Good things in a goodbye

Sunday night was the closing the San Francisco Opera's Das Rheingold. It was time for a little cake
and a few goodbyes to people Sophie had grown very fond of, her stage managers.

And while I've grown weary of driving over the bridge and late nights with a young child, Sophie and I both left the opera house basement with a sense of regret. We like that place. We hope she'll be cast again but know it might not be for a while. Children are not featured in many operas for obvious reasons. The next production with a large cast of children is The Bonesetter's Daughter, based on Amy Tan's book. The call went out a while ago . . . for Asian children. Maybe next time.

But the fact that we take a piece of our experience with us was obvious as we left. Sophie stopped at the stage door, looked up at the monitor, which was still broadcasting the continuing performance, and insisted "We have to wait! This is my favorite part!" She bounced back and forth on her toes and hummed a few bars of the music that plays when the bridge comes down and the gods depart. I didn't even know she knew it.

Driving home through the city, tired but happy, we saw that the columns on the front of the Opera House were lit up in rainbow colors for the Gay Pride weekend, always an important event but this year even more so following the California Supreme Court's ruling on gay marriage. Could it really be true that marriage will be about love not ideology based on ignorance, hate, and fear? That we are finally moving from intolerance to tolerance and finally to acceptance? Who knows, if this is possible, maybe we will soon have a president who wages peace instead of war and helps heal wounds and divisions. And in spite of all the bad news, I felt a gentle optimism as I watched my child moved by art and a city moved by love.

In which we go to an opera cast partyand some old bag is rude to my child

The other day when Sophie reported to her opera performance (never, never in my wildest dreams did I imagine I'd be shrieking at my daughter "You need to go to bed NOW!! You have OPERA tomorrow!!!"), I was handed this pretty card. "Lovely," I thought. "The American Ring . . . Half Dome. Very nice. We'll add it to the opera folder."

However, my fellow stage mom pointed out that it was an invitation.

Heaven help us: The child supernumeraries and their parents were invited to a cast party following Saturday's matinee performance. The party would take place in the Opera Cafe, just off the basement of the Opera House. Fine, but I was worried by the small print:

The cast party is an exclusive benefit for donors at the Principal Patron and above giving levels.

If you're a mom, does that set off warning bells or what? But my friend insisted "Our children are well behaved! And they wouldn't have given us an invitation if they didn't want the children to come." I still wasn't convince this wasn't someone's idea of a sick joke, but I agreed any way.

But it was mostly fine. The children enjoyed trying to recognize the principals out of costume and makeup and ask them to autograph programs.

Here is Sophie chatting up Donald Runnicles, the opera's music director and the conductor of this program ("the maestro!!" she keeps reminding me).

I enjoyed touring the cafe and finding a photograph of my fantasy husband, the truly-fabulous-in-every-way Thomas Hampson.

After a while, we settled down with our cheese cubes, strawberries, and glasses of wine (such were the refreshments) to hear Donald Runnicles and several members of the cast say a few words. It was here that the fine print came into play. Whereas the remarks were clearly aimed at the donors (thank you thank you for giving us buckets of money), not a single one of whom looked under seventy-five, there was apparently some confusion on the part of the woman seated behind us.

No, she's not in this photo. This is just to give an idea of the demographic.

She seemed to have focused on the word exclusive and mistakenly thought that the event was exclusively for her and her ilk. The daggers shooting out of her eyes in the direction of our table clearly indicated that she did not believe that children belonged at this event. Had she dozed off in the production and failed to notice that there were children in the production and that this was a cast party?

The children didn't notice the glares, but even they could not ignore her ridiculously loud shushing whenever they made the slightest noise such as moving a chair. She in fact made more noise than they did. And what was really a shame is that the kids were truly on their best behavior. We had coached them to wait until a grownup was finished with a conversation before asking for an autograph, to take only three cubes of cheese and two strawberries, to be respectful of the privilege of being at such a fancy adult event.

What was up with this woman? Was it just because she was old and cranky? Suffering from a serious case of over-entitlement? Probably a combination. I restrained myself from having a word with her, reasoning that she had probably just donated six million dollars to the opera and would have my child barred from any future performances if I told her what an ass she was being. I just turned around, looked directly at her to let her know I was aware of the disturbance she was creating, and smiled pleasantly.

