In August 2012, I began a long apprenticeship in classical singing. How can I put it, it was yesterday. That’s what you say when you persist and sign. We do not see time passing, we let ourselves be lulled by the passion for exploring, abandoning ourselves to take unknown paths.
My teacher is currently imposing on me the study of the aria In Fernem Land, an archival aria of the Wagnerian opera Lohengrin. There are many interpretations on the Internet, from the honeyed Kaufmann to the imposing Windgassen. It is an tune that can play in the romantic pathos of Germanic or become more human, almost approaching the American musical. It's probably a little like that, I guess, Wagner.
It's very windy tonight. It looks like a sudden storm that meteorologists will not have seen coming. I had fallen asleep after my workday and the squalls against my window woke me up. I then sat down at the piano, played a few chords and, as I had been doing for the past few weeks, I made jumps from fifths. From C to B, two octaves higher.
Twilight already, autumn already. When walking with the clock in the sky, the ordering of things seems normal to us without being disturbing or pacifying. I was coming out of my singing class, I looked at the sun, which was already only a glow on a throbbing cloud, perhaps a harbinger of rain.
Time does not stop. It is empty at the moment and full at the same time. Empty because it does not seem to indicate the direction of my life, full because, obviously, without my making an effort, without me being able, in any case, to fight against this fact, time is running out between my fingers.
I want you to sing with satisfaction in mind. Do it on "ah". I did what I had to do. My teacher played a little higher on the piano. I did it again. "I can hear you, but I can't see anything in your eyes. Where is your happiness in singing?" Pitted in the spotlight, I let myself go by pretending to be happy. It is so difficult to exult. The sound coming out of my body seemed to satisfy Vincent.
Entire days to live. Huge hours to fill. My mind, happy, but tormented, opens its hands wide. I have difficulty describing my feelings, my sensations as if a cyclone would fall on the few certainties that serve as my conscience. I am just finishing a reading on Nietzsche's thinking and getting ready to start an introduction to existentialism. I want to know where the thinking stands on this point.
I have to constantly travel in the symmetry of the octaves during my singing lessons. After having tamed a little bit the low sounds, I the whisperer, my teacher is telling me to attack the A-flat, B-flat, B-flat, etc. He seems to know where he's going and I'm letting myself be led frighteningly.
The learning of singing continues, and the results are sometimes good, sometimes ok, sometimes to be forgotten. In each lesson, I find the same requirements differently explained, the same exercises uniquely reconstructed. We explore my sickly grave register, atrophied by many years of oblivion.
To sing is also to dance internally with your body, at the very least. You project the rib cage towards an invisible intention. I tend to raise my arms, which could seem like unnecessary grandiloquence.
I spent part of the afternoon singing, trying, at least, to sing. I feel like I'm moving forward as much as I'm moving back. Sometimes the high notes seem to me to be well placed, sometimes they sound like whale song moaning. As for the low notes, I seem to lose them suddenly. And if my teacher were at my side, he would probably only see sounds and no music.
I dozed off for two hours this afternoon to wake up with a start, tired. When I returned to my office, I received emails from clients. I forgot to do this, there are problems there, I have to get back to work. Then I dive into the subway to go to my singing class.
Singing has become difficult for me, and that's normal. I don't know how to place myself anymore. If I have to unfold my back, lift it up, stretch the neck, move the mouth forward like a beta, I must not forget the butt that came out too much and that I must go home as if I had a dime to hold on to with the bottom line. And, the icing on the cake, I have to sing freely!
Tonight, I have my singing lesson. Like any passion that sets in, I think only of that, even if, in reality, I face many obstacles, including this second one that I have to learn. Per la Gloria d'adorarvi (For the glory of loving you) is a beautiful ritornello from Giovanni Battista Bononcini's opera Griselda.
Second singing lesson yesterday. I was certainly going with a lot of enthusiasm, even if some fears were coming up. A first experience often comes close to the epiphany, a revelation that ignites a fire that is often asleep for a long time. But when it comes time to continue the first effort, the pitfalls, the problems may call you to order. If it is easy to launch the first primary sounds, it must then be possible to be able to go beyond them.
I closed my eyes, swelled my stomach to store the air firmly, and sang. We were still only at the so-called global warming stage. The director is at the piano and leads us, from half a step to half step, to sing higher and higher. As I was still struggling with the last jolts of my cold, my voice clung to the cluttered walls of my larynx.