Samtal med en död sångerska

Samtal med Anna Renzi tisdag 31/10-2017

Anna Renzi: Varför mig?

Elisabeth: För att du är en sån som sådana som jag känner nån slags band till. Du är liksom idéen om urbarocksopranen. Den som var beundrad för sin sceniska närvaro, sin magiska kraft i uttrycket och allt det där som vi önskar oss. Dessutom skrevs det dikter till dig där man också lovprisade din intelligens och stillsamma sätt. Vi vill också lovprisas.

A.R: Jag gjorde mitt jobb. Jag hade tur. Jag levde i en tid när konkurrensen var obefintlig för sådana som mig. Nu finns ni i hoptal. Sen dog jag när jag var lika gammal som du är nu. Jag hann inte bli gammal, gammal och trött. Jag var bara ung. En lovprisad ung människa…

E: Hur ska jag gå till väga med mitt projekt? Tycker du att jag är tokig?

A.R: Idéen om mig är just en idé. Du kommer ju aldrig komma åt mig. Jag är död sedan länge och bilden av mig blev tecknad i en tid när stora ord var för små. Det är breda och guldskimrande penselstråk. Att läsa om mig är nästan som att läsa ett horoskop - du finner alltid nåt som passar in i just ditt liv.

E: Men, hur ska jag göra?

A.R: Gör det. Gör det med allvar och dedikation. Sänd tankar till mig, försök höra vad jag säger till dig. Läs mellan raderna när du läser om mig. Läs.

E: Kommer du vara där?

A.R: Idéen om mig. Och nu menar jag alltså idéen om mig. Bilden av våra medmänniskor skapas alltid utifrån oss själva. Vi ser det vi ser i oss själva och vi hör det vi hör i vårt eget brus. Du hör och ser mig utifrån din tid och din ljudbild.

E: Det är väl självklart. Sånt pratar vi om hela tiden. Eller, vi borde prata om det. Om vi hade pratat om det mer, så hade vi kanske förstått varandra bättre, på riktigt, och inte tagit för givet att vi gjorde det.

Jag tänker på det jag hörde om Sara Bernhardts röst (så typiskt att jag inte skrev ner vem som sa det…). Att hennes röst, eller snarare deklamation, som skulle vara som ”träd i skogen”, stadig och fast, visade sig vara ganska gnällig. Musikalisk och flytande, men gnällig och inte alls tilltalande för våra öron. Är det kanske likadant med dig? Skulle vi har rörts till tårar av ditt agerande? Skulle din röst återklingat i våra stämband och känts som ett eko av våra röster? Eller skulle vi upplevt dig som en överspelande och överemotionell sångerska med dålig sångteknik?

A.R: Sara Bernhardts kom ju långt efter mig, men vi har det gemensamt att våra liv snördes ihop. Banden och valbenen tog andan från oss och lämnade oss utan inre stöd. På min tid fanns männen som kunde sjunga ljust som en kvinna, men som, i egenskap av sitt kön, slapp korsetten och därmed hade en helt annan tillgång till sin röst och sina andetag. De hade naturligtvis inte bara ett större register, men också en större kropp. Och så var det ju det här med kvinnor på scen. Visst fick vi vara där. I och med teatern hade vi ju fått en mer självklar plats i ljuset, inte en helt självklar plats och vår roll var omdiskuterad - vilken typ av kvinnor var vi egentligen..?

Tillbaka till min röst. Du vet ju att man inte jämnade ut registren så som ni gör idag. Bröströst var bröströst och huvudröst var huvudröst. Visst var det mer än så. Det var ju mycket mer än så… Behöver jag gå in på det? Det är ju inte vokalteknik du studerar, utan hur mitt skådespelar-prefix påverkade sången, scenen, livet.

Men först Sara Bernhardts och varför du kommer in på henne hela tiden. Det var väl insikten i att författaren (du måste verkligen gå tillbaka och finna henne) faktiskt förstod att hon inget visste. Rösten hon läst om och bildat uppfattning om lät helt annorlunda än den gjort i den fantasi hon fått utifrån texten om den. Så är det nog. Du kommer aldrig komma närmare mig än du är nu. Och det du kommer nära, är alltså en idé om mig. Och den idéen kommer inifrån dig själv. Det är alltså dig själv du kommer komma närmare.

