Back again

Today was my fourth live engagement post lockdown. And yes, I’m still counting - I’m not sure when that will stop!

More significantly, it was my second live engagement with ‘audience’, or in this case: congregation. I’ve been lucky to have been booked for two church services in this last week by friends. A chance to flex those live performance muscles again, and attempt to remember the order of a Church of England Evensong…

The first service came with much anticipation. Finally a chance to get back to the job I have trained so many years to do. Finally a chance to communicate beyond the four walls of my practice room. Finally… a chance to reacquaint myself with performance anxiety.

During my late teens, I had crippling performance anxiety - I would alternate between shaking like a leaf and sweating profusely; I would frequently be sick; and the combination of these things would usually leave me feeling ill for days after a performance. Recently there was a Classic FM tweet asking people to share their most embarrassing performance stories. Most people shared hilarious wardrobe malfunctions or wrong words, but mine would all have been from this period in my life.

Time passed. I conquered my nerves. Or rather, I trained myself to do things differently.

I developed a system whereby two or three days before a performance - sometimes a week if I was less busy - I would let myself get nervous. I would be ratty, I would feel ill, I would sing badly. And then it would pass. By the time of the performance day, apart from the occasional loose bowel movement (ref. my infamous blog of 2015), I had achieved nirvana.

It became a cycle: Monday and Tuesday I felt nervous, Wednesday and Thursday I focussed on preparing, Friday and Saturday I performed - ready to repeat the whole rigmarole again on Monday.

And then along came lockdown.

Turns out nothing can knock this system out of kilter like having no performances or auditions in the diary. And whatever we’ve all been saying, video performances recorded at home just aren’t quite the same. As anticipation grew for that first service, I was rather pleased and more than a little surprised not to be confronted by my old friends: my nerves. Two days before, a day before, an hour before - still no sign of them. As I stood up to sing the first hymn - BAM - they were back. Not quite the vomiting, sweaty friends of my heyday, but nevertheless an unwelcome friend there to make their presence felt.

So, at the end of this very long post we get to today. My second live performance with ‘audience’ post lockdown. Again, no nerves in the days or hours before. Once again, they were waiting in the wings, ready to pounce on that first breath. But this time, I was ready for them. I had a plan.

I breathed for my first entry. They were there. I grappled with them for a minute or two. Then I remembered that was pointless. Sometimes, your annoying friend does come to the party - and rather than passive aggressively trying to get them to leave, it is much better to give them a job to do. So I opened my arms. I welcomed them in. I invited them to be my duet partner. And finally - I had the thrilling live performance experience that I have been craving since March 15.

I’m not sure what my relationship with my nerves will be going forward. As long as performing remains an infrequent activity, I think there is no escaping them. But I’m not sure I want to. It may have taken me ten years to work it out, but it turns out nervous energy can be good energy. It’s just about knowing how to use it.

Back to work

Today was the first time I have been paid to sing in a room with other people since 15 March. Leave aside one emergency coaching/recording session*, that is close to four months of making music via Zoom, or more often than not, alone in my house (with a backing track, if I’m lucky).

I have been looking forward to this moment since I was booked for it a month ago. In fact, the anticipation has grown so immense between Monday and today, that I felt quite ill with excitement this morning. The job in hand was a rehearsal for a new piece by Ninfea Crutwell-Reade that will be recorded on Monday as part of the Presteigne Festival’s digital offering. Nine of us rehearsed in North London, socially distanced, fully masked and in a well-ventilated room.

So, how did it feel? Well, not quite as joyful as I was expecting. At the end of the day, it was still work and we were still being paid to deliver the goods. The first rehearsal of a new work still requires calm, focus, professionalism – same as it did four months ago! To put it bluntly, once we were in the moment of rehearsing, there wasn’t much brain space to think ‘Oh my goodness, we’re making real music together’ as most of my brain was consumed by counting, text and ensemble (even harder when socially distanced).

There were new things to get used to: inhaling a little bit of mask when taking particularly big breaths; being far more mindful of colleagues’ personal space; not being able to mouth questions (or even whisper them!) to your colleagues so as not to disturb the rest of the rehearsal… And worst of all, not being able to see if someone is smiling – something we will all have to get used to in the months ahead.

It was good to be back. Really good. But I think the true sigh of relief will take place when I come to the end of a performance in front of a full-capacity theatre/recital room/school hall. Something that still feels in the very distant future.

* Obviously when it was legal to do so – I’m not Dominic Cummings.

Singing for my sanity

One would be forgiven for thinking you’re not a proper musician unless you are sharing videos of yourself all over the Internet currently. That said, my guess is that it’s a 20:80 split between those who are sharing and those who aren’t - we simply notice the voices that shout the loudest. (This isn’t a criticism of those voices, many of whom are bringing pleasure to a lot of people, just an acknowledgement that those who aren’t putting out content are still valid performers).

I’m using this enforced career-break to finally fill in some technical gaps that have become increasingly hard to ignore over the last five years of studying singing ‘seriously’. This involves a lot of painstaking practice and some pretty ugly noises, so I am refraining from joining the melee of music videos. However, after six weeks of confinement (I started a week early) I thought it might be time to reaffirm my presence in the musical community with a few words.

