Stand Up Straight and Sing! (31 page)

We all know that there is no real substitute for honesty and good manners.

These lessons were not only drummed into my consciousness during my growing-up years, but also demonstrated so very beautifully one fine day in the beginning years of my professional life. I observed my more experienced colleagues arriving early for rehearsals and performances and taking most seriously the obligations of the profession: preparedness, courtesy, respect, and enjoyment of the work.

The great Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau offered a lesson in amity and professionalism to me on a memorable day in Berlin. It was 1973, and we were to rehearse Mozart’s
The Marriage of Figaro.
I was to sing the role of the Countess and he would be my onstage husband, Count Almaviva. Fischer-Dieskau, one of the greatest singers who ever lived—a generous artist, universally admired—walked into the rehearsal room and proceeded to introduce himself, shaking hands with everyone and announcing the role he was to sing, as if we did not know who he was or how thrilled we all were with the opportunity of performing with him. It was, however, the professional and courteous thing to do, and I never forgot it. This is not something that we do as often in the United States, but any musician who has spent time working in Europe knows this to be the habit. To this day, when I arrive at a rehearsal, I walk into the room, say hello, and shake hands with everyone, paying particular attention to those I may not have met previously. It is a fine way to begin a rehearsal and shows we are all colleagues, and that working together, we are more likely to achieve the happy results that we all want.

This is not easy for everyone. Performers, after all, are a microcosm of society at large. Not everyone shares this desire to create an atmosphere of comfort. And let us not pretend that there is anything “regular” about going onto a stage in a house with hundreds and sometimes thousands of seats, to offer up your craft while interacting with colleagues, the conductor, and the orchestra without so much as a microphone! Oh yes, it is thrilling, this wonderful phenomenon of live performance. The challenges to body and soul are real. I recognize that in certain situations, a degree of anxiety can develop that can cause us to deport ourselves in unusual ways. We all work hard to keep difficult behavior to a minimum.

On the other hand, there are often honors and distinct recognitions that remind me of how extraordinary a performer’s life can be. This life, precious life.

Just such a moment arrived for me in the summer of 1988. I was in Paris, only a few days into the recording of
Carmen
with Seiji Ozawa, when an emissary from the office of President François Mitterrand, Mr. De Pavillion, asked to meet with me. I was, of course, more than a little curious. A time was set aside, the press manager for Philips Records introduced me to Mr. De Pavillion, and we sat for our meeting.

Mr. De Pavillion and I spoke for a moment or two about my artistic ties to France and how often I perform there, and then he stated his mission: on behalf of President Mitterrand, he was asking me to perform the French national anthem, “La Marseillaise,” the following summer, on July 14, 1989, for the celebration of the bicentennial of the French Revolution. I was stunned—and a bit confused. After listening a while further to De Pavillion’s plans, I could not wait a second longer before asking, “Is the president of the thought that I come from one of the former French colonies in Africa, or from Martinique, Haiti, or Guadeloupe, perhaps?”

Mr. De Pavillion broke into a slight smile and said, “I assure you, the president knows that you are American.”

Still wanting verification, I said something along the lines of, “And I am to sing the anthem alone or with a choir?” to which he responded, “No, you are being asked to sing alone, please. We are considering that this will be performed at the Place de la Concorde, for historical reasons.”

I stated that it would be my high honor to accept the invitation and that I looked forward to further news of the arrangements as they progressed. Needless to say, I went back to my recording session that day full of beans!

The following year, the Place de la Concorde was, indeed, chosen as the performance place. The French American Jean-Paul Goude was asked to organize the entire
défilé
(parade) and I was informed that I would sing live.

No prerecorded anything; live! Excitement does not begin to describe this moment in time, which was bolstered even further by the news that the great designer Azzedine Alaïa would create the gown that I would wear.

Working with Azzedine was an experience unto itself. In his atelier, an assistant placed me in muslin from neck to feet, which provided the canvas on which Azzedine would create the gown. He arrived in the fitting room with forty meters of quadruple-weight silk in each of the three colors of the
tricolore drapeau
—the French national flag—which he announced he would pin to the muslin and thereby actually cut the fabric for the gown on me. We had a laugh about this, as Azzedine is not very tall and, in order to accomplish this complicated cutting of the fabric as I stood, he had to use a ladder. What he managed was miraculous: he cut each portion of the three colors asymmetrically so that the fabric of the gown would fall away from my body. I stood there watching this magic in several mirrors, in total wonder. Azzedine joked that he had made sure he would have enough fabric on hand in case the plan that he had in his head did not work and we would be obliged to come up with another idea. Indeed, he cut the three portions of the gown and created the design at the same time. He did this only once. Perfection.

Further, Azzedine cut the bottom part of the dress, the red part, in such a manner that if there should suddenly be a breeze at the Place de la Concorde while I was singing live with estimated billions watching worldwide, the dress would not be taken up easily by the wind in an unflattering manner. I was amazed that he had even thought of such a thing. He also designed blue see-through gloves for my hands to match the blue of the top part of the gown.

We agreed that I would wear my own red silk shoes—comfortable feet being an extremely important part of this enterprise. The entire bicentennial experience was, of course, something to remember—always. The gown, the flag, the anthem, the history.

Fifty-five heads of state were in attendance in Paris the week of the celebration, and it happened that a dinner had been organized in their honor the night prior to the big event. President Mitterrand sent word that evening that at the end of our rehearsal, those of us working on the national anthem part of the celebration should join him and the heads of state for dinner at the Musée d’Orsay. We were in summer clothing for rehearsal. No one was dressed for such a dinner invitation. But we were assured our presence was wanted, and after rehearsals were completed, off we went.