E: Det blir många ord här, men det måste nog bli så. Ju fler ord jag skriver ner, ju fler av mina tankar får jag med mig. Tankarna flyger så fort.

Vad är det med dig som gör att man vill vara din bästa vän? Eller allra helst, vara dig? Vara en reinkarnation av dig?

A.R Jag kan ju vara i princip vem du vill. Och så framstår jag som en ytterst sympatisk person utan större divalater och ett mjukt och allvarligt sinne, en sån som många vill vara. Mitt utseende sägs inte mycket om. Allvarlig, är nog ordet. Inte alldaglig, men med ett ansikte som kunde förvandlas till vem som helst och hur som helst. In the blink of an eye. Hela jag framstår som en dröm. Dessutom var jag lovordad. Du vet, det skrevs en hel bok med dikter till min ära. En hel bok med dikter som prisade min talang och min begåvning. Vem vill inte ha det?

E: Det var visserligen en samling män som i hemlighet, Incognito, satt och mumlade och skrev ner sina idealvärldar…

A.R: Visst, men om de inte hade gjort det, så var det inte gjort. Bara fjantigt att blanda in dina egna moderna åsikter i bilden av mig. Du måste se bilden av mig på bakgrund av min tid.

E: Är det lite så att vi förstår varandra bara utifrån vår historia? Tänkte på det häromdagen när jag satt och såg på min blivande man. Att jag förstår honom inte så som han är just precis nu, men så som jag känner honom från igår, förra veckan, för tre år sedan. Och så som han speglas i mig.

Vi får aldrig tag på varandra, på riktigt, men ibland så kommer en våg av något som känns som en blixtrande förälskelse, som ett samförstånd.

A.R Ja, lite så. Gå och lägg dig nu.

 

anna Renzi

 

 

 

 

Anna Renzi (1620-1661). Operahistoriens första diva och stora stjärna. Hon var ”allting och ingenting” (Belgrano). Hon var hyllad för sin konstnärliga och vokala flexibilitet och för sin förmåga att gå ifrån den ena sinnesstämningen till den andra i löpet av sekunder (Schneider)

Hela mitt arbete är som en dialog med henne, för det var med henne det hela började när jag mötte henne, eller idéen om henne, i en produktion av Monververdis opera L’Incoronazione di Poppea i Köpenhamn 2012. Magnus Tessing Schneider (ass. research scholar) ville pröva ut sin då nya tes om att rollerna Octavia och Drusilla borde sjungas av en och samma utövare eftersom han menade att Anna Renzi gjorde dessa båda karaktärer i premiären 1641. Vi vet att Renzi sjöng Octavia (Schneider), men Schneider menar att en sångerska av hennes kaliber för det första inte skulle nöja sig med en roll som var hälften så stor som Poppea - hennes plats på scenen borde vara minst lika stor - och för det andra skulle en som var så firad för sin gestaltningsförmåga och sin stora spännvidd inte komma helt till sin rätt i en roll som är såpass endimensional som den (av goda skäl) bittra och hämndgiriga Octavia. Hon måste helt enkelt ha haft fler sidor att spela på scenen. Därför kom han till konklusionen att Anna Renzi rimligtvis borde ha gestaltat även den unga och sprudlande förälskade Drusilla. Magnus använde mig för att praktiskt utforska sina teorier och se om de gav mening. Och det gjorde det. Framförallt gav de mig mening. För mig, att få lov att ta på mig rollerna till två så olika karaktärer, betydde att jag fick använda hela mig. Det gav mig också idéen om att Anna Renzi kanske skulle varit som jag om hon levat idag, dvs en som uppenbarligen söker sig till ytterligheter. 