I have many thoughts and feelings about Covid-19, and have acquired so many more through the medium of my friends that it is hard to know where to start when writing about the current crisis. Few of us could have imagined a disruption on so large-a-scale in our lifetimes. It has thrown up a lot of big questions, both about the functioning of our society and - on a smaller scale - the functioning (and function) of our profession.

I am going to start small though, as small is where I am finding moments of sanity in amongst the confusion and anxiety.

There are still so many small things to take joy in. The first bluebells of spring (although for my friends in London, your bluebell season has no doubt come and gone). Birdsong on my morning run. An engrossing chapter of a novel. A smile with a stranger (hard to come by). A conversation with a distant loved one.

Practice.

I am finding so much pleasure in the method, and predictability, and linearity of practice. It punctuates my day in 25 minute bursts - little outbreaks of trills and runs. I have time to lavish each one with so much love and care. I have never worked in such an un-pressured way. There is no performance next week, next month, or possibly even next year. I can be totally exacting, and nobody can alter the course of events except me. That control is precious in these hugely uncertain times. Unprecedented, as we keep being told.

At the end of the week, when I have sanded and varnished every little note to perfection, I give myself a treat. And I don’t mean chocolate (although sometimes it is also chocolate) - I mean a song. Any song, the only condition is it has to be a song I love. I sing it - often badly - and I play it - always badly - and this is a kind of practice too. It is the practice of loving music. Something that is so easy to lose in the day-to-day life of a jobbing musician.

So many people tell me how much they are eagerly awaiting their next performance, and I don’t doubt them for a second. But spare a moment to appreciate what we have in the here and now. It may not be glamorous, and it may not garner applause - yet - but it can offer routine and a moment of meditative process in amongst the dystopian madness.

*An endnote. I have spoken to innumerable colleagues who have lost the will, or the concentration, or the desire to play or sing a note. This post was not written to invalidate those feelings, or to shame people, or to show off that I am enjoying my practice more than you. We have all effectively become unemployed overnight, and we have all reacted differently. However, I hope that this post might remind some of you that there is a mental health gain to be made from practice right now, not just a professional one.

Copland - 12 poems of Emily Dickinson

30 April 2019

On 3 June Dominic and I are performing Copland's 12 poems of Emily Dickinson. It is not the first time I have encountered the work - in fact I have performed selections from it with three other pianists since I first picked up the score in December 2016. However, this is my first time tackling the cycle as a whole (for some reason I have never learned the seventh song).

I thought it might be fun to put my musicology degree to good use and share some of my research as I re-immerse myself in the work of Emily Dickinson and Aaron Copland. Think of it as an extended programme note if you will! So, as I sit next to Faber's Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson and my well-thumbed score, let us begin.

What do I know about the work so far? Well, I know the poems that Copland has set; the three major themes running through the selection of nature, life and death, and eternity; and a few biographical facts about Emily Dickinson. I also know that these were the first songs Copland had written in nearly twenty years (this is definitely something I should delve into more).

Yet when I open my new volume of poetry I discover the first thing I thought I knew to be something of a fabrication: the texts. 'Nature, the gentlest mother' in fact begins 'Nature - the Gentlest Mother is' - and thus begins my encounter with the heavy editing that Dickinson's work has undergone. The poem appears in its original form in my volume, including her mysterious yet beautiful use of hyphens and capital letters. There is a complete lack of commas and full stops, which makes the poem sing more fluently to me - what a shame this has been lost in its musical realisation. Even the last line of the poem ends with a hyphen, suggesting that this is not the end of the poetic idea, but simply a point for pause and reflection.

Fewer than a dozen of Dickinson's poems were published during her lifetime, and these were all published anonymously with heavy editing, conventional punctuation and new titles. Her poems started to be published posthumously in 1890, with a complete collection being issued for the first time in 1955.

It is now time to step away from my computer, pick up this volume and dive in.

16 May 2019

I’ve been opening the volume on a random page every day and reading a few pages. Today’s favourite can be found here: https://poets.org/poem/i-measure-every-grief-i-meet-561

But perhaps more relevant to the Copland settings are these closing verses of poem 564:

His House was not—no sign had He—
By Chimney—nor by Door
Could I infer his Residence—
Vast Prairies of Air

Unbroken by a Settler—
Were all that I could see—
Infinitude—Had'st Thou no Face
That I might look on Thee?

The Silence condescended—
Creation stopped—for Me—
But awed beyond my errand—
I worshipped—did not "pray"—

‘His’ house being God’s… could this be the house in Copland’s ‘the Chariot’; the house that seems a swelling of the ground? The house has no sign, no face - as imperceptible as the roof that is scarcely visible in the song… Even more pertinent: “Because I could not stop for Death, he kindly stopped for me” resonates so closely with “The Silence condescended - Creation stopped - for Me -”. In sum, is the house that the writer calls upon with Death the house of God?

