nervous shaking was visible to all as I took my place that day behind the director's music stand. I had to stand there in front of all those "prove yourself to us" faces and the ill-concealed smirk of my pianist, push my anxiety as far down into my shoes as I could, and just give it my best. I got through that agonizing hour, but not without witnessing, after the bell rang, my pianist and her friends giggling and mimicking my nervously rigid conducting gestures. Perhaps anyone would have been hurt by this, but I was a hyper-sensitive child with low self-esteem; a more confident child would probably have shaken off the dust from her shoes and moved on. As it was, the wound they inflicted that day, perhaps unconsciously, rankled deep in me through my year as student director for our high school choir, and much later throughout my fifteen years as Assistant Chorus Master at the Houston Grand Opera. Not even the genuine affection and respect the HGO Chorus and I had for each other could quite cure my aversion for running rehearsals and sectionals.

     Behind it also were the high expectations of my teachers and elders, my own high standards (which grew more and more impossible with each passing year), an enormous fear of failure, and the equally enormous if irrational fear of being found out as a sham. For all my talent and training, and all my bravado, I was still at the core that awkward, inept, and insecure child.

     You might be asking why, then, I consented to be HGO's Assistant Chorus Master. Deep down, I knew I could do it, and do it well. I had all the necessary tools for what that job entailed, including, by that time, good conducting skills (thanks to lessons from two gifted and generous conductors, Ward Holmquist and Patrick Summers). And I had the unflagging support and confidence of the Chorus Master, Richard Bado, for whom I had, and will always have, tremendous respect. So I forced myself to ignore the sickening churning in my stomach before every rehearsal and sectional I had to run, and told myself (to quote my fellow S. A. D. sufferer, Mr. Darcy) "I will conquer this!" And conquer it I did. That terrified young girl who was mocked by her peers grew up to be a good Assistant Chorus Master (and, for some shows, Chorus Master) -- even if she never really liked being one.