Jag tänkte mycket på henne efter produktionen. Jag vill så gärna gå djupare i idéen om henne och på så vis vidareföra min känsla av förankring i det dubbla, flersidiga. Det där med dubbelrollerna, det galna i ena sekunden och det ljuva i nästa, kändes så relevant för mig. Kunde jag ta in det i mitt arbete och virke som sångerska idag? Uppenbarligen identifierade jag mig med henne, så det fanns ju något där.

I ett tidigt stadium av mitt forskningsarbete fastnade jag för beskrivningen ”acting singer” (Rosand) som ofta beskriver Anna Renzi och några av hennes samtida på operascenen. ”Acting singer” är antagligen det vi idag kallar ”operasångerska”, men kan också ses som ett bredare begrepp än så - Anna Renzi ansågs  vara en lika stor skådespelerska som sångerska.  Hennes storhet som sångerska kom kanske just av hennes skådespelartalang (Schneider) och hennes förmåga att flyta in och ut av roller., känslor, tillstånd (Belgrano). 

Jag såg också länken mellan Commedia dell’arte och den tidiga formen för opera som både Anna Renzi och Monteverdi var en del av (Wilbourne). Kanske gjorde den tydliga teaterlänken att hennes roll som sångerska löstes upp och gav henne verktyg till att tydligare vara ”allt” i tillägg till att vara ”intet”.

För mig var upplevelsen att få gestalta ”allt” och ”inget” (Belgrano), stora känslor åt alla håll i en barockopera, där rollerna är stiliserade, och att få gå från sörjande till sprudlande i löpet av sekunder… Ja, det var faktiskt som att finna den, the missing link, saknade länken. Kanske  Att rent praktiskt få erfara att vi inte visste allt om uppförningspraxis och att nya tankar om det vi trodde att vi visste, faktiskt kan förändra livet till någon.

 

 

Belgrano, Elisabeth:‘Lasciatemi morire’ o faró ‘La Finta Pazza’: Embodying Vocal Nothingness on Stage in Italian and French 17th century Operatic Laments and Mad Scenes.  (ArtMonitor, doct diss no 25. 2011)  

Calcagno, Mauro: Signifying nothing. (The Journal of Musicology, Vol. 20, No. 4 pp. 461-497, 2003)

Rosand, Ellen Monteverdi’s Mimetic Art: L’Incoronazione di Poppea, (Cambridge Opera Journal 1 1989) 

Tessing Schneider, Magnus: Seeing the empress again (Cambridge Opera Journal / Volume 24 / Issue 03/ pp 249-291, 2012)

Wilbourne, Emily Seventeenth-Century Opera and the Sound of Commedia dell’arte (The University of Chicago Press, 2016)


Hallelujah in Belgium…?

We are all humans of this world, we all desire the same things: love, happiness and to be understood for who we are. It shouldn’t be so difficult to understand one another, especially not between two countries very close to each other, like for example me from Sweden/Norway and someone from, let’s say Belgium.

Belgium has, for me, been a series of ”banging my head against the wall” experiences.

It all started very well when I sang in the Early Music Competition in picturesque Bruges and came in number three in the finals! Yay!

But then… I’ve be paralysed by fear and scared of singing even the smallest note wrong in a highly acclaimed vocal ensemble. I’ve been told it just was  ”not good enough” (and felt it too) after a horrible audition. I’ve been recovering from lost voice/illnes/tiredness, but forced myself into doing a very demanding concert resulting in THE WORST review EVER. A review that knocked down quite a lot of my confidence at the time.

It may sound like nothing, but I really like Belgium, I like the flemish language, the food, the beer, the cute houses and the music tradition and it’s almost like you fancy someone a lot and they just keep telling you to please, go away. Like a sad love story.