But what I would still really like to say to her, hoping sensitive readers and the good people at BlogHerAds will forgive me, is

FUCK YOU

Goodness, I feel positively refreshed. So good to get that out.

Yes, that's my kid

In a wig.


I think it works.

A successful opening night

Well, at least from the perspective of parents hunkered down in the opera house basement.

Hair and makeup went smoothly and right on schedule.

These are some of the adult Niebelungs. Someone's got to be steering those mining carts full of gold.

Most of the parents watched a video feed from the house in the basement canteen. 

It's a relatively relaxing scene: We chat, we sew, we read. And we get a chance to hang out with the kids between scenes.



Here's Sophie working on getting into character. She's pretty pleased with her newly discovered dramatic ability.

In the past I've sometimes let her sleep in after a night performance, taking her to school whenever she wakes up. However, even though we got home at 11:00, she popped right out of bed this morning all fired up for the dress rehearsal for their class spring play, which is this evening (what luck). They're doing the Swedish folk tale The Seven Swans, and she's the evil queen who dupes the king into marrying her after his first wife dies and then turns his seven sons into swans to rid herself of them. I think she's adopting some version of my pledge "I'll sleep when my daughter goes to college."  

Sophie thanks all the blogger pals for their good wishes!

Opening night jitters

Not from Sophie—she's fine. I'm on the edge.

I'm home getting ready.

Snacks? Check. We take lots because there's an amazing number of parents who send nothing. Even if you feed them dinner right before their call, they're starving the minute they come off stage and get out of costume. Duh. They're kids.

Dressing room activities? Check. What's important here are things they can do without glue, paint, or markers—anything that could damage a costume.

Sophie's ready for the stage; I'm ready for the opera house bar.

Opera: The end of the rehearsals

Sometimes I think I like opera rehearsals more than the actual performances. I find the backstage stuff fascinating but now that rehearsals for Das Rheingold, in which Sophie is starring participating as a supernumerary, have moved over to the opera house stage, I'm enjoying watching from the house.

About half way back in the orchestra section is a long table behind which are seated the director, the stage manager, and various other staff. Many of them have sound systems strapped around their waists and mikes on their head. There's nearly a dozen laptop computers showing god only knows what. It reminds me of the Houston command center in the movie Apollo Thirteen. My favorite part is when someone yells at the people on stage "Thank you! Thank you." In the land of opera, that means STOP. I'm going to start using it around the house. Sort of a positive discipline tactic, you know.


I've particularly enjoyed watching the director Francesca Zambello work with the kids. I have no problem at all with someone else kicking my kid's butt when they do it with the clarity and consistency of Director Zambello. I think it's good for them. And her butt kicking is absolutely appropriate in the context. This is not, after all, a Gymboree class. And as with Sophie's experience in SF Opera's Macbeth, all the hard work pays off when those kids are able to take the stage with complete confidence because they have been so well rehearsed. Although I can't say the same for the parents, at Macbeth, I don't think there was a single child who was nervous or anxious. They knew their stuff and were ready. I know the opera's objective is not to create a positive stage experience for the kids, but it's certainly a nice benefit from our perspective.


Director Zambello further ingratiated herself the other evening when she came down to where a group of the parents were sitting and told us how well she thought the kids were doing and thanked us for our hard work in getting them to rehearsals. A little while later, she brought David Gockley, the opera's general director, over so he could say a few words of appreciation. It was a lovely gesture.


Sophie had rehearsals every evening from Tuesday to Friday this week. They've had a rehearsal with costume and makeup but no orchestra and several without costumes or makeup but full orchestra, and tonight it all comes together for the full dress rehearsal. Passes are given out, and the house is nearly full. So I knew the other night that it was probably my last time to indulge in one of my favorite rehearsal activities: watching from a box seat. Not that I'm dissatisfied with the orchestra seats: they're some of the best in the house, and we can sit as close up as we want. But the view from the box shows the entire orchestra, and it's easier to read the subtitles. And I love the idea of my ordinary butt in these fancy seats without donating thousands of dollars to the opera.