We arrived at the Musée d’Orsay well after the other dinner guests had been seated, of course, but were thrilled to be there. My beautiful young brother George and my close friend from Germany were with me. As it turned out, my brother was not seated at the same table as I, and this resulted in a bit of confusion when word spread that he was an African head of state. The organizers were especially sensitive to this issue, as earlier in the week there had been an unfortunate mix-up of the names of two African heads of state, and a mild incident had ensued. Nothing serious, just a small matter that, given the circumstances, grew into something much larger—the confusion of two gentlemen from former French colonies. Feelings were bruised. There was much relief all around when I said, “Oh please do not worry, this is my brother George!” George ended up being seated next to the brother of President Mitterrand, who stated to him, “Yes, I know what it is like to be someone’s brother.” As is always the case with my brother, he had a beautiful evening and was practically on a first-name basis with his fellow table guests by the end of the evening.

The dinner was the stuff of dreams, in one of Paris’s glorious museums. Wonderful.

As it was getting a bit late, I asked to return to my hotel, the performance to come looming in my mind. We made it back safely, but even with the help and direction of the people whose job it was to escort us from place to place, we had difficulty making our way through the crowds—a million or more tourists flooded the streets of Paris for the week’s festivities. A very large crowd had gathered in front of our hotel to catch a glimpse of certain heads of state who were being accommodated there.

All security and police had, I would learn afterward, been instructed to use minimal action in dispersing crowds, wishing to make the entire experience in Paris that week a wonderful one for everyone. I was on the verge of becoming a little desperate when an idea came to me. I looked at my brother George and, in a rather loud voice, stated, “Par ici, Monsieur le Président,” which means, “Come this way, Mr. President.” I promise you, the crowd parted as if by magic to allow George through; they applauded this VIP, having no idea who he was. I followed close behind and we made it inside the hotel.

For years afterward, when George visited me in France, everyone who knew this story called my young brother Monsieur le Président. He loved it.

That glorious day, July 14, 1989, came in no time. I was to sing at what would be the close of the défilé, the parade. I needed to be in place at the Place de la Concorde from the beginning of the evening—around 7:00
P.M.
—even though I was not expected to sing live until after 11:00
P.M.
or so. My accommodations were stellar: a wonderful space, with electricity and water, mirrors, a makeup table, comfortable chairs, and television monitors, was created for me to serve as a dressing room, all under the stage, which had been built in front of the Luxor Obelisk at the Place de la Concorde. I was charged with singing the first stanza directly in front of the obelisk, descending the few stairs and walking on to what would be a moving platform that would take me into what was actually the middle of this great crossing of the various streets at the Place de la Concorde—with me singing all the while. The conclusion of the song, and therefore the conclusion of the défilé, would take place in the middle of this great crossing.

Mr. De Pavillion was with me in the dressing room, as was Azzedine and a couple of friends. Meanwhile, my brother George and friend from Germany were out there somewhere in the throng. At one point, after we’d watched about an hour or so of this marvelous event via the television monitor, Mr. De Pavillion came to me and very privately asked if I were nervous.

“Mr. De Pavillion,” I replied, “I have gone over the text for this hymn more times than I have seen the sun rise. I promise you, all will be well. I can hardly wait.” I’m not certain that this little bit of cockiness put his mind to rest. But, all was well.

I was thrilled to work with France’s then Minister of Culture, Jack Lang, who, along with his wife, Monique, remains a good friend to this day. It was some years later, when Jack became Minister of Education, that I was asked to allow my performance of “La Marseillaise” to be used in the schools to teach the students their national anthem. It is still used today. I glow with this thought!

A year after the French Bicentennial celebration, with the wonderful events of the evening still ringing in my spirit, I was awarded the Légion d’Honneur at a ceremony held at Paris’s Palais Royal, with all the accoutrements that such an award would dictate. President Mitterrand was again offering me an unimagined gift.

Members of the Orchestre de Paris presented a most cherished concert, and the Minister of Culture, Jack Lang, offered the stunning red ribbons known the world over as the symbol of this privileged recognition. I presented my response in French and thought that I would be able to sing the great Cole Porter song “I Love Paris,” but mostly, I wept; I had been crowned with far too much beauty and emotion to sing properly.

But no one seemed to care at all. The room was filled with friends of long standing who understood my intention and excused readily the results.

These beautiful red ribbons reside next to the green and white ribbons of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, which was presented to me upon my tenth year singing in France. (My first performance there had come two and a half years into my professional life.)

Oh, yes, France and I have been together a long time. In 2012, when President Sarkozy elevated my rank in the Légion d’Honneur, I took a deep breath of gratitude and thought of my time with the great Pierre Bernac, who said to me during my days as a student in his master series at the University of Michigan, “I am so glad that you are unafraid of the difficulty some singers find in the French language and you seem to enjoy it so much.”

Yes, monsieur, I enjoy it enormously.

OF COURSE, BEING
in the presence of people who have achieved recognition on the world’s stage, whose names we know as well as our own, can be illuminating, reminding us that we all have so much more in common than we realize. They need not be heads of state, just those whose work and ways we happen to enjoy.

I find that those well known in their fields are often more interested in meeting people from other disciplines. Just a few years ago, I had the immense pleasure of sharing a dressing room with the much-admired Kitty Carlisle Hart; we were both reading poems that afternoon as part of the annual poets and poetry celebration in New York.

Meryl Streep was across the corridor; I could not have been happier.

I still laugh out loud at Ms. Hart’s declaration that she could hardly wait to tell her friends at lunch the following day that we had not only shared a dressing room, but that I had gone to find a cup of tea for her! And later, before I could put my gushing sentence together to greet Ms. Streep, it was she who offered that she was such an admirer!

Marvelous! We all have so much more in common than we have that is genuinely different. We are interested, curious, in admiration of those with whom we are fortunate enough to share this planet.