This is an open letter to anyone who has ever dismissed sexism in opera as an inherent product of the times. This is an open letter to anyone who’s ever stumbled upon criticism of racist practices in classical music, and done nothing but shrug, dismissing those criticisms as the ill-informed ramblings of a starry-eyed Social Justice Warrior.
This is an open letter to anyone who thinks that classical music shouldn’t be held to the same standards of critique, dialogue, and evolution as literally every other art form — who thinks that #OscarsSoWhite might apply in Hollywood, but certainly not in the concert hall.
This is an open letter to anyone who claims that calling Don Giovanni a rapist is a step too far. This is an open letter to anyone who thinks it doesn’t even matter what we call him, because in the end, it’s only an opera, and can’t we leave politics out of it?
No — no we can’t. Because opera is never only opera, and politics and art are inexorably linked. And if you happen to feel otherwise — well, this letter is for you. Continue reading →
I’ll start with a quote, because all great blog posts begin with a quote.
This particular quote comes to us from Karl Paulnack, Director of the Boston Conservatory‘s Music Division, in his 2004 welcome address to the school’s incoming freshmen:
If we were a medical school, and you were here as a med student practicing appendectomies, you’d take your work very seriously because you would imagine that some night at two AM someone is going to waltz into your emergency room and you’re going to have to save their life. Well, my friends, someday at eight PM someone is going to walk into your concert hall and bring you a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again will depend partly on how well you do your craft.
End quote. Keep it in mind. I’ll get back to it in a bit.
Forty-six days separate Canadian and American Thanksgivings, which sounds like a long time, but in reality, those forty-six days seemed to pass as though each were chasing the next at gunpoint.
Canadian Thanksgiving falls on a Monday — in the motherland, this coincides with an observance known as Columbus Day, which serves little purpose other than shutting down the post office — making for a three-day weekend that pales in comparison to American Thanksgiving’s five. I celebrated in a triptych of dinners: vegan tacos, duets, and oboe reeds with a lovely friend on Saturday; a potluck and Cards Against Humanity (Canadian expansion, naturally) with quintet members on Sunday; and cashew-cauliflower soup, pumpkin pie, and Friends (“The One with Joey’s Interview”) with my fantastic roommate on Monday.
During Sunday’s festivities, I learned about the following, slightly traumatizing PSA that aired throughout western Canada in the early Nineties, which I am sharing here because viewing it is — truly — a life experience that everyone ought to have:
Thanksgiving is a time for many things: food, friends, gratitude — and, apparently, Clinton-era, public health-related puppetry — which is why Day 33 of my inter-Thanksgiving countdown was such a horrifying antithesis to the spirit of the season.
When I first began playing oboe, I threw myself into the classical genre with all the passionate superiority a twelve-year-old could muster. Previously, my musical tastes had hinged on what my friends were listening to — sixth grade had been a year of ABBA covers and sk8er bois — but now, as a sage seventh-grade symphonist, my CD collection held titles like 100 Classical Favorites, Mozart Hits, and — regrettably — Greatest Sousa Marches.
I had been raised on equal doses of Scheherazadeand Santanta, but no sooner had I learned to play a B-flat major scale on the oboe than I completely abandoned music-with-words — a genre I came to call “normal person music” — in favor of what was suddenly and obsessively my preference: classical. I eschewed pop music altogether: ignored Green Day, never learned the words to “Toxic” (probably for the best), and only paid attention to Usher for long enough to figure out that “Yeah” was in the key of G minor. I was a band geek, and all my friends were band geeks, and we met up in the band room after school to fetch our instruments from our lockers (so we could take them home and practice, of course) and talked about how much we loved Sousa and Mozart and the main theme fromStar Wars that we were learning how to play in Beginning Band.
I think the reason I let classical music become such an obsession (besides the fact that I, you know, enjoyed it) was because, for the first time, I wasn’t letting peer pressure dictate my playlist. The instant I first set foot in the band room on that fateful day in seventh grade, whatever meager social status I’d held in the middle school hierarchy vanished: other kids’ opinions no longer mattered to me. As a bona fide band geek, I had no chance of ever being considered “cool,” so I could listen to the least-cool music out there with no repercussions. It was liberating.
It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I started listening to normal person music again. But for five years, between when I first picked up the oboe and when I decided to pursue it in higher education (and, ultimately, as a career), my listening tastes were superbly limited. Those five years were important for me — I learned about different composers, styles, time periods, forms — but in retrospect, there was a lot of music I missed out on, music that essentially came to define my generation in the form of songs-that-everyone-knows. During my high school tenure, Taylor Swift was just coming into her own; Coldplay, Jason Mraz, and Sara Bareilles were in competition for 2008’s Song of the Year; and Katy Perry kissed a girl (and liked it) — all while I was fangirling over Shostakovich and Vivaldi as though they were the only artists worth listening to. Continue reading →
In an era when classical music is struggling to stay relevant, this event represents what may be the most straightforward and vital intersection of this genre and the society it purportedly serves, but so often alienates. Tonight’s musicians are adding their voices to the #BlackLivesMatter dialogue, a realm where classical music has heretofore remained silent.