From the orchestra seats, you can see if any of the boxes are unlocked by turning around and looking for light shining through the curtains.

The other night there was one, so up I went.

Indeed, an unlocked box.

Each box has a little anteroom, with a curtain dividing this area from the seats. No pictures once I go through that curtain. I worry that my camera would betray me and flash even when I've turned off that function, and at any rate, I don't think it's appropriate to photograph the performers or staff while they're rehearsing and working.

I'm glad to have seen much of the production albeit in pieces since tonight I'll be chaperoning in the girls' dressing room. My presence will fulfill some mysterious legal requirement, and I'll help herd children to and from hair and makeup, on and off the stage wings, and wherever else they need to go. We're in great suspense over whether they will "wig" Sophie tonight. For the dress rehearsal they merely smeared colored gel in her hair to darken it, but they said they might put her in a wig for performances. She's not too happy about this (she says "All the girls think the wigs look dreadful!"), but it will make my job easier since she'll be able to go to bed without washing her hair at the end of a long night. Stay tuned!

Have a good weekend!

Opera rehearsal: The kid stays in the show

Today we head off to San Francisco for Sophie's fifth rehearsal for her part as a supernumerary in SF Opera's Das Rheingold. These early rehearsals are held at the Zellerbach Rehearsal Stage, just around the corner from the opera house.

Forty children are cast as the Nibelungs, slaves who toil beneath the earth mining gold for the tyrant Alberich. This staging of the Ring cycle sets the story in early America, using imagery from the Gold Rush and the Roaring Twenties. The children mime pulling gold from the walls and ground and then load bags of gold into mining cars, cowering from Alberich and his whip all the while. At the first rehearsal the staff directing the children explain the story and where the children's role fits into it. They explain lots of other good things to know: why the opera is in German, what's so important about gold, and what the kids can expect from the rehearsal schedule. And they make it very clear that the actor playing Alberich is really a very nice man who likes children very much and would never actually hurt them. And the parents are all assuming he has considerable practice using a leather bullwhip and would never accidentally hit a kid.

Sorry these pictures aren't better. I have to shoot from a platform over on the side or a catwalk across the pit and up the wall, without a flash. Yes, I asked permission and was unofficially granted it so long as no one noticed. I haven't taken many pictures at later rehearsals because I assume it would not be ok to photograph the principals as they rehearse with the kids.

The rehearsals are much like I imagine a drama class would be. They start off with stretching, breathing, and other activities to transition the kids from their ordinary day and help them focus on the task at hand. But unlike a children's' drama class, I'm not paying hundreds of dollars (Sophie receives a small stipend that doesn't ever my gas and bridge tolls but that she thinks is enormous). And although I'm sure many high-level drama classes include professional actors, there's something unique about the kids working with people who are actually working. In the interest of encouraging professional behavior, Sophie and I have talked a lot about how for the adults she works with are not there just for fun. These are their jobs, and when they're at rehearsal or performing, they're working. I also remind her that this is not about her, it's about something much larger—the production, the art. I suppose it's just a characteristic of childhood that this is a foreign concept.

The early rehearsals focused mostly on who goes where and basic action.

Sophie was thrilled to be chosen as one of the "ladder kids." She's at the bottom of the second ladder from the right. This will be very handy for picking her out in the performances, when the the kids will be virtually indistinguishable in their identical costumes and makeup.

Later rehearsals have focused more on the "acting" the kids need to do. Since they are enslaved and downtrodden, they walk hunched over on bent legs. They do not smile. This is hard for kids who are thrilled about being on stage. And perhaps most difficult, the bags that are supposed to hold gold really hold pillows. They are veeerrrrrrryyyyy heavy, and it takes two kids to lug each one. They need to be hoisted into the mining cars, not flipped over the shoulder like . . . a pillow. When Alberich cracks his whip, the kids fall to the ground, try to get up, and fall again with each crack of the whip.