My experiences in Belgium have been the ones that I shouldn’t care about. You shouldn’t care about a bad review (even if it’s BAD). A review is something we all know we should stand above and not belittle ourselves with. But I did care. My fault.  You also shouldn’t care about a horrible audition. You should just move on to the next one and the next one, I know this. But, auditions bring forth the worst in me, not as a human, but as a singer and it stands for all of the things I don’t appreciate (being judged, being ”best” and so on). This particular one was also an example of how small we performers are and how easy it is for the powerful ones to just disclaim us, as if we really don’t mean anything. No, it might not be like that, but it felt like that. I also might have told them just that afterwards. Not the smartest thing, I agree, but it felt important at the time. Also, why does being smart mean ”keep your mouth shut, even if you feel badly treated” in classical music business?      As for the ensemble? I don’t know. It just wasn’t my thing. I wanted it to be my thing, but it wasn’t.

All of these things should be small arrows pointing me in the direction of where I should go and where I’ll find myself. And, maybe they are…

Anyway. On Sunday I have a chance of making amends with Belgium. On Sunday I will sing loud and clear with my own voice together with my favourite people. Maybe it’ll be a Hallelujah this time?

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Buxtehude

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SCHUMANN!!!

I'll say nothing. Watch what happens when four musicians say Yes to music and No to "rules". I give you: Ensemble Odd Size

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To sing music by dead people. And alive.

As a classical singer I perform lots and lots of music by dead people. One disadvantage though of singing the music by composers who stopped living is that you can’t ask them what they really meant, how they wanted it sound, who they wrote it for or just simple things like tempo or dynamics. We can only guess.
The Early Music Movement has from when it began in the 50’s been incredibly important to our understanding of the fantastic music of the baroque and the pre baroque era, but it has grown into a kind of mainstream genre where some theories have become truths we don’t even talk about any more. A lot of people don’t ask questions any more, but take for granted that they Know.
Yes, there are books and treatises, paintings and other clues, but they are still just clues. Good clues, but, I say it again, clues, hints. We know things like how trills were supposed to be played and sung, there are written down improvisations so we know about that. We know many of the technical things, but we have no idea how it actually sounded!
Especially the sound of singers is something of a mystery. Again, a lot of people preach the ”truth” but, again, we have no idea (In some cases, like with the castrato singers, i think it’s just as good). And maybe we wouldn’t like what we heard anyway? Maybe the singers would be overly sentimental in their interpretation, too harsh in their tone? Maybe their timing too free? Maybe they improvise just a little too extravagant?
For me, I believe that the only correct way is to be humble for the time passed and with all our love and gratefulness respect to the people, who lived and worked before us, perform the music of their time in the best way we possibly can, with the knowledge we have and not be too sure about the rest… How we perform ”authentically” today is more of mirror of our own time than we want to think. (Don’t misunderstand me- of course we should learn as much as we can and of course we should be as respectful as we can to the collected knowledge. And of course! Know the rules before you break them and all that. I can say this because I’ve worked with and studied early music for more than 20 years.)
One good thing about not knowing for sure, is that it gives us lots of opportunity to use our brains and figure out for our selves what we think is right for us, here and now. When we do that, the music comes alive and it’s just wonderful, wunderbar!
But sometimes the music I sing is by someones who is not only unquestionably very alive, but also someone close by, someone I can work with. Like now. I have for the last week worked on ”Places of Sounds and Words” a piece by my dear friend Henrik Hellstenius. He wrote this for me and the glorious Cikada (if you haven’t had a 35 minutes long piece written for you, DO IT! It’s GREAT!) and we’ll perform it for the third time this Saturday, in Copenhagen. Here.
”Places…” is a kind of urban cantata. We experience the sounds of the city. The sounds we hear all the time and the sounds no one should have to hear. We hear the scattered modern human, our ideas of the world, the echo from the past and, even, some birds and animals. It’s a fantastic piece and I love doing it.
And as Händel wrote and adapted his music to fit his singers, Henrik does that for me. When I can’t ask G F (yes, I call him that) if he really meant ”that” or if ”this” is a misprint, I can ask Henrik! I can even ask him to rewrite it for me if my soprano mood requires so. Like Händel’s singers/musician could (and did).
With him, and his living colleagues, I can discuss colours, tempo and the over all idea and intention of the work, so I know for sure what he or she wants.
Händel might be clenching his fists in frustration over hos misinterpreted his music has become. Maybe we are "too" good?  Or maybe, I chose to think this, he likes it a lot.
Of course it can be intimidating to perform and carry the work of someone who sits right in front of you, but if it’s one thing I’ve learned by doing just that, is that most of them they want the music they have written to come genuinely alive and to be sung and played with the unique voice and temper of that one performer or ensemble.
And to end this in a pretentious way, It’s only music, but music and the music we make together, musicians and composers, should be bigger that ourselves, and discussions of Dos and Don’ts.

