Practicing Patience
This past week, I've been struggling.
I've been struggling to be patient--with myself and with my instrument.
I'm currently practicing a Bach aria, "Komm in mein Herzen's Haus' from his Cantata no. 80. I'll be performing it later this month, and I'm hoping to get a good recording out of it.
This is my first Bach aria I've ever attempted.
I'm 33 years old.
And I am in love.
Before anyone starts to rail against me for taking this long to 'discover' Bach, I have a confession: until a year or two ago, I didn't much LIKE Bach.
And by 'like', I mean 'singing his music drove me absolutely batfuck crazy.'
In fact, I'll just come totally clean: as a young singer, I went out of my way to avoid Bach.
He was an exercise in total frustration for me.
Every singer has one aspect that they claim is their Achilles' heel. For me, it's been my physicality. I've always had trouble with my size. For being as tall as I am, I'm a rather slimly-built lady by nature. My hips are quite literally twice the size of my natural waist, and while I have broad shoulders, my rib cage isn't very wide. As a young singer, my intercostal muscles gave me absolute fits. They would take a certain smallish amount of exertion before tossing in the towel; I would be left 'gasping' through phrases like an asthmatic fish, my lungs unable to function due to muscle fatigue. From my very first 'serious' voice lessons at the age of thirteen, I would practice breathing techniques for hours in the practice rooms, only to have my rib cage literally collapse in on itself in performances.
It should be noted that I am not a patient person by nature.
In fact, I'd venture to say that I am a very direct person....almost too direct.
Ok. I admit it. I can be quick-tempered and stubborn as hell.
I have been known to sport an attitude of "well, if this doesn't work the first time, I will MAKE it work the second time"...which doesn't exactly lend itself well to delicate or 'natural' practices, such as breathing.
I also have a habit of practicing self-awareness and self-criticism; my teachers have always commented that I never needed them to point out strengths or suggest that I work on my faults, because I'm already aware/in the process of it. 'Self-motivated' has always been my personal form of praise and damnation. I KNEW my breathing habits were limiting my musical abilities, and I KNEW I needed to work on them. So I took it upon myself to 'teach' myself how to teach my lungs and intercostal muscles how to behave.
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.
I started researching the breathing process, both scientifically and physically.
I started quizzing and collecting advice from my peers, my colleagues and my teachers.
I read every single book and article I could find, because I was convinced the answer lay out 'there'.
I sort of became obsessed.
And still, for all my efforts, nothing seemed to change.
Needless to say, I didn't take this very well.
See, it's sort of a self-defeating exercise to 'force' some natural process to happen. When my body is tense, attempting to 'force' out the tension only ends up breeding more tension. Eventually you end up with an almost-total state of rigor mortis, in which my body basically goes on 'lock down' mode.
All of my attempts to coerce my muscles into submission ended up making the problem much, much worse.
So...you can imagine how well those 'breathing' practice sessions went.
In spite of all the tension and frustration, I would religiously force myself to do any and all breathing exercises I could find. I would often end my hours of practicing with tears, swear words, and the more-than-occasional pencil throw.
My undergraduate teachers wisely decided to address the problem indirectly (bless them all). They began giving me Mozart to sing, and started suggesting I explore my love of Medieval and Renaissance music, all of which require and naturally encourage extreme breath control. They were convinced that tackling the problem head-on wasn't wise in my case; rather, 'backing into the problem' might work, as nothing else currently was.
So I took their advice, stopped the torturous breathing practice sessions, and started to study Mozart.
And again, seemingly nothing happened.
And for the first eight or nine years of my singing career, I believed something was 'wrong' with me, that I was a 'flawed' or 'less than' singer because of it. I basically felt handicapped by the limitations of my body...the very body I was trying to use to express myself.
It was MADDENING.
In the end, three things happened: I moved to altitude, I met a body-mapping teacher, and I grew.
By the time I was in graduate school, I had moved to Colorado to be roommates with a dear friend. I had started working out for the first time in my life, and my lungs had developed a stamina at 5400 feet that they previously hadn't needed during my time below sea level. I found I could travel long distances, get off an airplane at any hour of the day/night, and sing like a golden goddess because of the air---there was so much of it! For a girl who had previously been a gasping soprano, this was a gift from God.