However, this wasn’t actually why I came to write today. I wanted to raise the question of whether it is fair to call Dickinson’s writing ‘childlike’ - an adjective I have heard used a number of times. I think it shares qualities with a child’s way of communicating; it is unapologetically honest, at times it is simple, and she frequently personifies inanimate objects and even concepts - but I cannot understand why this form of communication must solely be in the domain of the child. As adults we learn nuance, we learn how to sugar-coat things. In essence, we learn how to be dishonest. From what I have read so far, Dickinson seems to write what she sees, to see it as her duty to communicate the truth.

As for the personification; yes, it is fanciful. But again, why should flights of fancy solely be the domain of children? To me, her writing is a wonderful, inspiring escape. At times it reads to me as dreams would if we could ever remember them well enough to write them down.

To me these poems are just refreshingly honest. Unflowery, unfussy, unpretentious.

17 May 2019

Today, a singing thing. Namely, as a high soprano how should I navigate all the low notes in these songs? And why are they even there? Reading the texts aloud, the music often follows natural speech rhythms and shaping - so the descent of pitch at the end of a sentence makes perfect sense. Furthermore, Copland is only asking the singer to phonate at speech pitch; it is the sustained nature of the resonance that makes it a little daunting.

Perhaps Copland was being especially clever here. The low tessitura demands that the singer takes a more spoken approach to these texts, something more operatic just wouldn’t ring true I don’t think.

I suppose it’s also worth noting that not many high sopranos have recorded this repertoire… I’m still exploring it, but here’s Barbara Bonney having a go to give me faith:

Coming out the other end

Almost three years ago I wrote my first ever blog-post: 'The Beginning'. It reads like I had conservatoire fairly sussed out, and on one level I did. In fact, I would like to congratulate my younger self on correctly identifying the people who were going to stick by me in those first few terrifying weeks - as we come to the end of this part of our training now they are some of my closest friends. However, whilst it seems I had intellectually grasped the concept of not comparing myself with others, it took a good two years to put that idea into practice.

My three years at Guildhall can very briefly be summed up as follows:

Year One - accidentally fall face-first into the School's thriving contemporary music scene. Make debut at Wigmore Hall, work with the Royal Opera, step in as a last minute replacement for someone on the Opera Course. Wonder why on earth anybody thinks I am talented enough to deserve any of these things.

Year Two - 6 months of illness. Lots of illness. A cough that never went away, leading to undiagnosed acid reflux, leading to voice loss (that I tried to pretend wasn't a problem), leading to a decision that I was the biggest waste of space the Guildhall School had ever seen. In April my fortunes turned around, when I finally let on that things were not OK in the voice department. Hats off to the School's student services, who had me seeing a vocal pathologist within days - he diagnosed my reflux and suggested that four cans of coca-cola a day might not be the best plan for the future. A few dietary changes and some Gaviscon, and I've been problem free for a year!

Year Three - health in check, I finally woke up to the fact that everyone at the Guildhall School was quite good at singing, and that I was part of 'everyone'. I landed my first professional opera gig with Birmingham Opera Company, and have had some opportunities since that I never, ever thought would be possible for 'someone like me'. Have come full circle to a point where I actually really like singing, with the added bonus of knowing that I'm quite good at it. Most of the time.

And so here I am, coming out the other end. Obviously there is still work to do (there always is) but I feel so lucky - for the wonderful teaching and the friends I have made - but also for having had a safe-space in which to struggle, and to learn more about how to look after myself. The last two years in particular have been a real journey of discovery into what it means to no-longer live in an eighteen-year-old's body: running has become my primary source of endorphins instead of chocolate, and I have discovered the art of an interesting salad. 

I cannot wait to see what comes next, for myself but also for my peers who have taken this journey with me. 

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way."

(OK, this quote is a bit OTT, but nothing wrong with a bit of drama from time to time!)

One week to go...

And it's time to venture into the land of Sitzproben and tech rehearsals! 

We've been in the venue just over two weeks. Last week's contribution from Storm Emma/the Beast from the East has made it feel more like an endurance test than a rehearsal at times, but the snow has melted, the sun is shining and we are quite close to having a show for you. I'm down to four layers (at peak 'Emma' I was wearing eight or nine every day) and looking forward to this final push to awaken Wake!

Last night was the Sitzprobe, and also our first chance to meet the composer, Giorgio Batistelli. It has been amazing to see everyone's hard work come together in the last few days. I've particularly enjoyed watching what the actor volunteers have devised, as a lot of their rehearsals have been separate from ours. They bring another layer of Sarah Woods' libretto to life, which takes stories from the Birmingham community of their 'Lazarus-moments' - a moment when their life changed irreversibly.

This production unites such a diverse group of people, each with a different story to tell - ranging from asylum seekers to members of the local community who have been singing with the company since it was founded. For each of us, this piece evokes such different memories. As the lights go down, Lazarus and his sisters sail across the Sea of Humanity... that is exactly what you will find in the volunteers of Birmingham Opera Company. You can still book tickets here: https://www.birminghamopera.org.uk/wake-a-new-opera-for-birmingham See you next week!