At Wednesday's rehearsal, the problem with the smiles was resolved. The director showed up. The fun and games were over; this was the real deal. The kids had been warned that the director had high expectations and would dismiss (permanently) any child who did not pay attention and could not stay in character. This is not a woman who suffers a fool or a rambunctious child. At the beginning she asked "How many fifth graders do we have? [show of hands] Fourth graders? [etc.]" When the answer to "Do we have any kindergartners?" was no, she replied "GOOD!"

At another point she instructed the pianist and others to mark their scores at certain point, noting "Obviously we're going to have to rehearse this with the kids about ten thousand times."

Sophie's head was nearly removed for asking when the next break was (she was hungry—again). She said "Sophie, if you ask questions like that again, I'm going to get really mad." I advised Sophie to consider before she ever asks another question whether she really needs to know the answer right now. The answer to that question will most likely be no, in which case she just needs to ZIP IT. I explained "Do not mess with this woman. In a conflict with her, you will go down."

No kids were dismissed, and the director came around before yesterday's rehearsal and introduced herself to parents and kids individually, which relieved everyone's anxiety. She even told Sophie that she is doing a really great job.

Although we've got a crazy rehearsal and performance schedule for the next several weeks, I'm breathing easier. Sophie has not been dismissed, something I worried about when she was in Macbeth and this time as well. After all, it's not about the children. But I think we've reached that tipping point where we're far enough in rehearsals that to replace her would be more difficult than keeping her. But really, she is doing a great job and has come a long way since the start.

So now we can relax a bit and wonder things like who will wear these shoes?

And will they tip over and hurt themselves? Crazy things, these operas.

The Opera Mom is back

Because someone had to escort Opera Kid to a fitting this afternoon. Last year Sophie was a supernumerary (a nonspeaking, nonsinging role—often a member of a crowd scene) in San Francisco Opera's Macbeth. It was truly one of the most wonderful experiences of our lives. Countless hours of driving across the bridge to the city for rehearsals and performances, hanging out with the other parents in the Opera House basement, and watching from standing room left me with a kid who is exited about music, the stage, and the arts in general in way she was not before. She's as happy to listen in the car to a cd of Thomas Hampson's Verdi arias as she is the soundtrack to Highschool Musical (ok, I admit that we can't find the Highschool Musical soundtrack at the moment, and I know exactly where the Hampson cd is). So regardless of how this turns out, the San Francisco Opera has my undying gratitude.

Things have been a little up in the air this time. Since Sophie did Macbeth, she was on the list of kids called to volunteer for the summer season, which starts with Wagner's Das Rheingold. They want forty kids (we thought they were insane with twenty kids for Macbeth), and the Macbeth kids were the obvious place from which to start. I filled out the forms, sent them in, and then didn't hear back. Finally, after a few discrete inquiries, I learned that the casting department was concerned with Sophie's coloring. Apparently they want children with dark hair and complexions ("ethnic looking," they said) given that the children are to be Alberich's slaves, toiling beneath the earth to satisfy his greed.




A friend whose child was already cast insisted on our behalf (thank you!!!) that Sophie's hair is not dark blonde but medium brown with minor highlights. The door opened a crack: Would we consider a nonpermanent rinse to darken her hair? Heavens, yes. What could be more exciting than dying one's hair for the opera? Then we received word that based on a picture (this one right here from Macbeth) casting was concerned about her "rosy complexion." "Isn't that what makeup's for?" I asked. Turns out they're a week and a half away from starting rehearsals and still short ten kids, so they're inclined to agree.


Off to our fitting we went.


We're not out of the woods yet, but when Sophie asked the fitters "So am I in?" they said that they had assigned a costume to her and so assume she is.

I know that even if it doesn't work out, there will be other times. But it's hard to steer my daughter into a situation where she may face rejection, regardless of how objective it may be and how well I've tried to prepare her. It's not about you, I've explained, it's about the art. And I think from her last opera experience that she understands this. It's probably me who has more of a problem.

On another note, I feel brought full circle by recalling that Sophie's first opera experience was the impetus behind the start of my blog. Wishing to document and share her experience, I stumbled upon something I had not anticipated: a creative outlet and a community of friends as well as a way to document and remember. Here we go again.