When music is scary

On the occasion of Sunday’s concert with Paulus Barokk.

I realise, when I write these posts, that many of them are about what I’ve learned and what I now have to re-learn in my own way. Always having been the good student, doing what the grown-ups told me to do, I think I now understand that I am one of the grown-ups myself, especially since I’m now the one who sometimes teaches and makes young people do what I tell them to do.

One of the things that quite strongly affect my students is Fear. Fear of doing wrong (whatever that is), fear of being wrong, fear of giving away too much, fear of sounding unfamiliar and strange etc etc. I totally sympathise with them, even though my own fear in this area didn’t start to show its ugly face until I was older.  Before that, I just opened my mouth and my heart and sang magical music.

The first composer that made me realise that music can be truly magical was Johan Sebastian Bach. I think a lot of musicians' first love is Bach and his open, yet so clear and distinct music. The music is so strong that you can fill it with yourself and it is still Bach. I liked that and for years I just enjoyed the music.

And then I started hearing rumours about how strict he was and how strict the conductors that work with his music are and I kind of began to understand that there was more to it than I thought- it was not good enough to just sing as well as you possibly could. No, there was a whole universe of mathematical rules, of non vibrato rules, of tempo rules, of clear as crystal rules, and some day I must have felt it too, because suddenly I didn’t find the pleasure in his wonderful music any more. I just had to get through it. I felt fear! My throat constricted and my musicality disappeared. I was never as nervous as when I sang in one of the Bach Passions.

Of course, this was a conflict I had created by myself in my own head. No one is to be blamed. But isn’t it strange how some composers, or the tradition following them, trigger these thoughts? That we are not good enough for them? Even if, according  to the sources, the singers Bach had in hand weren’t good enough for it either.

And then I sang the Coffee Cantata! Yay!

Kaffeekantata is a secular kantata that Bach wrote together with a man who called himself Picander (his real name was Christian Friedrich Henrici and I agree, Picander is a lot cooler) and is a cute little story about Liesgen who, much to her father, Herr Schlendriand’s, dismay, prefers coffee to…anything. A bit like myself actually. Ask anyone who has to live and/or work with me.

Now, the habit of drinking coffee today is not as looked down upon as it was during the days of Bach. Then coffee was bad. Today coffee is just everywhere. Literally. In our times of superabundance, the only one who can control our cravings is ourselves and if you can’t control it you are a person without integrity and the only one to be blamed.  And not being able to control our sugar and caffein cravings today are considered almost as bad as... I don't don't, swearing in church?

When singing Kaffeekantata, it’s impossible to be afraid of Johan Sebastian Bach. It’s impossible to not enjoy it very much. Even though the humour is way out of date, it’s very funny in a strange way (”Give me coffee, or else I’ll be just like a dry old goat's bleating” is very to the point). And since we’re doing it in Swedish, a language I am very familiar with, it’s, for me, very down to earth and reachable. I know that the audience will meet the Johan Sebastian who could laugh at silly things. A man who writes, even though he didn’t do it much, music to silly texts can’t be that scary.

(I think I have to take this thought with me to the next St. John's Passion.)

Here is the lovely Elly Ameling singing the first soprano aria from Kaffeekantata. Ei, wie schmeckt der Coffee... "Coffee, coffee I have to have coffee, and, if someone wants to pamper me, ah, then bring me coffee as a gift!"

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Ophelia - or (re)Fin(d)ing my voice

In the Autumn 2004 I was a very tired mother of a two-year old, and I had also just received my Konzertexamen-diploma. Twenty-eight years old with a long education behind me and a future I didn't know anything about. Lost and a bit sad.