Music for solo voice – a reflection

Today I embarked on an experiment – a 50-minute recital of music for solo voice. I have been dreading this concert on-and-off ever since I programmed it ten months ago. Who would want to listen to me sing for almost an hour? Would there be enough variety in the programme? Would the audience get lost in a mire of atonality and nonsense text?

And then I got to London this morning and I was excited. I knew that an adventure was coming: one that might culminate in a high, or regret, or crushing disappointment. But it would not be a forgettable experience. That's why we do this, right?

Now it's over and I am on my train back to Wake rehearsals in Birmingham after a whirlwind afternoon of catching up with people. And I am trying to find the clarity of thought to reflect, and to develop my ideas.

What did I get from the experience? I enjoyed it; it went faster than expected; I enjoyed finding moments of stillness in the programme; and I enjoyed finding new ways to colour the text. I enjoyed the consciousness that my audience was with me from the first note of the Aperghis to the last note of the Weir – and I am grateful to them for that. I enjoyed finding the different hue or space owed to each phrase, and each movement. Somehow in the melee of 50 vulnerable minutes up there – serving the music seemed more important than ever.

What did my audience get from the experience? Something new, I hope. An exercise in focus. A chance to compare different styles of contemporary composition. I hope they found space in certain pieces to reflect, and to savour sound – or the lack of it. I hope they were surprised. Everybody was too polite to say they were bored, but different people liked and disliked different pieces of repertoire. And I hope that in the coming weeks, different questions will arise about the how and the why of devising this programme and concept.

I went into today wondering if I would ever subject myself, or anybody else to this again. And I think the answer is yes. The programme needed stillness – found in the Gowan-Webster. And it needed non-vocal sounds – from the Aperghis. It needed humour – Barchan. Story-telling – Weir. Lyricism – Carter. I could find these qualities in different works, but it is important to recognise what each piece brought to the table, and then explore future options.

Thank you to everyone who came on my adventure. Thank you for the music, without which it would have never materialised. Thank you all for making it a positive experience – for walking alongside me every step of the way with open ears and open hearts. There will be more, I think. Watch this space.

What do I need to do my best work?

13 days into my sojourn in the West Midlands and I figured it was time for a little update!

The problem with blogging is that there are some stories in life that aren't yours to share. In essence: stories that involve other people. I could write about my bowel movements and anxiety until the cows come home, but when it gets down to the nitty gritty of what is happening in a rehearsal room with about ten other people, it all starts to get a bit more complicated... 

So what can I tell you? I'm learning a lot - that's a good start. This is a real baptism of fire, especially having not quite been spat out the other end of the conservatoire machine. I was rather daunted turning up here that music college hadn't really equipped me for the reality of learning a new opera on the job (how could it?), but now I'm here I do at least feel that I am surrounded by people encouraging and guiding me to do my best work. There is a quote from summer's BYO short course keeps coming to mind: What do I need to do my best work?

• Well, first off it is good to accept that you do still need guidance. Then you have to find the people you trust to give it to you.
• Then a slightly basic thing, space. Space to think, space to absorb, and space to work in private on your scores. 
• Know who your allies are! It should be everyone. Everyone wants it to be a good show, so everyone should be helping you to be your best. This trust is a good foundation for a safe, enjoyable, productive space to work.

That's a start I suppose. Still plenty of weeks to add to that list! I will write more in the next few days about the piece, and about some of the reflection it has inspired. It is a profound piece of text, being delivered by a company with an inspirational mission, and I feel very privileged to be part of the whole experience. Performances are from 14 - 20 March, so I hope that some of you will join us for the finale of this adventure.

Birmingham - day 1 of 58

I woke up this morning not in London, and with no classes to attend at Guildhall. Weird. My phone tells me that today is day one of 58. So I guess that makes yesterday day zero.

On day zero, my heroic mother drove me through the snow to Bournville, where I will be staying for the next two months. I am now sharing my life with two lovely cats (Alfie and Blod), two gorgeous Schnauzers (Murphy and Harley) and two of the most generous, kind-hearted women I could hope to meet. There is something rather nerve-wracking about committing to live in a house you have never seen, with people you have never met - but I guess it comes with the territory. Anyway, they have purple lampposts here. Cadbury purple.

We start music calls this evening. It feels a bit like Christmas eve, or a first date. That nervous excitement in the pit of your stomach, the slight risk of disappointment, and the anticipation that something wonderful might be about to unfold. And so begins an eight week long adventure - I look forward to sharing more here! 

Royaumont, part three: the return

Well, I'm back in the UK, it's raining, and it's time to share the third and final instalment of my Royaumont adventures.

The last week was challenging at times: my effort to escape emails and the real world finally collapsed, I exhausted the limitations of my French and the first tendrils of homesickness had started to creep in by about Wednesday. Of course, come Friday morning I was completely enamoured by the Abbey again and desperate to stay a few days longer but all good things must come to an end. The weekend offered eight concerts and some dance parties of truly epic proportions - so not a minute of the excellent music and company was wasted! 