Closing night of SF Opera's Macbeth

Last night was the close of SF Opera's Macbeth. I had my camera with me, but the time for taking pictures seemed to be over, and I just wanted to live completely in the moment and experience it to the fullest. It was a magical night: hearty applause for all, flowers for the kids from their dressers, more candy from Thomas Hampson, and warm congratulations all around. We gathered art materials and snacks from our locker and said goodbye to our all new opera friends. The children spent a lot of time in the dressing rooms together, and the parents spent a lot of time chatting in the hall. Sophie and I are both grateful for the good company that made each a pleasure.

And we left with some nice objects by which to remember the experience. As the children made their final departure from the stage following curtain call, some members of the orchestra handed them pages from the score.


Our opera connection, a friend of mine from work, procured for Sophie a program autographed by Thomas Hampson.



She also gave Sophie a copy of The Daring Book for Girls, which contains chapters on everything a girl could want to know from how to tie a sari to the rules for four square, appropriate contents for every girl's toolbox, and traveling to Africa (surely more on this later).



One of the mothers also made a poster from her child's drawing (lots of drippy blood), and the children collected autographs. And our the mother we carpooled with gave Sophie a kit of paints for her Crocs—pretty cool!

When all the memories of the not-so-good have faded (the over-tired kids, the Bay Bridge traffic), we'll remember all that was good, which is quite a lot. I know it won't be too long before as I lie next to Sophie as she falls asleep, she'll say "Mama, tell me about the time I was in the opera. . . . "

Much kissing at the opera

Sophie and her dressing room friend, F., wiled away their time between scenes making the most elaborate paper flower ever from the paper flower kit I bought to pass opera downtime. It was truly a work of art: multiple petals, covered with insect stickers and with a message reading "To Thomas Hampson / From Sophie and F." I stuck my head into the dressing room to check on Sophie before the children's first scene, and one of dressers grabbed Sophie by the hand and said "Come on, Mom!" We were off, upstairs via an elevator we had been told not to use, to Thomas Hampson's dressing room, which is located right off the stage entrance. Sophie's dresser conferred with Hampson's dresser, who when he is not dressing Hampson is stationed on a chair in the hall outside the dressing room, and was advised that Hampson was resting between scenes but that it was alright to knock on his door. She knocked, once, twice, and Hampson opened the door. He absolutely could not have been more lovely or gracious. Sophie handed him the flower and said "We made this for you." He reached down and kissed her on the cheek, thanked her, and said he would put it in a special place on his desk. Anyone who knows Sophie knows she is rarely at a loss for words, but this stopped her in her tracks: She was for once completely speechless. Hampson chatted with her for a few moments, noting what a great job the children were doing, and then her dresser and I thanked him as well and hustled her off. Sophie was dumbstuck, and I was struggling just to keep my feet beneath me. People asked later whether I got a picture. I had my camera with me, but it just didn't seem appropriate to take a picture. It was truly enough that he answered the door and was as gracious as he was; I didn't want to push the envelope by shoving a camera in his face. But even without a picture, it's a moment both Sophie and I will remember forever.

HOWEVER, Sophie was more impressed by kisses from one of her costars. The handsome young man pictured here is the brother of her best dressing room pal, F., and is in line next to her for the Birman Woods scene.He has developed a major crush, acted out through kisses on the cheek. She reported last night, "Mama! D. kissed me twenty times! And when he has kissed me a hundred times, we are getting married!" That's absolutely fine with me. She's right: he is adorable and from a lovely family. I can't imagine she would make a better choice.

But all was not well. S., a school friend of her, also starring as a child super, was jealous. Highjinks ensued. School friend was jealous.But I assured him that soon our opera adventure would be over, and Sophie would be his again. On our way out they seemed to have patched things up and celebrated with a climb of the gate outside the north entrance to the opera house.













When the curtain dropped at the end of last night's performance, Hampson and several of the various directors held up a single finger and mouthed "One more!" The closing performance is tomorrow, Sunday matinee. It is a truly bittersweet anticipation for us all. We're exhausted, weary of late nights with small children, but we're sad that such a magical experience is at an end. We leave with a new appreciation of an art form previously unknown to us. What an amazing gift it has been. Our life has been forever changed.