The musical training I'd obtained was purely classical, with an emphasis on early and contemporary music. I loved classical and romantic music with all my heart, but didn't feel I really belonged in that tradition or that way of singing.

I think my problem was that I always considered myself being a musician first – a musician who happens to use the voice as her instrument- and in the world into which I was raised a singer is a singer and a soprano even more so.

"Please don't think too much! Please don't raise your (own) voice! Please just do what we ask you to."* - is what I felt that world said to me. "Just be perfect enough".

Perfection was and is in demand. Yes, I always aim to refine  my technique, work with the little details, improve my tone, making it soft, pure and strong, but I've never aspired to be perfect. There is no such thing as pure perfection, apart from, maybe a newborn baby and a rosebud.

 

So, back to the Autumn 2004. I had just completed my studies with a successful Debut concert and I felt lost.

In my concert program I included "Drei Lieder der Ophelia" by Richard Strauss. Genius music, perfect if you will, that captures Ophelia's state of complete despair, just before she meets her death in the river. Even though I've lived a quite happy and normal life, I felt that I could easily sympathize with her.

In the process of learning and interpreting the songs, I went to Anne-Lise Berntsen (R.I.P.), a singer who looked for more than what you could see and who always stood up for herself, doing her thing. She opened up new doors in the Ophelia/Elisabeth house, making it bigger and giving me some keys to understand the complexity of her distress. Or, not so complex- she was simply very, very sad, lonely and lost.

Anne Lise also encouraged me to sing the way I felt I had to sing, with the voice I needed to use, even if it wasn't the most beautiful one and that was very liberating for me (to be fair, Barbro Marklund-Petersone, my teacher at the State Academy of Music never tried to oppress that side of me- she always lets me just sing)

 

A few days before Christmas that same year I saw an announcement for an audition for a new opera- Ophelia. That's about what it said, not much information, but I felt my heart beat fast and my whole body, maybe even the universe, saying: This is it.

Next thing I remember, the big studio at the radio house in Oslo, my nerves on the outside of my body and the floor under my feet very unstable. The blood left my head (I think it went to my heart) and the sheet of music left my hands and landed on the wobbly floor.

And that was it. I went home, thinking it was all over. Of course it was all over. If you sing like that in an audition… Well, it wasn't exactly perfect.

But, of course I got the part! That's what this post is all about. And what happened next is that people started to ask me to sing, scream or whisper from my heart and soul, to dig out all the darkness and ugliness and, by all means, vulnerability. They demanded it! Suddenly there was no perfect way of doing it. Perfection gone. Beautiful opera voice out.

The composer, wonderful Henrik Hellstenius, and I had meetings where he asked me what I could do and we went from there. A lot of the material was written (even with other singers in mind) when I got it, but for me it was my part.

The whole idea with the opera (with libretto by Cecilie Løveid) is to give Ophelia the strong voice. The other characters are Hamlet, Gertrude and three Woodmaidens and they all characterize loneliness, how extremely lonely it can be to be human, and how fragile we all are (maybe not the Woodmaidens…they characterize…other things).

The key word from stage director Jon Tombre: "honesty". In this production I had nowhere to hide. No perfect tone or warm timbre to sing from within. It was an eye opener for me. Or a voice opener. For what happened in the process was that all kinds of singing became easier for me, Bach, Händel, Schönberg… Not that I always "scream" or sing with a strained voice, but once I had found my true, honest voice I felt that this was where I should always start from.

I will always be very, very grateful to Jon and Henrik (and the others around me at that time) for forcing me to open my voice and be honest, no matter what.

I have sung the part of Ophelia three times now. Two on stage and one for a recording. I find new colours in us, in her and in me everytime.

 

I can see, when I read my own words now, that it's not very easy to follow and it becomes sentimental and "wow, you just have to be true to yourself and everything will go your way"- it's not what I mean. I just mean… Some of us really have to do it our way or we'll get miserable, depressed and awful human beings.