This time of year for singers is a parody of busy-ness. The entire American opera industry descends on New York from October through early December to hear young blood and old. Back in the day, as a then-unmanaged singer, one found one's self in the post office line at 4:45 more than one would have liked. In these cases, I myself either felt extremely accomplished for having gotten together whatever constellation of elements this or that application required, or cranky and resentful of having to ask (again) for a place at the table.
At this time three years ago, I was in the New Haven Post Office on Elm. Even though it's a regular federal post office, Yale- in its modesty- has a permanent display of graduates who've been put on stamps. It fills two walls. You stand in line with your application moving slowly past all these eminences, wondering whether you're on that path to stampdom. Maybe this particular application had required three signed recommendation envelopes and two recordings of arias different than those offered for competition, but cranky and resentful, I glared at the other students in line with applications for jobs that would pay better than music. Then I thought about the marginalization of my industry and thought that no opera singer would ever make it to an American stamp. Then I turned a corner in line and saw a large display of this in all it's purple glory and I forgave all. I thought "What a nice country. What a great artform. What a badass woman."