My coachings in week two focussed on studying microtonal music and the Aperghis Récitations, as well as expanding the horizons of my knowledge and identity as a performer of new music. I have had the Royaumont experience at such a formative point in my development, arriving with an open mind and bundles of enthusiasm - but no idea of where to direct this energy. The course has coaxed me towards crossing a line that I have only gingerly toed to this point. I finally feel brave enough to start exploring a 'first draft' of who I want to be as an artist, rather than always trying to please everyone else's musical tastes. From this impetus springs my 2017/18 listening project, which I will try and keep a track of here with thoughts and recommendations.

The other thing I will take away from Royaumont is some wonderful friends. They may mostly live several timezones away, but in them I found kindred spirits and I can only hope that yesterday was not the last goodbye.

It is always hard to judge whether you have had an experience at the right moment in your life. Without hindsight, it is often almost impossible. Royaumont has shown me that these really are the people I want to engage with in my professional life: I have been challenged to think, to create and to push myself beyond perceived limits. I have no doubt that there is much more to find in the musical life of Voix Nouvelles, and perhaps one day I will have the opportunity to discover this. Until then, I will return to reality with a new-found zest for feeding off the creativity of others, but also nurturing that experimental spirit in myself. From these seeds of imagination, let's see what happens!

To finish, a poem written during a brief wistful moment: 

My heart across those fields would fly

To sit upon her throne

'neath aching sea, through sobbing sky

To see what once was home.

Royaumont, part two

As we come to the end of the Festival's 'Trans-Cultural' celebrations it is time for some further reflection. This weekend I have enjoyed the music and dance of Cameroon as well as fusions of Middle-Eastern music/Jazz, North-African music/Hip-hop and East-Asian folklore/Western Classical Music. It has been eye-opening and the last thing I expected to find in this remote corner of France. I have sat in these performances dancing, laughing and meditating with my colleagues - and there has been plenty of lively debate afterwards too! 

None of these concerts are events I would have chosen to invest in prior to arriving at Royaumont, and yet each one has created such a marked impression upon me as an artist. I so admired the energy and dedication to story-telling of Jen Shyu, but her fast-paced, intense performance was such a contrast with the tranquil, comfortable space for reflection I found in the music of Amir El-Saffar. This raises such interesting questions about the purpose of performance, and the ways in which it can be enjoyed. And it has certainly inspired me to find more of these cross-cultural celebrations when I return to the UK!

Our first 'soloists' concert on Friday offered another audience experience - the chance for them to get to know each player individually, within the intimate sphere of exposed solo repertoire. As a performer, solo repertoire creates a certain energy and ownership of space, alongside the dynamic of collaborating with your audience, due to a lack of collaborators on stage. I have loved performing solo voice music for some time due to this magical balance of give-and-take and Friday's concert was no exception. It is also a real privilege to perform alongside such talented and supportive musicians - I have been particularly appreciative this week of the mutual respect and consideration we have for one another, allowing people to create and exist freely in their own space. 

Although some time for reflection has been needed, there have also been opportunities for discussion. We have talked extensively about gender politics, particularly the culture of abuse and harassment within the music and education industries - a conversation that so urgently needs to be had. It is so unusual to have the time to discuss this issue with the careful attention it deserves, and to start to explore potential cultural changes. 

Meanwhile the composers seminars have offered a forum to debate 'who' has ownership of a piece - composer, performer or audience. It is fascinating to hear such different views on this topic, and to continue to explore what is perhaps an unanswerable question.

My highlight so far has definitely been dancing wildly to Magic Malik, which collapsed into a cosy conversation with people I am finding to be kindred spirits until 2 o'clock this morning. But the truth is every day brings a new highlight, and I have seldom been more content. I look forward to seeing what the next week brings, and hope that I will continue to savour every second. 

Royaumont, Part One

Yesterday's discovery was that there is cake at 4pm in addition to the mouthwatering displays of patisserie at lunch and dinner. A taste for you of the paradise that is Royaumont - where are you left wanting for nothing. Fresh air, good food and excellent company are all in abundant supply, and when you step into this remnant of the 12th century it really is possible to leave the outside world behind. B****t and T***p need not cross my consciousness for this fortnight at least.

After breakfast and the occasional motivated morning run or yoga session, the day begins with dedicated one-to-one coaching. A chance to take musical and technical issues to our experienced mentors, to discuss ideas and to experiment. I have the great privilege of working with Juliet Fraser for this sacred hour every morning, and through her gentle encouragement, kindness and commitment find myself brimming over with ideas by eleven o'clock - ready to tackle the day ahead and make increasingly bold artistic decisions. 

The other regular feature of my Royaumont day (apart from the oh-so-important food) is rehearsing the piece we will premiere next week. This is a wonderful learning experience for both conductor and ensemble, and together we are feeling our way through uncharted waters - discovering under the guidance of Léo Warynski, and through consultation with each other, what these thirty pages of music have to offer. 

