Lyric soprano Barbara Bonney began teaching voice full time at the Mozarteum in Salzburg this fall. Bonney took a year off from performing after a painful divorce from IMG executive Maurice Whitaker. In July, however, she stepped in for Renée Fleming when Fleming canceled her appearance at a Verbier Fesitval concert, and in August, Bonney stood in for Thomas Hampson at the Rheingau Music Festival. Classical Singer caught up with Bonney in Graz, Austria, just days before the August concert, where she taught a master class at the American Institute of Musical Studies.
How does it feel to be back in Austria?
I plan to be here for a very long time. In a way, it’s coming full circle for me because of course, I’ve studied here. I’ve done so much in Austria. I have so many friends here and have spent so many summers in Salzburg. It was my choice, actually, after a difficult year.
Can you talk about what it was like to take a break from singing?
It’s been an interesting process, after this year. I hadn’t sung for 15 months, not a note, and then I jumped in for Renée Fleming in July. I’m supposed to give a recital in a few days that was supposed to be my first concert. “But,” I thought, “maybe I’ll just jump into the cold lake—see what happens.” And so I did. I didn’t know until the last second. When I . . . opened my mouth for the first time, I had no clue what was going to come out. I mean I knew I was going to sing, but I didn’t know how I was going to feel about it.” I thought, “Do I want to do this? Do I not want to do this?”I found something very interesting. I found that I thought of myself as an amateur. I’m sitting next to all these people—René Papa and Manfred Honeck—and I [was thinking] they were the professionals and I was a hapless amateur who just managed to get into the situation. I was so thrilled by it. For them, it was very much routine, but for me, it was an epiphany—and, I’ve now decided that yes, I will continue to sing. I have to and I want to—but I’m not going to think of it as being my main job anymore.
My main job now is being a professor, and I’ll sing as a hobby, as an amateur. I’ll still get paid for it, because I’m a professional singer. But my mindset is that I’m doing this because I love it and not because it’s my job, and I feel so good about that.
A lot of singers take breaks for personal reasons. What advice do you have for singers who have to stop for a while?
It’s very difficult to get back on the horse. I was kicked off the horse. I was thrown off, and I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to get back on. For six months, I couldn’t even listen to music without falling apart—and then, all of a sudden, one day I heard something on the radio and I started listening to music again. . . . I went back to my voice teacher and slowly but surely got my courage back even to just practice. Not a lot, a little bit. I took it really gently. I played so much golf . . . I took all of that creative and achievement energy and put it into golf instead, which is the same discipline as music, exactly the same discipline. So I focused all that energy and became a very good golfer. I’ve done that and now I can reverse that and put that energy back into the music.
For me, it’s about helping the kids. I really want to help them because I see so many kids who have such great talent, who have either had training that has not been suitable for them or have been forced in a certain direction. I’ve had quite a few now that have come knocking on my door to say, “Help me.” So, I’m happy to let that take over now. The focus is on the next generation, which, for me, gives me a huge gratification–and when I do sing, it’s because I love it, not because I have to. I’m in a hugely wonderful place right now. I’m a much happier person, strangely, even after a horrible situation. In a way it’s been a blessing, because I’ve found peace.
Speaking of the next generation, what issue do you find universally among young singers?
It’s not their fault, but they have been told they have to have a big voice to compete, which is really not the case. I mean, yes, it helps, especially in big houses in America: the Met, San Francisco. If you have a big voice, it makes life a lot easier, but in Europe, thankfully, it’s still about the beautiful voice, and a beautiful voice isn’t necessarily big. . . . I think [the big voice emphasis is] beginning to seep in in Europe as well, so we’re trying to keep that tsunami at bay and make sure people understand that we want to carry on the tradition that’s been here for so many centuries. Let’s not let go of that because we’re chasing some ideal which is creeping in because of globalization and “bigger is better.” There’s a backlash to that hugeness, and now we’re getting back to people, [to] what really counts to people in their lives.
How do you see yourself contributing?
Well, I’m very much a mentor—because I have a small voice—to people who have small but attractive voices. That’s where my Lied classes come in. I also give masterclasses for amateurs, which I find so rewarding. People just stand up, and very few of them have had real formal training. They just walk off a cliff, and the experience for them is fantastic—and it’s so gratifying to have people who simply love it.
So again, this ties in with my own feeling of what I really want to do. With these young singers, I try to help them trust. They should sing within their limits and not push the envelope too soon. Very often they sound like they’re 60, and there’s no need for that.
Many of the students here at AIMS are auditioning for agents, hoping to begin their careers here in Europe.
