The Inner Voice: The Making of a Singer

by Renee Fleming

  When I spin out a long phrase, for example, I give that phrase a shape in my mind, which then travels out into the air. If it could be seen, it would appear as the silhouette of a mountain range. The shape would not so much trace the melody as the dramatic direction of the phrase. Where is its high point? Where is its most dramatic moment? Does the phrase vary dynamically, or is it steady? I make some of these decisions in rehearsal, while others are left to a moment of inspiration. But all of the choices go together to create what I hope will be a perfect moment in the performance, something that is both unique and ephemeral.

  Part of the work done in a role is fine-tuning my approach to the text, making sure I can be understood and pronouncing the words as authentically as possible. Then there’s the musical work: where I take a breath; the shape of the phrase; should it be sung legato, which means that the notes are strung together seamlessly, or are there different articulations in the bar that would require staccato, marcato, a tied note, or stresses? Although these are fine points that are usually spelled out very specifically on the page by the composer, it’s surprising how much discipline it takes to actually study a score so carefully that all these little details are attended to, and unfortunately, memorizing them takes twice as long. However time-consuming, this process adds depth to a performance, and anything less can result in an interpretation that is bland and not necessarily true to the composer’s intentions. A wonderful conductor will also use rehearsal time not only to encourage us to enrich our own performances, but to collaborate with the rest of the cast and the orchestra in presenting a unified whole. James Levine has just this kind of musical intelligence in spades, which is one of the reasons he is such an extraordinary conductor.

  Only once all of these musical elements are in place do we begin work with a stage director, who presents his concept of this opera, both visually and dramatically. Most directors will begin by blocking each scene—meaning, for example, that Figaro sits upstage center on the bed for the first phrase of a recitative, and then Susanna crosses downstage left of him to cradle Cherubino in her arms for her response. Blocking gives us a frame-by-frame template for movement. This is the least enjoyable part of the work for me. I prefer to get through the nuts and bolts of blocking as quickly as possible, because what follows is the joy of interaction and collaboration with my colleagues. We play off one another the same way actors in the theater do, except that our pitches and rhythms are fixed by the music. This limits our freedom when it comes to delivering a line, but it also helps to ground us in the scene. We are left to interpret by means of how we use and emphasize the text, and by our dynamic shaping or bending of each phrase. We can obviously inflect a good deal expressively with our faces and bodies as well.

  A good director will use this preparation time to motivate and build character, but in a revival, which might have only two days of rehearsals, we are fortunate if we know which doors to enter and exit from. My favorite Rosenkavalier performance was at Covent Garden, with the Royal Opera. We had only two weeks to prepare and were left rather to our own devices, once we had the geography of the stage down. This had to be one of the most detailed performances of that opera I’ve ever taken part in, because each performance had an element of freedom and improvisation to it, which kept us all on our toes. It worked in this case because we were an ensemble of performers who had already sung together in at least four other Rosenkavalier productions.

  Even if our singing is at the point of complete confidence (and let’s be honest, how often is that the case?), there are still plenty of other things to worry about in a performance. Beyond the challenges that any stage actor would face, we have to be sure we can be heard over an orchestra and sometimes a very large chorus as well, and without amplification. Considering how large theaters can be—four thousand at the Met, for example—that is not an insubstantial task. We have to keep our voices directionally pointed out toward the audience and rarely toward the wings or the back of the stage. We also have to be in sync with the orchestra and with one another at all times. Fortunately, the prompter is there to help, along with as many as ten television monitors placed around the stage and in the theater, so that the conductor’s baton can be seen from any position. We must act our emotions and control them at the same time. No matter how devastated we may feel at any given moment, we cannot give way to tears as our lover leaves us while we’re on our deathbed, because we still have to sing, and singing and tears can be a highly incompatible combination. The moment the audience suspects that I, Renée, am grieving is the moment it forgets about Violetta’s grieving.

  We count on our audiences to suspend their disbelief in many ways. First and foremost, we ask them to believe that it is a natural thing for us to be singing rather than speaking; second, we must do such a convincing job with our singing and our acting that they are willing to overlook the fact that we so rarely fit the physical requirements of our characters. People marvel at Meryl Streep’s ability with accents and her adeptness at physically inhabiting her roles, but could she play the teenaged virgin in Faust? The first time I sang Manon in Paris and introduced myself as a girl of sixteen, several in the audience snickered, but then, most opera heroines are sixteen and no opera sopranos are. At the height of our careers, we are typically in our midthirties at the very least, and no one is surprised to see a singer taking on an ingenue role at fifty or even sixty. This is one aspect of the profession that I love dearly. All of the qualities demanded by a given role can be suggested by a believable performance and, more important, a suitable voice. After all, who ever doubted that Mirella Freni, singing late in her career, was the embodiment of the very young Tatyana in Eugene Onegin?