The remainder of the day is mine to practice, study scores, discover repertoire, reflect, exercise, socialise and eat. And to keep practicing French! My new words so far are stamp (le timbre) and music stand (pupitre) - and I am using them at every opportunity. I am delighted to be part of such an international course, where almost everyone seems to speak two or three languages and have moved halfway around the world at some point. Through music we have not only a universal language, but a reason to gather all these different nationalities in one room to collaborate. 

This collaboration particularly comes to light in the composer seminars - sessions where each student composer presents their work. Not only does each person have a unique set of cultural influences, but the cross-examination of their work from such a diverse room throws up fascinating results.

Tonight is our first concert: a chance for each performer to offer a solo piece. I will be sharing Knussen's Rilke settings, which Juliet and I have been unpicking over the last two days. I cannot wait to discover new works, new composers and to experience the performances and talents of my colleagues. Already after two days I feel excited about what this group of people have to teach me, and hope to have generated friendships and ideas that I will carry throughout my life.

Royaumont: part zero

This is the bit of the story before it really begins. On Tuesday I am off to Royaumont for their Académie Voix Nouvelles: twelve days' immersion into the world of contemporary music. An unique opportunity to work intensively alongside other young composers and instrumentalists, under the expert guidance of Juliet Fraser, the Tana Quartet and Ensemble Multilatérale, as well as Royaumont's own composition professors.

I cannot wait to experience Royaumont itself - a cultural hub in the north of France, situated within the expansive grounds of a 12th-century Abbey. There are libraries, parks and gardens to lose yourself in; a chance to leave outside concerns behind and dedicate oneself to an intense period of study and reflection. What better way to bring one academic year to a close, and to prepare my mind for the next, that is fast approaching? 

I am hoping that my time in Royaumont will allow me flesh out my artistic identity beyond the conservatoire walls, and to nourish my mind and creative spirit, which can so often get neglected by the harsh reality of a daily commute and other such practicalities. The prospect of a safe space in which to experiment, infinite time in which to explore - if only for two weeks - nonetheless excites me. My rucksack contains a mixture of works that I have lived with these past few years, such as King Harald's Saga, in which I hope to discover a new energy driving the words and music; and works that are fresh in my mind, such as the Aperghis Récitations, which currently seem to reveal a new nuance in text or phrasing every time I look back down at the page. 

There are also the completely new - the unperformed - scores, which we will have the privilege of breathing life into. Nothing quite matches the thrill of finding the unexpected at every page turn, discovering the colours that a piece adopts as it grows out of the ensemble for the very first time, and finally giving it flight in front of its first eager pairs of ears - waiting to see if it reaches into someone's soul and changes them. It is a risk. For the performers, for the composers, for the listeners. We are all exposing ourselves to that unknown possibility - allowing ourselves to be taken on a journey for the very first time. But sometimes, magic happens.

Royaumont seems the perfect opportunity to get back into the habit of blogging regularly. I cannot wait to chronicle and share some of my experiences in this cultural safe-haven. Let's see if I find any magic there.

Application Fees

January. Time to take a look at the diary. And the accounts. Not too many surprises, except this: in November I spent £86 applying for three summer courses. What's worse is that they are all in the same few weeks of July/August.

Now, I understand that the people watching, reading and listening to applications need to be paid. And I understand that the arts are chronically underfunded - unlike many more traditional employers, most arts organisations don't seem to have a pot of money set aside for recruitment and HR. And, unlike standard recruitment, auditions are usually monitored by 'specialists' in the field, and specialists demand special fees. Hence, why even the conservatoires can get away with asking £100+ in application fees. At least when you apply to conservatoire (in this country, anyway) you are guaranteed an audition...

So there is a money problem. I accept that.

But why should the butt of it lie with us, the struggling, young (and not-so-young) musicians - so desperate for the opportunity to be heard that we will cough up 20, 50, 100 pounds for the privilege? Half the time our application is discarded before we reach the audition table, and even if we make it that far, what are our chances of making the final cut? And if we do - what's going to be the sting in the tail? Participation fees? No expenses? Buying our own costumes? Far too often we pay our application fee, only for the invitation to spend even more money. 

There are so many wonderful schemes set up to nurture young artists. In many ways, we are lucky to have such a wealth of opportunities to garner experience from people who have 'been there and done it'. And these wonderful mentors deserve to be paid, and to be paid well. But does anybody behind the audition table ever think about how we are supposed to earn a penny? Let alone save one...

So, in future what should I do? I could put all my eggs in one basket, pay one fee and hope against all the odds that I get lucky. Chances are I would be spending the summer back with my parents, but at least I'd be earning (and saving) some money. I could just go and do what singing work I can get now. Summer courses, further education and Young Artist Programmes are all, essentially, a luxury. But that doesn't say a lot for classical music and equality of opportunity, does it?

Or I could accept that there is no better solution, swallow my pride, and keep paying the fees. That sounds about right.

Focus

This time of year is always hectic. If I didn't say that every few weeks, I would almost think it was exceptional. In truth though - every time of year is hectic - and we must count our blessings for that because hectic pays the bills. 

I will be the first person to admit that I enjoy being manically busy, however I have to remind myself time and time again that busy and productive are not the same things. Sometimes you need a moment to sit back and... focus.