It’s easier here. There are 72 German-speaking theaters. In America, how many opera houses are there where you’ve got a chance? There’s no comparison. Also, the audiences. There’s very little audience for classical music in America compared to here. It’s just the way it is. It used to be not very good and now it’s gotten a lot worse. Our world has become more passive. Everyone sits at home with a video and it’s easier.
We’re all exhausted. We’re all forced to do something with our lives. There’s so much information being thrown at us all the time.
In the old days, they had a harder life, but they created for themselves. There was no TV to turn on at night. They talked, they wrote poems, they expressed their feelings for each other through art. These are the traditions that I hope to help people carry on.
What other differences do you find between singing in the United States and singing in Europe. Do you approach the art differently?
No, but maybe that’s why I personally have never had a major career in America. I’m a European singer. They prefer me here. In America, it’s so much about the line in the voice. For me, it’s about the music. I want to stand behind the music. I think in America, it’s much more about the spectacle, the personality in front of the art form. So, I take a totally different sort of back-footed approach.
Who have been your mentors?
I’ve sort of taken from everyone around me. I’ve had great colleagues. I still have great colleagues.
Most singers are really wonderful people. We all have pretty massive egos. You have to have a big ego to do this. Otherwise, it’s impossible. Otherwise, the minute someone criticizes you, you’ll fall off. You have to be able to listen to that because you are under daily, hourly criticism. From the minute you walk into a rehearsal to the moment you leave, and then afterwards, you are criticized by everybody–and after you’ve done your performance, you get criticized in the newspapers.
I haven’t read a review for six years and I don’t intend to ever read a review again, even though I might learn something from it. I’ve just had enough of that. They’re fine as long as you’re an underdog and up and coming. The minute your head shows above the parapet, they’re out there with machine guns.
It happens to everybody. The turnover in our business is happening faster and faster. It used to be you had a career for 25 years. Now, you’re lucky if you make it through five. And they’re always looking for the new star.
For me, again, it’s about the music. We are the vehicles. It’s not about us. It’s nice when we do a good job and we’re a success and we can make our livelihood on it, but at the end of the day, it’s not about us.
You played the cello as a child. When did the desire to sing come?
The desire to sing was never really there because I didn’t believe in myself as a singer. I knew I was great musician. I had perfect pitch. I really believed in myself as a musician, but I never believed in myself as a singer. I had my cello in Salzburg and was auditioning. I had studied voice, but I thought, “No one is going to want to listen to me.” And I thought of music therapy. I was at the orphan institute in Salzburg. I thought about doing some sort of healing music, and I found that’s been a theme throughout my career. That’s what’s kept me true to things that are healing.
So, how did you establish the confidence you needed as a singer?
I needed to earn money. All of a sudden, I was earning a little bit of money singing. . . . It just kind of landed in my lap and I just kind of followed the path. Again, I didn’t think about it, I just kind of went with it.
How did studying the cello help you in singing?
Just in general musicianship. I came from the Mozarteum and you’d be playing middle C and they’d say in dictation, “OK, write a C major chord.” And people would be thinking, “This is so hard,” and I’m thinking, “What are you talking about?” And, also, the sense of ensemble, because I used to play in the orchestra. It’s wonderful as a singer to stand there and know what’s going on. You understand exactly what’s happening in each of the sections and how you make music to each other, and how you listen to each other, especially rhythm.
Singers are notoriously bad with rhythm, and if you’re [an instrumental] musician, especially a string player, you know where the edges are, because you’re using the fingering to produce the tone and you’re using the bow to resonate it, so you feel the edge. You know where the sound begins, even though it’s a string instrument and not a wind instrument—and that’s what we do with our voices, as well. Cello, for me, is one of the most singing instruments. It’s the best.
Speaking of ensemble, what advice do you have for working in the ensemble of an opera, in developing relationships with the conductor, with your colleages?
Well, we all make mistakes. I’m a prime example of being way too American, being way too honest, open, and direct. You have to be such a diplomat when it comes to opera. You also have to be very strong and not give in too much. It’s a very fine line between being difficult and being true to yourself. At the end of the day, you can only do what you can do. If directors want you to stand on your head and sing a high C you just have to say no.
