I found this blog on the Met website from a Met supernumerary who performed in La Boheme. Apparently being a super at the Met is a lot more exciting than at Seattle Opera. I'm not saying that it's not "exciting". Standing a few feet away from Ben Heppner while he sings his thrilling high notes is a definite high, but flowers and flash bulbs and friends coming from way far away to see the performance for 5 minutes of fame? I don't think so!
Saturday, April 12th
The flowers started arriving two days ago. First, a glorious, enormous arrangement from my special man, Dave. Then a string of smaller, but no less beautiful bouquets from friends. Today my apartment is filled with sweet smells and heavenly blossoms. How did so many people know I was desperate for flowers? I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to appear to be asking for them. Let’s face it. I didn’t want to look pathetic. But my bounty is not limited to flowers. I receive champagne. And the book, “Zeffirelli at the Met,” autographed by the great man.
At 10:30 in the morning I take Carole, Diane, Nina and Marcia, my wonderful friends who flew in from Oklahoma, California and Hawaii, on a backstage tour. They are dazzled by the auditorium, amazed by the quality and detail of the costumes and thrilled to stand on the stage. On the fourth floor, I point out the scale model of Act II of La Bohème and show them the spot where I am most likely to be strutting my stuff. After the tour I go home, hoping to take a nap. But the phone keeps ringing, the flowers keep arriving, and now I’m the one who is dazzled, amazed and thrilled. I think I know what Sally Field meant when she made her “You like me! You really like me!” speech at the Academy Awards.
6 P.M. Dave leaves to pick up the out-of-towners at their hotel and escort them to the Grand Tier Restaurant, where they have a sumptuous pre-opera dinner. Alone in my apartment, I muse on the wonders of this day and feel a delicious sort of joy, not only for my own good fortune, but for my friends who are about to experience Zeffirelli’s La Bohème. My phone continues to ring, but I don’t answer now. I want some quiet time, some time to ponder and speculate on what is less than two hours away. All day people have been asking me if I am excited. Of course I am. But deep down I am serene. And utterly content.
7:30 P.M. I leave for the opera house. The security guard on duty tells me I am glowing so much I am my own spotlight, and there is no way anyone will miss me when I make my entrance. In the principal artists’ dressing room I find two more beautiful flower arrangements. And my “team” is awaiting me: Suzi Gomez, my dresser, a delightful woman who makes me feel as much a star as her other charge, someone by the name of Angela Gheorghiu; Victor Callegari, who gives me cheekbones and luscious, pouty lips with his magical makeup techniques; Joe Barnes, director of supernumeraries, who welcomes me warmly. Tom Watson, head of the wig department, is not here. In his place is his affable assistant, Craig. Charming and amusing, he keeps me smiling as he deftly executes my pin curls, pulls on the stocking cap and arranges the corkscrew curls on my wig. Because it is still early, we leave my bonnet and shawl for later. And of course there is the amazing Gail, ready to offer support, answer questions, help with anything I need. I hand her my camera and she documents this unique experience.
When Roger arrives we greet each other like old friends. He leads me to the stage and suggests looking for a bent nail, the legendary good luck talisman that will insure a stellar performance. We find two. Guaranteed success, we climb the rickety staircase and stand on the wagon that will move us out from the wings. We can see the stars in the cast taking their Act One curtain calls. And we can hear the rapturous applause. I take a deep breath. The wagon begins to move.
Although I have had two rehearsals, I am not prepared for the moment when the curtain parts. While I cannot see the audience in the darkened auditorium, I can feel its presence. It is like a living, breathing organism, something out of a science fiction film, a huge undefined entity with a mind of its own. When the full force of the Latin Quarter kicks in, I can feel a split-second collective silence. Then comes the explosion of excited applause. My spine begins to tingle. Roger and I begin our walk. We move easily through the crowd, we nod to this one and that one, we engage in pantomimed conversation, we inspect a loaf of bread, a chunk of cheese.
