Disclaimer: This is not a scientific article, nor will I quote researchers. But I wouldn’t have these thoughts without those who have worked deeply on these subjects. This text simply wanted to be shared.”
This is a text I wrote instead of attending a panel discussion about the voice in music and on stage. There were some composers, a stage director, and some singers present. The organisers wanted to explore questions about the role of the voice on stage and whether, or how, it should or could affect the audience’s emotions—if it even has to express anything. A peculiar question. How can a voice not express something?
There were so many things I wanted to add to the discussion. But I couldn’t attend because I was in hospital, recovering from vocal fold surgery, under the strictest speech ban. A bit ironic, when you think about it. Anyway, half a year later, here is my addition to that discussion—slightly altered and expanded. Since I wasn’t there myself, I don’t know what was said, so I might be kicking in doors that are already wide open (which, in a way, I hope I am).
I am a classically trained singer with a PhD in artistic research. I started singing as a child, and it’s basically all I know. I have also undergone surgery and endured long periods of complete silence—the singer’s nightmare. In short, I know what it means to be a singer and stage performer using her voice, and I also know what it means to lose it.
As a singer, my voice is my most valued and important artistic tool. It’s my raison d’être, my why. When I was younger, I could feel awkward in social settings, not believing in myself in situations where being smart was highly valued. I often felt like I was pretending—even to myself. But, when I was singing, I always, always felt like my true, authentic self. And I was good at it! It was me and my voice.
However, throughout my life and career, I’ve had to navigate others’ opinions about my voice—bending it to fit various situations and artistic needs, all while trying not to lose it in the process. I’ve strived to keep it healthy and to keep it mine, but unfortunately, I have still lost it a few times along the way. I’ve stood on stage with a voice I didn’t know would carry to the end of the performance more than once. I don’t know if that was brave or foolish, but I did it because… the show must go on?
Sometimes, I’ve regarded my own voice as an object—examining its mechanics, studying how it works. This objectifying gaze, shaped by extensive classical training and a deeper-than-average knowledge of anatomy and neurology, has allowed me to experiment and push my voice to extremes. It’s been quite fun, actually, to play with this duality: the voice as both a vessel for speech, laughter, whoop-whoops!, cries, and screams—our rawest expressions of the human self—and the voice as a physical mechanism, the voice box, a larynx of cartilage and tiny muscles, simply producing sounds. I can, if I want, easily view it with an objective gaze; my voice is just a voice that i can use in many ways to create art.
However, the situation changes when someone else—a composer, conductor, or director (not always, but often a man) —treats my voice as an object to fit their artistic vision. In the name of Art.
While many singers and performers can (and want to) adapt to various demands and do ”all the crazy things” expected of them, if these demands don’t resonate with our own instruments, we risk injuring our voices—potentially losing them entirely.
Yes, yes a voice can do almost anything, but “almost anything” requires different techniques and skills that sometimes take years of practice if you want to do it safely. Therefore, it’s critical that those pulling the strings have the deepest respect for the performer’s instrument and its delicacy. They must not push it too far too soon or force the singer or actor to use it in ways that feel unnatural. Unfortunately, I’ve met too many people along the way who lack this basic respect and knowledge. They claim they do, but their actions—the way stage directors speak to singers, the demands from composers, the wishes from co-musicians—reveal a lack of real understanding. The singer becomes the difficult one when expressing a need to calm down. Especially if she is a woman.
And, again yes, we absolutely need to be challenged, pushed to expand our limits and expand our expressions. Definitely. Yes, please. Both in the name of art and in the name of being an artist. But, please do it with respect.
In my periods of silence and long rehabilitation, I’ve understood, on a deeper level, just how crucial my voice is to me. Losing that side of myself made me lose my ground. When I wasn’t able to sing, I closed myself in myself, becoming even more silent. Even speaking has been hard. And, oh—I didn’t recognise my laughter anymore. My laughter was always the typical singer’s laughter. Yes, that’s a soprano, it used to say. And I love laughing. Laughing is the best! Having my own laughter back feels almost as amazing as having my singing voice back.
In my healing process, I’ve experimented with self-love, playfulness, and kindness. I say experimented because not many have actually instructed me to do this, but I had to invent my own personal method for it. And it worked. Every loving thought magically transformed the rawness in my voice to the silvery tones I recongnize. By encouraging kindness towards myself, I had this “Wow… if so many good things come from this, how many bad things came from the opposite, which I endured for so many years?” moment! So, from now on, radical self-compassion and unconditional love are my new thing!
In response to the question of whether the voice ”has to express” something on stage, as posed in the presentation for the panel discussion I couldn’t attend, I believe it is almost impossible for the voice not to be expressive. Our vocalised voices are designed to evoke emotions and actions—it’s an evolutionary necessity for survival. My nervous system’s involvement in vocalisation ensures that both I and the listener will react emotionally. The impact, however, depends on who the listener is and where they come from. I can engage in voice work methodically and mechanically, yet be perceived as overly emotional. Or, I can sing with my whole heart—only to find that no one cares. This depends on the listener’s nervous system, background, emotional baggage, the entire situation, etc., etc.
To sum it up: even if my voice is partly created by the mechanics of my physiology and may be regarded as an object, the voice lives inside my body, my nervous system, and my history—as it does for everyone. This must be the first thing anyone working with other people’s voices—whether musicians, conductors, composers, teachers, stage directors, etc.—understands. They must listen to the unique voice in front of them.
My deepest respect and gratitude to those of you (especially if you’re in a position of power) who are open to this vulnerability—creating safe spaces while still being able to convey your artistic visions and challenge us to find new landscapes and colours in our voices.
And more—my deepest respect and love to everyone who sings with their hearts in their hands. The world needs you!