Becoming

I had peculiarly intense and vivid dreams last night involving a complicated bit of theatre magic whereby, through cunning use of lighting, sightlines and mirrors, "something" appeared out of "nothing", to the amazement of public and stage inhabitants alike.

Upon waking, I realised that the most likely prompt had been my musings on how to achieve a particular vocal effect for a modern opera - the voice coming von Nichts - from nothing - however, the mind being the subtle and wonderful instrument it is, there were also reflections of many aspects of my situation, where deeper thought is currently both necessary and enriching (I find such hyper-vivid dreams often arise when one needs to think about certain aspects of one's life; useful thing, the subconscious.)

The common thread is "becoming". As human beings, of course, we live in a continual state of change, but I am lucky in that the choices are so obviously wide open in my case. New country, new environment, new flat, new roles... I do not HAVE to follow any tracks I may previously have laid. I can reinvent myself. Or choose a fresh path. I can make it all up as I go along! Naturally that's not to say I'm a completely blank slate - what I have lived through and loved has had a formative effect on who I think I am - but I believe that one can make conscious decisions about habits or prejudices, about how one appears to the rest of the world, and that the easiest time to do this is in a new environment, where others do not have expectations laid down by one's past behaviour. Let me see if I can clarify what I mean with respect to the various facets of my life I mentioned above.

Firstly, here I am as an expat in a strange (to me) country. What do the Germans expect of me? What do I expect of the Germans? I occasionally visit an expat message board dealing with life in Germany, and it is crystal-clear that those who come over here expecting the Germans to be dour, humourless and bureaucratic sausage-eaters do indeed find them to be such (these tend to be the same people who complain about not being able to find specific British or American foods in the shops and who live for the sound of English being spoken). Conversely, those who are more positive and open-minded in their expectations often find them fulfilled wonderfully - so the message I find is, expect the best, even if you're not quite sure what that is, and it will mostly happen. I have personally found this to be the case. Strangers have fallen over themselves to be helpful. New German friends can be marvellously expressive, enthusiastic and tactile. Colleagues have such a wicked sense of humour that I have seldom had such fun in rehearsals. (OK am still having a little trouble with the obsession with pig products at table, but am really trying to keep an open mind; maybe it's simply a built-in prejudice against German food on my behalf...).

As to what the Germans expect from me, well one MAJOR plus I find as an expat Englishwoman is that I am not immediately put in a box according to the perceived class of my accent. I'm just a foreigner. No-one knows or cares whether I'm more likely to have tea with the Queen or keep ferrets around my person. I'm sure that most British readers will know what I mean. For the rest, suffice it to say that it's quite a weight off my shoulders. As a foreigner, I find that the Germans are extraordinarily welcoming to those who take the trouble to learn their language (interesting comparisons can be made with other countries, but I won't go there today). I can't tell you how helpful most officials have been, simply because I've disarmed them from the start by apologising in German for how dreadful my German is. Something in the psyche means they're forced to contradict you with a smile, and whatever transaction is taking place must thereafter be pleasant...

Language and cultural considerations apart, I am in a new city, interacting with people who do not know me. I have the chance to get rid of any aspects of my behaviour with which I am bored or annoyed. Yes, that has meant having to sit down and think what I want to change, and how I can substitute new behaviours, but it's a great opportunity, and the real upside of plonking yourself down in the middle of a completely strange country! Matters of personality aside, such things as transforming in an instant from a sullen London commuter to someone who cycles everywhere are hugely refreshing and give hope to whatever other transformations await.

New flat, then. Basically speaking, white box with stunning river view and, erm, no furniture. I bought a few basics but am letting the decorating and furnishing be an organic process. I'll live with the minimum for the moment, and see what I really need and what I really want as I live with the space. I am not constrained by my previous tastes. I am also not accountable to anyone else, so if I wish to cover my bed with kitschy fake-fur throws and cushions, well I shall do so. Light parquet floor means I really need to transform myself into someone who likes sweeping - am working on that!

Complementing all the above, and indeed in many ways facilitating it, because as an artist one MUST be open-minded as to new intepretations, is my work as an opera singer. Each new role is a chance to discover something else about one's voice (especially when, because of the nature of the Fest system, one has to contend with roles which are NOT perfect for one's natural abilities). Dramatically, too, one has one's own ideas about a role when preparing it, but it's possible to learn so much from trying the fresh (or strange, or seemingly completely off-the-wall) perspectives of the director.