I had that experience in Salzburg. At the end of this opera I was in, there is this plank you have to walk on. And real fire comes out and gas comes out, and before you do that, there’s this fire and water scene. You have nothing to hold on to, and there’s fire coming out. I was 46 at the time, and I thought, “Here I am, 46 years old, in a little tutu and asbestos boots, walking a plank that’s on fire. And if I fall off, I’ll probably fall into the orchestra pit and break my neck and die.” And I thought, “What am I doing here?” . . . I had a little bit of a meltdown and I said, “You really can’t expect me to do this,” and the conductor said, “But all the other singers do it.” And I said, “Yeah, but, they’re all 20 years younger than I am.” So it’s very difficult—what you’re able to do, what you’re willing to do, what you find meaningful and correct, and what is simply . . . doing it because someone told you to. It’s very very hard.
And then you have this whole deal of all the singer egos. Most of the time, everyone gets along, but there are moments where it can get scary. Often, either everyone gets along with the director and not the conductor, or the conductor and not the director. There’s always some sort of a sticky problem. I think [that] maybe in my lifetime I’ve had three opera productions where it’s been without problems. It’s human nature.
You’ve done opera and Lieder. Do you prefer one over the other?
I prefer Lieder simply because I can be my own boss. That sounds ridiculous, but again, this goes back to my music therapy kind of voice, that I have the kind of mentality that I have. To take these incredible texts, these jewels. To make your own patchwork quilt every evening you put a program together. It’s just you and your accompanist, and you have complete freedom to present any shape, form, [or] color—quiet, loud, whatever you want to do. You have total freedom to cook a meal for your audience, and for me that’s much more rewarding than going out on stage and seeing an anonymous audience, that you can’t really connect with. They’re out there, but, they’re so far away. A Lied audience, they’re sitting right there. You can look in their eyes. It really has a much deeper impact, I think, for me.
So, the connection with the audience is important for you?
Fantastic.
Do you look at them when you sing?
Oh, that drives me crazy. Kids that stand on stage and look at the exit sign. What are you doing? Who taught you that? When I auditioned at the Met, there was James Levine and a bunch of other people. So I stared right at them and they all sort of looked really uncomfortable. And, someone came up to me and said, “Why did you look at us?” And, I thought, well, you’re the only guys out there, who else was I supposed to look at? That’s what it’s about. We’re there to tell the story. We’re there to connect and communicate.
Why are we singing to an empty space?
What do you think about when you sing?
I don’t think. If my brain is engaged. I’m in trouble. This brain is left in the dressing room. Being “in the zone” for any athlete is the same thing. If you’re thinking, you’re inhibiting your muscles and your instincts.
I’m an avid golfer, and it’s the same for a golfer. If you stand in front of that ball and you start thinking about something, forget it. If you just completely trust, then off you go. It’s what Callas used to say. She used to say, “In your studio, you think, you practice, you experiment, and then you walk on stage and you forget everything you’ve ever tried. Just let it happen.”
What do you consider a perfect performance?
One where the brain is not engaged. There’s not a sense of questioning or searching. It’s over before you know it. You just walk away as if on a cloud and you have no idea how it happened.
Do you have a process for learning new music?
The only method that works for me is to spend a lot of time with the text first. I mean obviously, you play through the song and you say, “That appeals to me.” I don’t want to sing something I don’t like. And I have my own marking system. I always learn the text first—always, always, always.
We’re all musicians. The music is easy. Text takes a lot of work, regardless of what language it is. Even if it’s in English, it still takes a lot of time. So I always write each line four times. Then, I write each verse four times, and I write each song about 100 times. It takes probably 50 hours of just absorbing a particular poem that you don’t know. [Let it sink in] so that it really is in the bottom of you. You have to because you’re going to be up there for two hours all by yourself and if you get distracted, you have to be able to block it out and call it from down there. And then you add the music and it’s almost done, because your interpretation comes with what you feel with the words, what you’ve done with the text. So you don’t interpret the music. That’s already been done by the composer. He’s done the interpretation. All you have to do is connect with the words, and then it happens for me.
That’s why, when young singers get up and they act the song, I’m like, “What are you doing?” You don’t act the song, you are the song. There’s no acting involved. If you feel sad, you should have tears running down your face even if it affects you’re singing. You’ve got to be that close to what you’re actually doing, otherwise it doesn’t touch [the audience].
It’s an interesting process. For me, it’s like looking in the mirror. How often do you sit in front of the mirror and not just look at your makeup or your hair, but really look into your own eyes. It’s a hard process, but, that’s what Lieder singing is for me. It’s therapy, like going to a psychiatrist, except you’re doing it yourself.
What are you looking forward to most?
I’m looking forward to having students for a longer period of time, because in masterclasses I only have them for 20 minutes. Now that I have kids in a class where I will see them not just for a couple of months, but, hopefully for a couple of years, the mentoring process is what means the most to me. I can’t wait to see these kids unfold and turn into themselves and make their way.