Modern technology has made it possible to not really focus on anything at any one time. You can watch the TV whilst texting and browsing Facebook. You can have Buzzfeed open on a hidden tab at work. It has become completely socially acceptable to scroll through Twitter whilst having a conversation with someone else. When did we stop giving our attention to one thing at a time and doing it properly? 

In no area of life does this become more of an issue than when trying to sit down and memorise scores. I often will try and squeeze fifteen minutes in while I'm making my packed lunch, or as I walk to the tube after a day at School. If I learn anything at all, it is at about a quarter of my usual speed and often with remarkably less accuracy. Furthermore, I make far nicer sandwiches if I just focus on the task at hand. 

Here comes the big "But"...

"I don't have time to sit down and just focus on memorising scores" - almost every day I have this tantrum, like a child who doesn't want to go to school. And every day I have to look in the mirror and tell myself that I am going to make time. There might only be 24 hours in a day, but you are the only person who can control how you use them (unless you have a dog or children, but that joy is yet to come...) 

Focus is not just important for work. I have found everything to be more rewarding; from watching TV, to having lunch with friends when I am in the moment and away from my screen. It is often not possible in this fast-paced world we live in, but an hour each day to exist in the moment is a luxury I would gladly pursue - however impossible it may sometimes seem.

King Harald revisited

After a short break over summer, King Harald's Saga has come back into my life in full force as I prepare for a performance at St. John Smith Square's 24 hour music marathon on Saturday. Every time I re-visit this piece I am on the look out for new inspiration and last week that inspiration was certainly found at British Youth Opera's wonderful production of Owen Wingrave. Britten's opera asks us such pertinent questions about war and how we regard our 'heroes' and it got me thinking... 

How does an audience, or indeed - Weir's Icelandic sage - relate to Harald? Do they laud him? Do they pity him? Do they despise him?

From the opening of the work, we know that things are going to end badly. Yet against the warning of his brother's ghost, and the weeping of his two wives - Harald leaves for the battlefield. Is this to prove his courage - to prove that he is not afraid of ghosts and dreams? Or is it because he truly believes in the glory and fulfilment of war? All these themes come to the fore in Owen Wingrave, and yet Weir presents them in a seemingly more ambiguous light. Whilst Britten's pacifism is clear from the off-set, it is not until the final lines sung by Weir's Icelandic sage that the audience are asked to step back and reflect on the necessity of war. It is with this troubling issue that Weir's audience leave the theatre or concert hall.

It is a year and four days since I first picked up the score of Weir's King Harald's Saga. At the time, I took one look at it and banished it to the pile of things to do another day (this was with an impending performance in six weeks time...) Since then, I have had the pleasure of performing it six times in full, and as excerpts on many more occasions. I have grown to love the corners that terrified me at first. And I have grown to understand Weir's characters - to question them - to not always take them at face value.

It is such a pleasure to live with a piece of music - to live with a character - as I have with King Harald this last year. He has been by my side for the terrifying first performance to my new class-mates at Guildhall, for a thrilling ride at the Wigmore Hall and on the day that I completed my first year of postgraduate study. I hope that some of you will join us for the next stage of our adventure at 8pm on Saturday: https://www.sjss.org.uk/events/24-hour-music-marathon

Back to school

You'd think that you might grow out of back to school nerves by your 18th consecutive year of formal education. But no, every September they boomerang back around, bringing with them a freshly tangled web of illogical paranoia and loss of reason.

Will the other kids like me? Will I have forgotten how to write over the summer? Will my summer homework reflect the hours I put into it?

The worries of five-year-old Mimi Doulton translate pretty well into the worries of today. If you replace kids with whatever we are now. (Youths? Post-teenagers? ADULTS???) And writing with singing, summer homework with hours invested in trying to master new vocalises.

I count myself lucky that by the time you reach higher education, you at least have more autonomy over what you are studying. I can choose modules to reflect my strengths or to work on my weaknesses and I know that I have agreed to learn Webern's opus 14 by the end of October. Perhaps this is in some ways easier than returning to school aged seven and being informed that you have 10 weeks to learn all of your times-tables. At least I know what I have let myself in for this time. Granted, my seven-year-old self didn't have to juggle her times-tables with freelancing and a part-time job. But I am hoping that the intervening years have equipped me to be more capable than a seven-year-old...

The thought of going back to Guildhall fills me with roughly the same mixture of excitement and anxiety as I have felt at this time every year. And in a way, I enjoy it. This is a feeling I associate with learning, with opportunity, and with the luxury of educating myself for a better future. If you look at it that way - if you look at it rationally - a little bit of nerves might just be a good thing.

Music and cats

The only escape from the miseries of life are music and cats - Albert Schweitzer. A man after my own heart.

At home, this last month has seen the death of Jo Cox, Britain's membership of the EU and the summer silly-season of politics. Abroad, horrors in Turkey, Nice, Orlando, Germany, Bangladesh - to name but a few. These are troubled times we live in and modern technology makes it hard to find a moment to switch off from it all.