Around this time, I also started studying with a brilliant body mapper, an incredible vocal technician named Dr. Melissa Malde. Her book, What Every Singer Needs To Know About The Body, is basically a documentation of my time in her studio and her brilliant working knowledge of the human body. Dr. Malde granted me some critical insights into my body, its actual functions and the physical way that it works. Dr. Malde spent a good deal of time reinforcing the idea that my body wasn't a singulatory object, but rather the summation of a series of very-intricately-working parts. She also was CONVINCED that I was still growing physically (she was correct). She would reiterate over and over again that singers' voices take time to physically mature, often not peaking until an individual reaches their thirties*. On top of all of this, she would insist that if I located any source of tension that I would go to an anatomy book and learn about the muscle groups that were being difficult. I had never had a voice teacher take the time to literally map out the individual muscles that were giving me fits. It made total and complete sense---how on earth could I possibly hope to improve them if I didn't even know what they looked like, where they attached and what they needed to function?? With her help, I slowly gained an understanding that my body wasn't a handicapped, damaged item but rather a fully-functioning machine that I simply hadn't understood how to manage...much like a toddler using a spoon for the first time**. Suddenly, singing seemed to be a unique, concrete science like algebra: if I did X and added Y into the mix, I would manage to make a beautiful sound every single time, regardless of any other factor.
The final aspect was, of course, growth. I physically grew another two inches during my late twenties. My body wasn't done developing and changing, and physical growth remains a process that takes some serious time. After my final growth spurt, I needed even MORE time to physically grow accustomed to my 'new' body. I needed to spend a few decades actually occupying it to become completely familiar with its foibles, quirks, and special abilities. I needed a sort of new introduction to myself, one that would only come with maturity and the aging process (as much as women hate to admit to getting older, I'm finding more and more that I actually enjoy the aging process...especially in terms of what it means for my vocal capabilities!). I understand now more than ever the view of more-mature singers, and their reasoning for railing against Young Artist Programs only accepting singers under the age of twenty-five; what can these young singers possibly know about themselves or their voices at their age, when they physiologically just stopped growing? What could we older colleagues possibly EXPECT them to know?? It takes TIME to grow 'into' yourself, and that process cannot be replaced by talent, technique or teachers.
However, now at 33, I'm FINALLY able to make it through Bach's gorgeous melodic twists and turns.
So why am I STILL frustrated?
I think the answer lies in myself, really. I tend to fall into the classic pattern of self-defeating attitudes. I often berate myself for my accomplishments rather than celebrating them. Instead of thinking to myself, 'WOW, look how well you sang that line! Aren't you proud of yourself ?? It was really beautiful--and remember when we couldn't do that at ALL?? Look how far you've come!', my mindset often is one of 'Jesus, Cox, you fucked that line up AGAIN, what is WRONG with you?? After EVERYTHING we've done, you're STILL managing to fuck it all up...'
Classical music is an artform that takes an enormous amount of time. We as professional musicians know this going into the field. It takes 10,000 hours of conscious effort to master a skillset; cool, we've all heard this and accepted it as fact. We've dedicated ourselves to the artform and to becoming the best version of ourselves that we can be. We've been duly warned and we've decided to face the challenges that lie ahead. We have signed up for this; we came to PLAY.
But this also can mean that, when things are a little easier for us, we tend to be distrustful.
I'm sure I'm not alone in this.
So, this week, I'm making a real effort to be more self-aware.
Anytime I 'catch' myself feeling frustrated, I'm taking a mental time out.
I'm making an effort to talk gentler to myself, to push myself less, and to appreciate my voice more.
And if something appears easy or effortless, I'm going to celebrate it as a victory trophy, a sign of my previous efforts paying off.
And if something is difficult, I'll accept it as a challenge for future growth.
And I'll resolve to allow time to play itself out without my needing to push it or prod it any other way.
*Then you have to take into account the fact that the human body is a singer's instrument...and bodies aren't always in a state of homeostasis. In fact, human beings grow, develop and change every night during REM sleep cycles. Can you imagine attempting to play a clarinet that grows and changes itself overnight?? We singers are constantly in a state of flux, making mental checklists of any tension they might sense for that particular day or time, realigning their bodies' muscles and organs to get a magical combination of ease and efficiency when they breathe. On top of THAT, you have to add in the current mental health of the singer in question. Singing isn't just a physical exercise, it's a mental one as well; it takes an incredible amount of mental focus to coordinate all of the body into a single, efficient action, AND manage to communicate the message of the song to your audience members. With all of this, it's a wonder singers don't go absolutely bonkers at every performance.
**Dr. Malde, if you're reading this, God bless you for all of your patience, your time, your attention and your efforts. I kept every single one of the lessons I had/recorded with you; I still use them to this day, and I gather new insights every time I listen. You gave me an incredible gift, and I will never be able to express the depth of my gratitude. Also, your vegan sushi was absolutely bangarang.