I am honored to be close friends with one of the event’s producers, and am so proud of my friend and her hardworking, passionate colleagues on the Dream Unfinished team. Since my current internship is in Press/PR, it’s a complete delight to see the event garnering the press coverage it so deserves:
I took my first professional audition back in the first week of May, in a small Ontario city about three hours out from my future home of Montreal. I found out about the vacancy through Orchestras Canada‘s online woodwind job board, which I had begun periodically browsing ever since deciding to attend grad school in the Great White North. The audition was only a three-hour drive from Rochester; it seemed worth the expense to rent a car, book a hotel for a night, and just give it a go. If by some miracle I won the job — or, perhaps, made it onto the substitute list — then that would have been awesome. If not, the trip would still have been worthwhile: I’d have had my first pro audition experience, gone through the process of preparing the rep, and would know what to expect the second time around. And the third time. And the fourth… John Ferrillo, longtime principal oboist in the Boston Symphony, took twenty-some-odd auditions before landing his first big job at the Met. I have a ways to go.
Not comfortable making a big drive by myself, I roped a Canadian friend into tagging along. It was finals week at school, so it was hard to find someone with a wide-open schedule who could spare some time to overnight in Ontario with me, and I’m really grateful that he came with. Besides his invaluable help with GPS navigation (I 100% definitely would have gotten lost without him), it was really nice to have a familiar face cheering me on.
We arrived the night before the audition — later than I’d hoped to get there, thanks to a highway detour, but early enough for some panicked reed-scraping followed by a respectable seven hours of sleep. The next morning, I woke up bright and early, donned the dress I’d worn throughout the grad school audition circuit, and noodled on my oboe — long tones, some scales, and three-in-a-rows (which is a warm-up I may have sort of made up, in which I play a short orchestral excerpt three times in a row from memory, just to get my brain and fingers oriented). It being eight in the morning at a hotel, I didn’t want to disturb people in the neighboring rooms, so I kept my warm-up short and simple, then packed up my oboe and headed to the audition well before I had to be there. Better early than late!
Most auditions are organized in groups, something I’m grateful to have experienced early on through semi-annual mock auditions at school. Candidates are assigned to Group A, Group B, etc., the size and number of groups varying depending on the number of candidates auditioning. This audition was a small one — only fourteen — so we were split between just two groups. The week prior, we had all received an email detailing the schedule: Group A would convene at 9:30 and draw numbers that would determine the order in which they would audition; at 11:30, while the panel deliberated which members of Group A would advance to the next round (there would be three total rounds), Group B would meet and draw their numbers. I was in Group B.
The audition was held in the music building of a college campus. Though American schools were still in the throes of final exams, Canadian universities were out for the summer, which meant that there were open practice rooms aplenty. I signed in with the personnel manager, who also happened to be the orchestra’s clarinetist, and she handed me a folder containing the day’s schedule, the list of repertoire, a campus map (featuring food locations — very important), and some brochures about the orchestra and the town. Then I snagged an empty practice room, metronome-d my way through some Tombeauand Don Juan, ate a Clif Bar (white chocolate macadamia), checked Facebook, ran Mozart, thumbed through the brochures, played Tombeau again three-in-a-row (it is by far my weakest excerpt), then packed up my oboe and went for a walk around the campus. I had gotten there way too early; if I had practiced for any longer, one of two things would almost definitely have happened: my chops would’ve become too exhausted to get through the audition; or my brain would have exploded. Hence, the walk.
My internship is in the Press Office, specifically assisting the press reps for the National Symphony Orchestra and the Washington National Opera. I have my own desk, an official KC e-mail, an ID badge and everything. It’s insane. I am 100%, not at all, in any way, qualified for this internship — and I am just so humbled and excited to have this opportunity.
Press, I have learned, falls under the purview of Public Relations. Many organizations lump PR in with Marketing, but the two categories couldn’t be more different. Marketing is active self-promotion to increase sales; PR is interaction with the public to encourage goodwill. A PR representative might contact a press outlet to pitch a story or review, but it’s up to the writer — not the rep — whether that story or review portrays the organization in a positive light. The rep’s job, then, is to seek out stories worth writing about, and writers genuinely interested in the organization’s services. This way, the public can be well informed about what the organization has to offer, via an outlet (the press) that is independent of the organization and therefore an unbiased source.
My job so far has comprised a great deal of filing, which might be boring if it weren’t for the fact that I get to comb through Playbills from the 1970’s, which has proven to be highly entertaining. (Ads spotted: tons of cigarettes, a clothing store for “large women,” and mail-order Romanian wine.) I’m also responsible for something called “paste-ups”: any time the Kennedy Center or one of its productions is mentioned in an online press outlet, I copy and re-format the text and images into a neat, standardized document for board-member “brag books” and archival purposes. I even had the chance to sit in on the big televised Memorial Day concert on the Capitol lawn. Eventually, I’m told, I’ll get to draft some press releases. Exciting stuff!
The Kennedy Center is the country’s most active performing arts facility, and it’s amazing to be part of the behind-the-scenes work that brings it all together. Press is so important to a performing arts organization — spreading the word, generating interest and curiosity and buzz, inviting the community to learn and explore and enjoy the organization’s resources — and I can’t wait to learn more about how it all works in the coming months.
It’s time for… miscellaneous personal life updates! I haven’t posted in a while (like, 2 months) because I’ve been pretty busy with ALL THE THINGS:
My first professional orchestra audition (!!!)
Immigrating to Canada for grad school (!!!!!!)
Final exams for my non-music degree (aka my degree in the science of BRAINS)
Obsessing over Amy Schumer (who has officially joined my dinner table)
Making arrangements for my summer internship in the Press Office at the KENNEDY CENTER (!!!!!!!!!!!)
I have some fresh Suggested Listening posts in the works, as well as a reflection on my recent experience with the orchestral audition process, but until I get those edited and ready, I just wanted to stop by and say hello (: