I fully admit that in my college days at DePauw, and then University of Cincinnati College-Conservatory of Music with Italo Tajo, teaching was never a conscious goal. Only after years of performing some 50 different roles did I feel like I had anything of value to offer. I vividly remember, however, my very first nudge toward teaching.
I was living in New York City with a steady regional singing career in the late 1980s–early 1990s, and whenever I was home I sang in the Marble Collegiate Church choir. In one year, we lost the wonderfully gifted men who sat to my left and my right in choir to AIDS. About that time, I read an article about how AIDS was devastating the irreplaceable mentoring link between generations of artists. I remembered how vital Tom Fitzpatrick, Italo Tajo, Ken Griffiths, Donna Loewy, and others had been to my development. I remember considering, for the first time, the debt I owed mentors and the debt I owed the art that had opened the world to a kid from an Indiana farm.
I moved from New York City to Austin in 1998 after singing Figaro for the Austin Lyric Opera and marrying their assistant principal cellist, Betsy Sanders. Not long after, I got a call from the head of the voice/opera division at what is now the Butler School of Music at the University of Texas at Austin, asking if I would join the faculty as an interim replacement. After a bit of soul searching, I accepted the one-year position, which became a tenure-track position—and, in due course, I earned tenure.
In spite of my reluctance to teach, it was soon clear I’d found the balance my life was missing—the balance between the somewhat necessary egocentricity of a performing artist and what I see as the altruism of a teacher. Today I cannot imagine ever doing one to the exclusion of the other, because each informs the other so beautifully and both add immeasurable good to my life.
Having the ability to regularly share my experiences as a performer with other singers while helping them become more efficient in their singing and expressive in their performing is a profound joy. Seeing these singers grow in their work and find their way in the world is a deeply beautiful experience. The side benefit is that I feel my own singing has become more efficient and expressive as I’ve spent the last 10 years explaining it to others.
As a part of the vibrant artist community at UT-Austin’s Butler School of Music, I’ve been encouraged to expand into recitals with thrilling collaborative artists such as Anton Nel and Anne Epperson. I’ve been afforded the opportunity to sing George Crumb and John Adams with the composers in the residence. Next fall, I start collaborating with the Miró Quartet, Rebecca Henderson, and DaXun Zhang to perform and record both solo Bach cantatas. At the same time, I am still performing two or three operas a year. Of course, teaching also means I have had to turn down some projects in order to be in Austin for my students, but I have never felt deprived in any way by having those priorities.
Obviously, one of the advantages of a tenured position today is a dependable income and all that can mean to one’s family. That said, my first and strongest piece of advice to anyone considering teaching is to make the choice because you are drawn to teach. Please do not pursue teaching solely for the “steady paycheck.” We choose to perform because it is something we deeply crave, something we need to do. We should choose to teach on the basis of the same persistent need.
You see, since our son Jamie was born in 2001, I’ve seen the singers who work with me differently. Jamie’s birth made it clear that each student that walks into my studio was someone’s baby boy or baby girl, and that each of them deserves the education and respect I would desire for Jamie.
Sherrie Morris’s baby girl, Mandy, moved to my studio from Gilda Cruz-Romo’s studio when Gilda retired. Mandy’s quirky personality and brilliant smile were as infectious as her radiant inner beauty was inspiring. A gifted actress with a seemingly limitless, beautiful soprano voice, her unique spirit made her truly (as her e-mail address announced) an “intrepid bohemian.” In late February 2002, Mandy had been hired as an apprentice artist with the Des Moines Metro Opera Company and was excited about that immersion into the business. She was preparing her senior recital, including Barber’s Knoxville: Summer of 1915.
Mandy had just successfully auditioned for graduate school in Binghamton, N.Y. She called her parents to tell them how it had gone, and was walking to dinner when she was struck by a car.
Sherrie Morris’s baby girl, Mandy, died from those injuries on March 5, 2002.
What we do as guides for talent, regardless of the skill level, is a sacred trust and responsibility. It is important because our time together is entirely too brief, and the world desperately needs the beauty the next generation of artists will create.
I teach to give back to that which opened the world to me.
I teach because I don’t know what this student is seeking. I don’t know where her search will lead her, or how important his journey is, and I don’t know how much time they have for their journeys.
I teach because with the selfless and loving examples of Richard Miller, Roy Finney, Tom Fitzpatrick, Orcenith Smith, Stan Irwin, Robert Larsen, Italo Tajo, Lorenzo Malfatti, Gary Kendall, Gene Cline, Donna Loewy, Kelly Hale, Ken Griffiths, and so many others—how could I refuse? I teach to pass on, in part, what those selfless teachers gave me.
My teachers helped me discover and solidify the single most important thing for any opera singer: an efficient, healthy, reliable way of singing that will carry over an orchestra, for the purpose of communicating the humanity of a character.
Additionally, I believe we should be honest with our students about the lifestyle of a performer and the stress it can put on relationships. And we should be frank with our students that life on the road can be very lonely and insecure. Those very real feelings can be dealt with in many ways, several of which are not particularly healthy.
We should also be honest with our students about their financial prospects as classical singers today. They should know that 99.9 percent of us have filled in the gaps with a myriad of temp jobs. There is no shame in thinking and planning in college for alternative sources of income.
We should do all we can to help our students enter their careers with eyes wide open and prepared for as much of its uncertainty as possible.
So, what is my advice to someone considering moving from a performing career to teaching?
First, as I mentioned before, please don’t teach simply for the steady paycheck.
Second, although you’ve achieved success as a performer, realize that what works well for you may not work for someone else. Seek out approaches and pedagogical ideas other than those you yourself use. As foreign as some ideas may seem to you, it is possible to find solutions for your students outside your own experience as a singer. Don’t be afraid to read a book or attend a pedagogy seminar. If you’ve been busy singing over the past 20 years, you’ll be surprised how much valuable information is now readily available thanks to teacher-researchers like Richard Miller, Scott McCoy, Paul Kiesgen, and others.
Next, realize that as a career performer, you have been among exceptionally skilled and gifted singers. In academia, your students will have a much wider variety of skill levels and gifts. Teach them where they are, not where you wish they were. Your students will also have a variety of career goals or may be just discovering their goals. Do what you can to help them find and achieve their goals, not yours.
Also, don’t be afraid to admit you don’t know it all. No one does. While depending on what you do know, also develop a circle of trusted colleagues whose experience and wisdom can supplement yours. If you don’t have the answer for a student, ask someone who might. Don’t be afraid to admit you don’t know something—it’s always the first step in learning.
Finally, realize, trust, and accept that your job as a teacher is to give the best information you can and, where possible, to inspire singers to do whatever is necessary to explore, nurture, and grow into their unique talents. But realize that you are typically with them for only an hour or two weekly, maybe slightly more. The burden of their improvement is on them, just as that responsibility has always been on you in your own singing. Your students’ singing is theirs, not yours. As difficult as it may be to accept, your influence as a teacher over the excellence of the outcome may be much less than you experience as a performer.
Years ago, someone gave me these “rules” for life, which apply to teaching and with which I’ll end:
Show up.
Pay attention.
Tell the truth.
Release the results.
