Bosco world:
No name no pack drills; but I know a young classical singer... let’s call her, ‘Carmel’, well, she’s my daughter actually and she is now in her teens. A veritable Diva, her successes have been many, winning varied competitions and awards as her reputation increases, for she does have an exceptional gift – her voice. Naturally this has entailed countless singing lessons and a myriad of singing teachers. Yes, so what’s the beef?
Well, the beef is the dreadful realisation that has slowly dawned on us since Carmel started her singing lessons, aged 11. And the reality is this: that with singing teachers, encouragement, sympathy, empathy - all those ‘sensitive’ artefacts - all cease once you stop giving them money. That has been our dispiriting experience, from the very talented, grumpy, retired opera name, to the ageing Diva with an ego the size of La Scala; from the local schoolteacher with numerous over-friendly dogs, to the untalented singing teacher mysteriously ensconced at the Conservatoire; to the hippyish ‘mezzo’ at the local prep, ‘...think a bed of scudding clouds when you hit that note,’ do you ever feel you’re floating when you do that?’
But why change your singing teacher so often? Baldly put, what we consistently experienced was a dearth of ideas which after the introductory period resulted in repetition of earlier lessons.
However all these singing teachers had attributes of varying degrees, but one thing they all had strikingly in common was that once money stopped being exchanged, all communication ceased with our daughter.
I give you one example, the one that nearly brought us to our senses. ‘Hubert’ is a singing teacher with a good reputation, albeit local. His enthusiasm positively bubbles over, when we tentatively enquire if he would care to give singing lessons to our daughter? “It would be an honour, a great honour for me to teach her. etc.” The empathy and keenness continues. One can’t help being flattered. At this juncture to find a word for us proud parents to describe this singing teacher we have to turn to the language of Opera itself - compassione (sympathy) that’s it; simpatico, yes, truly simpatico.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, we’re so glad you can take her on. Now... can we ask how much?’
‘Now this might surprise you a little...’
‘Sorry the line is not very good. You did say £42 per hour?”
“Yes, I did, £42 per hour.”
‘Hmm.’
Does he know that we have three other small children and we are economically challenged? Surprisingly he does, we find out later.
But flattered we are indeed by his enthusiasm and so it’s agreed. So each week he comes to our house, where heating, lighting and a piano are provided for. Let’s call that £43 per week a lesson then. Yet, we are getting in return, are we not, enthusiasm on a positively grand scale for our daughter’s voice and it would appear an avowal of continuing loyalty. Indeed not just a singing teacher, but it would appear a friend for life.
Six months later we must move because of an economic need to downsize (a smaller not bigger house). So off we go with our four kids, including Diva. And naive as ever we say we must give Hubert our new address and phone number for I am sure he will want to keep in touch. Hubert is different from the other singing teachers.
We never heard from Hubert again, not even a Christmas card. The money has stopped and compassione? non venire a piangere da me!; you won't be getting any from me, Mate! (my translation.)
This story is symptomatic of our experience over a several year period of singing teachers. Continuity it appears is not a word in their training manuals. Magnanimous in our naivety we even contemplated at one point that in some subtle way they were trying to prepare one for the harsh competitive word of the classical singer. But seriously, is this just human nature, or is such behaviour peculiar to the singing teacher? (For example, an Irish dancing teacher has remained a friend even after we stopped handing over a mere £2.30 per lesson.)
Now some might say – all those accepting realists of our post-industrial, post-modern society, that’s how it should be, for that is the harsh economic reality of it all in late capitalism. And to wish to see it differently is to indulge in sentimentality that is positively syrupy. And the monetary exchange is the concrete, indeed only foundation for the singing teacher-pupil relationship. Further, friends who have (sensibly?) got their teenage daughter focused on a career in computers argue, “If Vinny Jones could put bums on Royal Opera House seats, then Billy Budd he will be.”
However, post this and that as we may be, we are not yet post-human. And, call us sentimental if you will, but how over the years our parental yearnings have gone: “If only someone would take a genuine interest in her...you know ...someone that would really see her talent, a mentor, a benefactor, a patron...” - his/her reward being that our Carmel’s potential is realised. The searing pain of it when we found, over the years, that’s just not how it was going to be for us. These hopes and yearnings were chimeras; the stuff of dreams; the lore of fairy tale, Professor Higgins and Eliza Doolittle myth. Still, why can’t a singing teacher be more... well, truly simpatico?
For in honesty we worry about the long-term effect on our daughter. Has it coloured her view of human nature? Dealing with this anxiety I have philosophised ponderously, “You know, Carmel, human nature is not to be measured through singing teachers.” But I suppose the point of all this is, how is Carmel doing today? - for that’s what matters. Well, at the moment she’s looking for a singing teacher. “Yes, there’s one not far from here...I hear he’s very good and only charges...”
Largin Quinn Cartoon by Nuala Redmond
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