  One of the hallmarks of sensitive, intelligent people is that they don’t make sweeping generalizations about others based on physical appearances—unless, of course, the people being generalized about are opera singers. Put me on an elevator in any music school in the country, and I can tell you almost immediately who the singers are and who the instrumentalists are. You may say I am stereotyping, but when the passengers on that elevator declare their majors, you will also say that I was right. Instrumentalists have been practicing long hours since they were children, with the kind of discipline that demands a dedication and a seriousness that belong to a certain kind of personality. Singers often don’t discover their voices until they’re sixteen or seventeen, and their ability to project their voices isn’t limited to the theater—an elevator will do just fine. When I was in school, Miss Texas seemed to be the soprano ideal: big hair, lots of makeup, high heels, and dressed to the hilt, with all components doubled, from hair height to heel height, for auditions. I tried to add an element of hipness to the image with my thrift-store vintage dresses, until Beverley drew the line at moth holes, after which my father only added insult to injury by tossing out my favorite dress when I wasn’t looking.

  We have other, more familiar stereotypes to deal with as well—first and foremost, of course, Brünnhilde, with her breastplate, long blond braids, horned helmet, and the spear. When most people think of a soprano, they think of a big woman with a comparably big voice, and historically, we are not for the most part small in stature. Marilyn Horne said it best: big rockets require big launchers. We’re the weight lifters of the vocal arts. What we do, in fact, does feel very close to heavy lifting sometimes, making a sound that is substantial enough to carry to the farthest reaches of the balcony. On the other hand, I was amazed when I met Birgit Nilsson, Leontyne Price, and Renata Scotto, none of whom is particularly tall or large at all. (And as long as we’re trafficking in stereotypes, tenors are traditionally not very tall, while the basses very often are, which might be related to the lengths of their vocal cords.)

  Whether or not carrying a certain amount of weight is necessary for singing is a controversial topic. Beverley believed that it was, as she thought that it was the fatty tissue in the soft palate that could literally make or break someone’s sound. Fat can also create a natural suppo
rt, just like pregnancy. When I listen to the telecast of the Otello I performed weeks after I had Sage, when I was decidedly heavier than usual, my sound is richer and darker. Then again, it could have been raging hormones that momentarily caused the change in color and weight in my voice.

  There was a point in my life when I became completely obsessed with Maria Callas and how she lost her voice. I asked everyone I knew what they thought had happened to her, and many of them suggested that her voice had gone into quick decline after she lost sixty pounds (as legend has it, with the use of tapeworms). I have to speculate that, because she dropped the weight so quickly, she had been unable to develop a new means of support. In the few existing videos of her performances from that time, she often has her forearms pressed against her solar plexus while she sings, as if she is trying to create support externally, rather than through the abdominal wall strength and technique that are really needed. Of course, she also looks gorgeous, and in her new willowy body she became the Audrey Hepburn of the opera world and the darling of Balenciaga.

  To one extent or another all performers are packaged, and like it or not, image is part of that package. Obviously the voice has to be there as well, but there’s also stage presence, charisma, or what the German language calls Ausstrahlung, or “shining out.” Then there has to be a distinctive sound—not just a good voice, but a distinctive and unique one—and, most important, an ability to communicate meaning and emotion to the audience. When I sit through a series of auditions, it’s quite clear who has those qualities and who doesn’t. Very few people, no matter how talented, really stand out. For a long time I didn’t have every element of my presentation and my own image together, which was one of the reasons things moved so slowly for me. Matthew Epstein and I began working together shortly after the birth of Sage, when I hadn’t managed to control my weight nearly as well as I had in my first pregnancy. (My line was “I thought she would weigh thirty-five pounds. You can imagine my surprise.”) He sat me down one day and spelled it out for me: “I know you want this very badly. If you want it enough, for Manon, for Violetta, for Arabella, you’ll lose the weight.”

  Of course, I knew I was overweight, but it was jarring to hear it in plain speech from a professional I admired. When Susan Graham explained the low-carb theory to me, things finally started to turn around. I discovered over time that I am most comfortable with a consistent low-carbohydrate, low-fat diet, focused on green vegetables, berries, and soy-based substitutes for other main pyramid foods. Recently, I added to that regimen the wonders of Pilates, with a terrific coach in New York. Margaret Velez has given me the functional strength for which this program is famous, enabling me to feel not only stronger but more flexible onstage, as well as on the blue hills of my favorite ski slopes. The best part of it is the intense focus on core strength, which we need almost as much as dancers do. Now that I’m a convert, I only wish I had started years ago.

  Matthew wasn’t the only person to offer an opinion on the subject of my image. When I signed on with Mary Lou Falcone as my publicist in 1995, she had her own suggestions: “I would like you to streamline the way you dress. Prints and cut velvet are not becoming to you, and you might like to consider giving away the coat you have on.”