And I realize I do not have on my bonnet or my shawl. They are still in my dressing room.
I am mad at my forgetfulness, it is almost as if I have let down Zeffirelli himself. And I am embarrassed, as if I am in one of those dreams where you inexplicably find yourself on a busy street without clothes. But I am on the stage, and it is too late for self-recrimination. Roger, unaware of my dismay, slowly, but deliberately, leads me to stage left, where the bear will dance and the fortune teller is reading palms. And where the light will allow me to be seen. But will my friends who, that very morning, saw my costume and all its components, recognize me without my bonnet and shawl? I suppress that thought. Didn’t the security guard tell me I am my own spotlight? The next 25 minutes are for me. I lift my chin and straighten my shoulders. All my secret actress fantasies kick in. I am animated, I smile at Roger as he hands me a flower. I hold out my hand to the palm reader. She tells me I will be taking a long trip, it will be to Tahiti. And she tells me Roger is going to give me a diamond necklace. And that the diamonds will be big. I smile at Roger again.
A woman wearing entirely too much rouge sashays by and holds out her hand to Roger. He does not take it. Minutes later she tries again, a come hither smile on her face. I smack her with my flower.
I am aware of every moment: the wonderful voices of the choristers, the excitement of the children, the waving arms of the conductor. The awe and joy that is emanating from that mysterious, unseeable thing that is the audience. I drink it in like someone who has been lost in the desert and suddenly comes upon a geyser, and I imprint it on my eyes and ears. The 25 minutes go fast, too fast, but when the curtain comes down I do not feel sad. The second act of La Bohème will be with me forever.
When I return to the dressing room, I am blinded by flashbulbs. For one inane second I wonder if the paparazzo has mistaken me for Britney Spears. But, no, the cameras belong to Judy and Mary, two other backstage guides and my good friends, who are yelling “Brava!” and snapping away. They hug me, they say I was great. I pose for pictures with everyone within shooting range, including Paul Plishka, who is already in street clothes and ready to go home.
Back in my dressing room, Suzi unlaces me and helps me out of my costume. Craig removes my wig and fluffs up my hair. Joe Barnes tells me I performed beautifully, as if I had been on the stage all my life. Although I have to go home and get ready for my party, I linger, reluctant to leave this newfound world which, like Brigadoon, is about to disappear into the mist. When I finally do leave, my arms filled with flowers, I am walking on air.
Back in my apartment, I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. The glow is still there. But the rouge is too strong for the real world, and I carefully tone it down with makeup base. My party dress is hanging on a closet door. I reach for it, change my mind and rummage around for something else. My plan is to arrive at the restaurant before the opera’s final curtain falls, but when I look at my watch I realize I am going to be late. Instead of greeting my guests as they enter, it is going to be the other way around. I get there as fast as I can.
As I walk into the restaurant, flash bulbs pop, applause rings in my ears and Dave places a cascade of flowers in my arms. As I walk around greeting people, I learn that everyone saw me, bonnet-less as I was, that their opera glasses were trained on me the entire 25 minutes and that many of them missed the horse and donkey completely. The party is warm and fuzzy. I am so happy to see so many of my friends celebrating my half hour of fame, business world meeting music world, academia schmoozing with personal trainers, and none of them at a loss for words. And we have a surprise guest: Maestro James Conlon, who was spotted in the adjacent restaurant having dinner with his daughter, Emmy, and encouraged to come in and join our fun. He is very gracious, and Emmy is a charmer.
The party breaks up at 2 A.M. As I leave the restaurant, the Maitre d’ asks me what I was celebrating. I raise my voice just a little, in case some of his regular clientele are listening.
I say: “I made my debut at the Metropolitan Opera.”
Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone at the Met for making this impossible dream come true. And a very special thank you to Gail Chesler, who made it perfect.
http://blog.metoperafamily.org/metopera/2008/04/15/i%e2%80%99m-a-diva/
Friday, June 27, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Saturday, June 7, 2008
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