Upstairs / downstairs at the SF Opera House

The San Francisco War Memorial Opera House was built in 1932 and is one of the last Beaux-Arts structures built in the United States (or so says Wikipedia, dubious authority on all things). The outside is impressive, if not a little blocky, but it's the inside that's the real treat.

UPSTAIRS


If you're a fancy person attending the opera (my daughter and I like to practice manners these days by pretending we're two fancy ladies attending the opera—do they burp loudly? do they fart?), this is what you see




But if you are really lucky regular person, like myself who rode in here on my kid's coat tails, you get to see it too. During rehearsals, parents were allowed to sit in the house and watch when we weren't needed to herd kids through the basement halls, and during performances we can watch from standing room, which is at the back of the orchestra seating (great view, but you're, of course, standing). BUT during the first run through (after the piano rehearsal and before full dress) I decided to conduct a self-guided tour of the Opera House, figuring it was a good opportunity to compare views from different seat levels (i.e., those I can afford, and those I can't). What luck—the door to Box K was open! So I sat in the best box in the house (dead center) and watched most of the second half. These seats regularly go for $275 a piece—if you can get one, and I understand there's a waiting list. While enjoying the excellent view and the comfy velvet chair under my butt, I tried to imagine who usually sits there. Gettys? Hewlitts? No—I later found out—the mayor. Gosh.







DOWNSTAIRS

Our evenings at the Opera usually start here, at the North Stage Door. We enter, wave at security, and kids go to sign themselves in.



We then proceed to this door, which leads to Dressing Room 8, which houses all the girl supers for this production. Note cardboard star on the, a nice touch from the girls' dressers. On dress rehearsal night, I led my husband—who was woofing down the sandwich I packed him during intermission—through the basement labyrinth to this door. He didn't hear me say "And this is the dressing room" and so followed me in. Dressers, wranglers, and various others in authority here swooped down on him "This is a GIRLS room!!! And there is no food allowed in dressing rooms EVER!!! OUT OUT OUT!!!!!" He was mortified and blamed it all on me. I said to someone else later that evening "It probably wouldn't have been as bad if he barged in waving a gun," and they agreed "A sandwich is definitely worse." My bad.



In the dressing room, each girl had her place at the mirror, with her name and costume list tapped up. The dressers also added a little touch for opening night. I can't believe how wonderful everyone has been with the kids. They've made such an effort to make this a special experience for kids. We all really appreciate it especially because this is Big Art, and we know in the larger scale of things, it's not all about them. The kids know this too, and I think it's been a good experience for them to be part of something so important and larger than themselves.




Once girls get their costume undergarments on, it's across the hall to the hair shop. This is where other members of the cast also go for wigs. It seems nearly the only people in the production who are in their own hair are the children. Wigs are a very big deal in the opera: They're very expensive, made of human hair, and no one except the wig people are allowed to handle them (probably union rules).


When a call comes over the basement loud speaker for the kids, they line up in the hall. They usually then have quite a while to wait for their call to report to the stage. At first the facts that they cannot sit in their costumes and that the costumes are very delicate was a small problem, but they developed an impressive repertoire of hand games, including the classic Rock, Scissor, Paper; some sort of speed patty cake; and a counting game called Chopsticks. Here's Sophie teaching one of the dressers to play Chopsticks.


And she's ready to go!




Once the kids are taken to backstage to line up for their entrance, I'm free to continue my basement tour. The halls are like a maze, with pipes carrying the steam heat throughout the building running across the ceiling. I sort of felt like I was in the bowels of the Titanic.





There's all sort of interesting things down there.

Costume trunks



Boxes of legs (I learned that legs are the narrow curtains that frame the sides of the stage—gosh, I was worried about that!)



An on-site laundry



For performers who are onstage barefoot, there are flipflops for backstage wear.





And where might these stairs go?



Into the basement of the basement, evidently, where they store lights and the boiler is located:






You get the feeling some people spend a significant part of their lives in this basement, and there's lots of signs of personalizing space.





Alas, our locker—where we keep a supply of colored pencils ( no pens!) and a paper flower kit (no glue required), a supply of snacks, and a portable chess board—is more temporary. But we're thrilled to be here now. And we truly thank everyone who has been part of it.