  Oh, to see yourself as others see you! She was right, of course, and I was reminded of some of my earlier experiences with the matter of my image, such as when my budding “diva” persona was humbled during my two summers at Glyndebourne. My sense of humor has always been self-deprecating, but this was really too much. In the festival atmosphere, a young singer has the added benefit of attending other performances, absorbing repertoire, and learning by observation. On one such afternoon, during the long intermission, I stepped out of the ladies’ room and noticed that the rather grand woman in front of me was trailing a long strand of toilet paper from her delicate shoes. Tsk tsk, I smugly thought. As I wandered alone around the grounds, practicing my studied expression of serious artistry, a gentleman tapped me on the shoulder and said politely, “Miss, your skirt is tucked into your pantyhose in the back.” He meant the waist of my pantyhose, of course. Some weeks later at another intermission, while I was trying to speak intelligently to patrons, a large bird deposited its contribution to the conversation on my forehead. I tried to think it was an anointment of sorts, hailing the arrival of the next great soprano. I finally gave up on ever having the sort of gracious image I craved when I arrived late for a performance of The Rake’s Progress. The usher kindly allowed me to enter the box after the performance had begun. It was very dark, and I took great care to enter silently at all costs, not disturbing in the least the quiet recitative that was taking place. I quickly aligned myself with the heads in front of me and those to my left and began to take my seat. Unfortunately, there was no chair in my place. After the loud crash, Murphy’s Law of humiliation dictated that several audience members in the rows ahead recognized me, all of whom asked with concern, “Miss Fleming, are you all right?”

  It was then and there, once and for all, that I gave up the notion of developing a “persona.” I stopped practicing the sort of English that would place me geographically somewhere on the moon, using that high, sing-song voice attributed to only the best sopranos, and I decided that humility and humor must surely be the only real strategies for surviving such a rarefied existence.

  With Mary Lou and Matthew, my instinct for recognizing good advice served me once again, and I listened, for part of being a great student is never allowing one’s ego to take precedence over the experience of other professionals. When my Strauss Heroines CD came out, one of the photos featured me glamorously dressed and lying across a bed. Soon after its release a journalist in the UK asked me during an interview, “Okay, how do you feel about using sex to sell your recording?” And the first thing out of my mouth was “Really? Do you think I did that? Thank you!” I was stunned, but I was also thrilled, never having been perceived as anything approaching sexy.

  Andrew Eccles is the photographer with whom I have the greatest rapport. He has an eye for the most flattering angles and lighting and has photographed most of my CD portraits, requiring an entire day for a shoot that will supply the cover and publicity photos for between one and two years. I have also learned through experience how important it is to give to the camera, for an unfocused, tired, or dull expression does not an interesting photograph make. Hours of this takes a great deal of discipline and concentration, but if an alluring photograph encourages someone to pick up a CD of Strauss scenes and listen to it, then so be it. We live in an entirely visual society now, and the consumer is known to buy music with his eyes. If the expectations for women today, in particular, are often depressing and unrealistic, at the same time refusing to acknowledge that I am subject to those standards isn’t going to make them go away, no matter how much I may resent them.

  I have always been drawn to beauty, in whatever form it takes. Through my dear friend and Czech coach Yveta Synek Graff, I met one of Gianfranco Ferré’s assistants at a postperformance party during a San Francisco production of Rusalka, and I told her of my interest in couture and how much I admired Ferré’s work. I have always loved fashion, and never more than when I compiled my vintage collection at a Potsdam thrift shop for fifty cents per paper bag. I was especially taken with men’s jackets and rhinestones and with fabulous cocktail dresses from the forties. My fashion sense was not unlike my singing back then: I had a lot of natural talent, but I just didn’t have my style worked out.

  Unbeknownst to me, this wonderful woman, Susan Mele, spent the next two years pleading my case, and in 1998, Ferré himself agreed to design a gown for me. It was burgundy, with a long train and a very simple silhouette, half velvet (though not cut velvet) and half wool crepe, and wearing it made me feel as if I were having a glass of superb Champagne after a lifetime of sweet pink wine. That marked the beginning of our relationship, and since then Mr. Ferré has generously designed one or two gowns a year for me. This is an aspect of my conc
ert career that would otherwise have involved a great deal of effort in fittings, in decisions, and in cost. Instead, Mr. Ferré or an assistant and I meet before the upcoming season and decide on designs, and sometime after that a beautiful gown is delivered by post from Milan to my door without any fittings being necessary. Fashion’s stork . . . Because my new concert-heavy schedule requires more gowns than any one designer could provide, I have more recently and fortuitously worn concert gowns designed by Issey Miyake and Oscar de la Renta, as well. When people tell me my life is glamorous, my first thought is usually of all the time spent in airports and rehearsals, but couture is one element of divadom that I gratefully embrace. In exchange, the designers receive valuable exposure, and exposure that speaks directly to their clientele, who are often concertgoers. My relationship with Rolex is based on the same premise. The company’s aim is to align itself with excellence in the arts, sports, and science and exploration. In exchange, I receive invaluable amounts of print publicity.

  A real diva also has a colorist who travels to Paris, London, Houston, and Chicago to keep up appearances. Michael Stinchcomb of Vartali Salon has been equally important in developing my image. It seems that, after all, hair requires more effort than clothing.