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A Hobbit Hole of Sorts

Posted by Laura | 3 comments

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The house in which I grew up is the smallest house I've ever been in. When I reflect on the past twenty years of residency in it, I marvel that all family members are still alive and well and happy and thriving.
In fact, I love this house more than I love any other place I've lived (at college, that number totals 4 additional abodes). It has a distinctive smell that I only heard about until I moved away. Now I welcome it gladly after the long drive from university to here. Upon returning to college, I savor the few days that my pillow carries home's odor (akin to the smell of a cupboard that has housed the same dishes for many years).

Having now lived in a much larger house with several girls, my return this Christmas break has shed light on several family quirks. Because of the house's minute size, the family's complaints and pickings are likewise minute. For example, rarely would one hear, "Could you please pick up the living room?" Rather the very specific, "Did you straighten those pillows after you sat on the couch? " is much more common. We all complain about the shower curtain being left askew and one of the ice trays left unfilled. It is true that a single magazine left on the coffee table makes the entire room look cluttered. It's quite persnickety, if you ask me.

This week my grandmother is coming to stay with us after an arduous stay in the hospital. This means she'll be in my brother's room, who will be in my room with me. 5 adults + 1 bathroom. I switch between dread and excitement. While it will be even more crowded than usual (not to mention the sudden growth of persnickety-ness), it is a perfect example of the Lord's command to look after the widows and elderly. I so admire my parents for welcoming her into our little home without hesitation.
--
Recently, some friends and I spent a lengthy time discussing what race each of us fits from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings trilogy. It was unanimously agreed that I am a Hobbit. As I began re-reading the series yesterday, I was struck with this truth in relation to my parents. From the Prologue, entitled "Concerning Hobbits," here is a spot-on description of my parents.

Hobbits are an unobtrusive but very ancient people, more numerously
formerly than they are today;
for they love peace and quiet and good tilled earth:
a well-ordered and well-farmed countryside was their favourite haunt.
They do not and did not understand or like machines...
They are little people...
Their faces were as a rule good-natured rather than beautiful,
broad, bright-eyed... with mouths apt to laughter.
They were hospitable and delighted in parties,
and in presents, which they gave away freely and eagerly accepted.
(1-2)

Though I often complain about the size of my home and nature of my family's quirkiness, I really love them, persnickety and all.

Merry Christmas, from our Hobbit Hole to yours.



Regarding vocal juries.

Posted by Laura | 4 comments

A vocal jury is one of the most anti-climactic things to ever exist. Lots of things are anti-climactic for those of us who romanticize and idealize and plan and analyze analyze analyze, but juries are currently at the top of my list. As a student who is studying voice at a university with a prestigious music program, I have finally begun to understand the gravity of juries. For those of you who are not familiar with the term,

vo·cal ju·ry (voh-cul juh-ree)-- noun. A 5-7 minute session at the end of each semester when music students are given one chance to prove that they 1. have improved over the past 4 months 2. are better than all the other students of the given instrument and age group 3. possess some sort of personality/ personal interpretation of classical pieces which may or may not actually have meaning 4. are physically attractive 5. if female, can walk confidently in high heels 6. ... can sing well.

6 voice professors (all of whom possess both doctorates in voice and extensive successful performance careers) and 2 vocal coaches (with specialized language training) recline in the padded seats of a small performance hall, while grad students, waiting singers, friends, other random people sit directly outside the room and listen to each jury. By "listen to," I actually mean "judge and compare." Everyone wants to receive the highest mark; despite the fact that the juries claim to be "un-biased," we all know that they aren't. Each professor takes into account interactions he or she has had with the student, and even his or her relationship with the student's professor. Bill (my voice teacher) told me that after his own senior recital, a professor gave him an F simply because he didn't like Bill's teacher. Whaa...?

Anyway, hours and hours of practice and performance mean little to nothing during a jury. Every time I walk on stage, I forget most of what I've been drilling for the last hour. It just sort of flies away. Those 5 to 7 minutes are hinged mostly on muscle memory and luck. I always end up doing some strange thing that I've never done before, like an awkward hand motion or random breath in the middle of a word or flying spit across the stage.

After the first song (chosen by the student), one of the faculty members chooses a song from the remaining list (of 4 or so options). This year, they chose "Clair de Lune," the song Bill assured me they would not select. I was so thrown off that I sort of took my own tempo and made up a bunch of phrasings. Oops.

5 minutes later, you exit the stage and the next student walks in. All of those hours and rehearsals and score studies and acting lessons and coachings have ended. The next student has already begun to sing as you gather your wits and quell your adrenaline.

Basically, it's a huge smack to my ego, which I often need. It's good to be reminded that I am not the shiz.

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