Gosh. That turned into a bit of an essay; sorry! Can you tell I have a free morning for the first time in a while? In fact I have most of the day to myself - time to think about the above, to meet friends for coffee and to secure a nice claw-hammer from somewhere. Tonight is the KHP for the Bartered Bride (Klavierhauptprobe or piano dress rehearsal - and in answer to a previous query, no, the piano remains in its natural state, it is we singers who get to don our costumes, find out whether we can actually run up steep slopes in the shoes we're given, and see what we look like with Mrs Thatcher hair...).

Thanks for reading!

The Day the Germans Changed...

I'm writing this with a large blue "VIP" ink-stamp on my left wrist which I was unable to wholly scrub off in the bath, the remains of a large pot of very strong black coffee by my side, and a huge grin on my face. I'm so glad I came back from Berlin to experience carnival (Fassenacht) here - I was having such a good time that I was sorely tempted to prolong my visit, but had I not seen yesterday's shenanigans with my own eyes, I don't think I would have believed in them!

Even before I left for my trip to the capital, things had been building up for a while. Oddly-dressed characters wandered chanting through wine bars, drumming was heard at odd times, balloons and banners started to appear on random balconies, and the department stores opened special areas full of fancy-dress costumes, wildly-coloured wigs and sparkly false eyelashes. The culmination of the carnival here, though, was yesterday, on Rosenmontag or Rose Monday, and I was determined not to miss it.

From first thing in the morning, wild syncopations of percussion filled the air, interspersed with increasingly alcohol-fuelled shrieks of the traditional greeting "Helau!" The good people of this city, who had always appeared to me to be solid, respectable and law-abiding citizens (although I was rather unreliably informed at one point in the afternoon that I had been associating with all the wrong people!), came out in their thousands, resplendent in their costumes (anything from Prussian soldiers, in reference to the city's history, through polar bears to scantily-clad and sequinned showgirls, although how the latter managed at first, considering the snowflakes gently falling from the sky, I have no idea) and with previously unimaginable wild glints in every eye. I was kissed by two complete strangers just walking down my street into the centre of town, and things just got wilder after that! I was glad I'd brought my hot pink flamenco ensemble with me to Germany (it hadn't had an outing since I got here); I'd added a red underskirt and cardigan, a red rose in my hair, and bright red eyeshadow, which appears to have got rather lost in the picture above; I was glad I'd made a bit of an effort, as the whole place, once I got to town and caught up with the huge parade of funny, satirical or just plain weird floats, simply exploded into colour and noise: balloons, flowers, beer bottles, chanting men, flashing lights, singing, sweets and streamers hurtling through the air from the floats, horns, dancing, laughter... and once the parade had passed through, the party continued in full flow well into the early hours.

I had initially arranged to meet up with a friend, and more and more people turned up as time whizzed merrily past. Conversations whipped in and out of German, English and French, although I do remember being taught a naughty phrase in Hungarian at one point, and I forgot the names of more people than I'd previously met all year. Sustenance, mainly in the form of garlic with added seafood, mayonnaise or meat, was partaken of at a Portuguese restaurant (this did not however deter the random kissers!), and beer flowed generously enough for me to finally give in to the entreaties of the party and launch into one of Carmen's arias. This established me as our group's secret weapon for getting into a heaving nightclub (which I'd previously visited in its daylight incarnation as a rather nice café); thus the ink-stamped wrist, and a surreal moment of climbing in through the kitchen window, helped up by the beautiful red-satin-clad proprietress - I'd agreed to sing Happy Birthday to someone special to her, as our guarantee of entry. All very, very enjoyable, and a million miles from my normal experience of this city. (Not to mention, proof that all those years of horrifically-expensive voice training have not gone to waste...)

As I eventually made my way home, in something probably slightly less than a straight line, I was serenaded by three separate groups of young men, the last of which all fell on their knees around me, it occurred to me what had actually happened: the Germans, just for one crazy night, had, despite the laws of language and probability, transmuted into Italians!!

A sweet disorder in the dress...

...seems to be pretty unavoidable, actually, if one combines a penchant for flowing, ground-trailing skirts and riding a bike. Well, either a little disorder, or (which has not YET happened, but I can see how it might) a full-scale magnificent crash off the bike in a welter of velvet and greasy chains.

Thus far I've avoided the issue as far as possible by knotting up my skirts on front and wearing bicycle leggings underneath. The trouble is that somehow it seems indecent to oik up or unknot my skirts in public, and wearing only the cycle leggings I feel naked! (I do NOT. DO. trousers.)