Step into a concert hall. Turn off your mobile phone. Lose yourself in the music. This is the ideal time of year to be doing it - the BBC Proms are on until mid-September at only £6 a ticket and there are summer festivals up and down the country. You may choose to indulge yourself in the sorrows of a Requiem, or to try and raise your spirits being wow-ed by virtuosi. You may try and find the simplicity in a life that currently seems so complicated, listening to Schubert Lieder. I have tried all three in the last few weeks - each has offered its own form of relief.

Music has the power to transport us beyond the divide of politic, race, sexual-orientation, gender or belief. Perhaps my most memorable musical experience of this month has not been anything that I paid to hear, but watching the BBCSO open the First Night of the Proms with La Marsellaise in solidarity with Nice. That music said more than any speech, article or hashtag could ever say.

As a musician, I am very fortunate to be able to lose myself in the rehearsal room as well. I have greatly enjoyed starting rehearsals for a summer Lied studio and a French chamber music project simultaneously these last few weeks. I am very grateful to have colleagues who throw themselves into it with so much commitment and enthusiasm. In fact, there are few things that bring me more joy than working on music I love with musicians whom I admire, respect and enjoy the company of. 

Except stroking cats. Of course.

Human error

In case anybody was desperately waiting for the next instalment, apologies for a rather prolonged absence. Sometimes life happens at a pace where there is little chance to get everything done, let alone process the passing of time. Instead one must wait for moments such as this one to reflect, absorb and learn. In this instance, the moment is a post-performance adrenaline come-down at midnight in my empty apartment with a chocolate bar and a few Gerberas to brighten up the scene. The prospect of Sunday morning Eucharist looms, although is not quite enough to persuade my senses to sleep. So let's see what I can write...

The not-quite-end-of-year recital came and went - and with it a sinus infection, a large pile of new (and vaguely urgent) repertoire to learn and an unanticipated stint of understudying. In the space of two weeks I found myself performing music I had been studying for ten months, ten weeks and ten days - each performance bringing its own kind of pressure. After a certain amount of beating myself up over ugly top Cs, mumbled words or entries missed it slowly began to dawn on me that I must accept I am not above, below or separated from the phenomenon of human error. None of us are.

So much of the work we do in our training as singers is towards minimising these errors. After ten months studying King Harald's Saga and eight performances under my belt, I feel it is a reliable work in my repertoire, but nonetheless every performance brings with it the same fears about forgetting my words or accidentally skipping a movement. And although both these things are yet to happen (please, fate, be kind!), there is that very real risk every time I perform the work. Is this not the joy of live performance?

At the other end of the spectrum, I have recently had to go on for two shows as a cover after ten days with the score. It was definitely one of those situations where everything could potentially pass problem free, but there was also a roomy margin for human error. Each phrase brought with it a small adrenaline-rush, each page-turn was filled with apprehension. Mistakes were made. But as quickly as they happened the music continued and it was time to sing the next bar better. I soon realised that whilst there is time to dwell on mistakes after the performance - there is never time on stage.

For anybody else who has found themselves in this situation - how do we address these errors after the curtain has come down? It is important to work out what went wrong, why it happened and how it can be prevented from occurring again. But here the analysis must stop.

Put it down to a lapse in concentration, be glad that you were singing not driving the car, accept the wonder of your humanity - and move on.

Manic May

June is here, and while it may not bring the sunshine we were all hoping for, it does at least for me signal a brief lull in activity after a month of May that was jam-packed with exploration - from narrating Walton's Façade and the Saint-Saëns Carnival of the Animals to surmounting the very different challenges presented by Bartók's 8 Hungarian Folksongs and Berio's Sequenza III. 

One of the highlights of the last month has been having the opportunity to work intensively with instrumentalists - to embrace my role as a chamber musician, rather than a soloist. This began in my work on Mahler's 4th Symphony, as I tried my hardest to imitate the opening clarinet figures in 'Wir geniessen die himmlischen Freuden'. Working regularly with pianists, it is easy to forget to listen out for the instrumentalism in a line - something which our accompanists train so tirelessly to achieve! So it was good to re-tune my ears to this effect. The Walton was another work that encouraged me to look beyond my own music stand - although Sitwell's poems are hilarious the humour in the ensemble is not to be overlooked!

Towards the end of the month, I unexpectedly ended up working on Three Dots by Toby Huelin, a composition for two sopranos and two soprano saxophones which we premiered at Wigmore Hall last week. This piece presented somewhat different challenges - asking the performer both to listen and not listen simultaneously. I have enjoyed throwing myself into such a variety of musical environments and feel that it has made me more aware of the spaces in which I perform - not least when performing King Harald's Saga, where I have nothing to play off but the people sitting in front of me.

From this very intense period of learning and performing, I am hoping to now enjoy a couple of weeks absorbing this information and working out how to put it to best use in my end-of-year recital in three weeks. Although I thrive off the mania of running from one rehearsal to the next, it is essential that we take time to reflect - this is when the real growth can occur. 

I am hoping to keep a vague track of these quieter weeks of recital preparation here on my blog - so do check in and see how I'm getting on. Until then, M.