This is only going to get worse, I feel; a kind lady pointed out to me today in the market, after I'd gone to buy flowers and vegetables, that my dress was knotted around my thighs and looked a little strange... Bless her! I'd cycled in and completely forgotten to normalise myself.

At least, however, it just feels like a practical problem. The people here, thank goodness, don't seem to give a damn what anyone wears. Sure, most of them wear jeans and T-shirts all the time, as far as I can see, but they don't bat an eyelid at whatever I've chosen to wear, which is gloriously restful. I indulged in a daytrip to Wiesbaden last week, because I'd heard it was gorgeous; well, my main impression was, it felt exactly like one of those hyper-snob Italian spa towns (what is it about spa towns? something in the water, maybe...) (incidentally, the photo is of the Schiller statue in front of the opera house). Lots of extremely thin ladies in skinny white jeans, eyeing me disdainfully due to the lack of designer clothes and superabundance of flesh! Luckily I managed to confuse them with brilliant Italian earrings and matching hair flower... but I have to admit, I felt so much better coming back here!

Today the theatre had a Theaterfest, where the doors were flung open to the public. There was a costume fashion show, guided tours, scene painting for children, brilliant jazz concerts, enough unexpected sunshine to *really* enjoy beer and sausages in the open air, a wonderful opera highlights concert... oh, I had fun! Most of all, though, I appreciated the way the town and the theatre interreacted. The entertainments were all free. The costume show I attended was packed to the roof, and I was next to several entranced children, being instructed by their parents or grandparents, and evidently close to getting hooked on this idiotic art. People wandered in and out. Catching up with some singer friends later, they were assailed on all sides by friendly supporters. Evidently the town is proud of, and feels part of, its theatre. (I need to do a bit of thinking as to how one could extend this to, say, England, but it's a nice example to follow.)

The clothing dilemma can only get more complicated as the seasons close in; but I have to admit I'm actually enjoying it! The worst options are endurable; all I need now is a waterproof cape, and I'm Superwoman!

Well, that's one mystery solved...

(Nope, not the pigeons - although, aren't they growing at a rate of knots? The slightly smaller one always seems to be completely on the ball and looking at me. A touch disconcerting - have to keep reminding myself it's just a pigeon, and not even a full-grown one at that!)

I had been feeling just slightly paranoid about the Hausmeister (caretaker) of the block of flats I'm living in. I have a couple of questions regarding the flat, and I'd been told that he lived, with his wife, in the flat directly above mine. This information having been imparted to me on my first day here, I was not 100% certain that I had understood it correctly, so I approached their door with trepidation.

As a professional opera singer, and an unavoidably loud one at that, I have a little speech ready for such occasions (not asking about the plumbing, per se, but pacifying neighbours before I deafen them).* With the help of the invaluable LEO online dictionary, I'd translated this and had it shakily memorised. I could hear movement in the flat above, so, girding my loins, I trotted up and rang their bell.

Nothing. The movement ceased, but the door remained firmly shut. Full of useless adrenalin from the courage I'd plucked up, I slunk back downstairs and worried. I tried again a couple of times, but the same thing happened. Paranoia quickly invaded. Had I already been singing without realising it, and they'd hated it so much they wouldn't open the door? Did I maybe have the wrong flat for the Hausmeister? Worryworryworry...

So upon my return from the party over the weekend, cycling slowly and cheerfully along the banks of the Rhine, I got to thinking, well if I invited people over to my place, how would I open the main door of the flats, being three floors up? In one of those laugh-out-loud lightbulb moments, I suddenly realised - the buttons outside each door are NOT doorbells. They're how you open the main door!

I am now haunted by the thought of the poor Hausmeister or his wife, frozen in their hoovering, thinking, I'm sure there's someone outside the door... while I trembled outside, thinking, god they're ignoring me again.... Surrealism is alive and well and flourishing in the gaps between cultures!!

* This oration has been honed to a point from necessity. In one flat, as soon as I opened my mouth, a broom hit the ceiling of the flat below me. In another, my neighbours came round to ask what the music was I was singing at the moment because it was so overwhelmingly beautiful. They were very observant orthodox Jewish; it was of course Wagner. However my favourite anecdote in this regard has to be the one where I went round an entire block of flats in Whetstone, north London, delivering this spiel. I ended with the lady on the other side of the party wall, who would be bearing the brunt of my practice yowlings. I'd barely finished the first sentence before she boomed: "You'll have to speak up, dear; I'm deaf"... a match made in heaven!