The Birth of a One-Woman Show (OR It took me 10,000 hours - a variation on Instant Expertise)

My dear friend, Lisa Brancaccio (class of ’91), recommended that I read Malcolm Gladwell’s fascinating study, “Outliers: The Story of Success”. The book claims it takes about 10 years, or 10,000 hours, of practice to attain true expertise. Well, there may be great truth in that as my dream of finishing the script and having an off-Broadway run of my one-woman show, How To Be A Good Italian Daughter (In Spite of Myself) is close at hand, exactly ten years after I initially began to present pieces of it to audiences.


Of course, the irony is not lost on me. For someone who prides herself on her improvisational skills as well as spending over a decade teaching variations on “Instant Expertise” during Games and “Kinetics of Literature” classes at NYU’s Grad Acting and at The Actor’s Center, there is some admitted embarrassment at how long it has taken me to come to this point. Thankfully, my experience as a teacher, has taught me great compassion, not only for my students, of course, but for myself as well. And the show’s journey has been a wild ride, with most of the drama happening off-stage.

The most exhilarating part of this journey was early on when I was enrolled in a workshop that allowed me to use all of my various training from Grad Acting, Philippe Gaulier, Andre Gregory, Chris Bayes, Theatre de Complicite, teaching with Jim Calder and improvise in front of people, from a state of being completely and utterly “present” physically. The first question was always, “what’s going on in your body?” My mind rarely interfered and the material coming out of me was miraculous in that I could never have thought of it sitting in front of a computer. Not to mention, the extraordinary atmosphere of “non-judgment” and what I’ve learned to call “compassionate witnesses” in this particular workshop: qualities I have done my best to bring to the classes and workshops I’ve facilitated since then. My intention for this workshop was to create a piece about my mother. However, I allowed myself to be gentle about it, simply filing the idea in the back of my mind, letting myself create whatever wanted to come out of me during each class.



When I had gathered enough outrageous material and a modicum of confidence, I arranged a couple of evenings to share the work I had done up to that point (a mush of characters with a dash of “my mother.”) This was late 1999. I was practicing the philosophy of “schedule it and show up.” Terror doesn’t begin to describe what I felt since I was presenting raw, unfinished work, but those first few self-produced evenings were glorious. People actually showed up and enjoyed themselves. Hallelujah! Filled with a sense of success and accomplishment, I decided to add a little more material and present it again a few months later. The response was extremely encouraging and I knew I wanted to continue. The next challenge was to figure out how to create a unified piece with this collection of characters. My mentor at the time suggested I find the “bowl” in which these creations lived. Frankly, I had no idea where to find this bowl. And then life happened – my marriage fell apart and I went into a tailspin for the next two years. Unbeknownst to me, this challenging time in my life would become the “bowl” I was seeking.

The through-line had presented itself and now there was a piece that actually had a beginning, middle and (sort-of) end. And, the show was fulfilling my original intention in that it was about the relationship between my mother and I. Again, I “scheduled it and showed up”, self-producing a couple more evenings which I had videotaped. Sent the tape to the Culture Project’s “Women’s Center Stage Festival” and was accepted. Later, that same year I saved a theatre’s ass by replacing an actress three days before Opening for a new play about Italian-American women. And since those audiences were perfect for MY piece, I asked if I could use the theatre’s off-nights to present my show and would they plug it to their crowds. DONE. The following year, the same theatre produced a showcase of the show and the NY Times gave it a good review. I thought I was on my way. Now, if you had told me THEN that it would take another six years for this piece to have its off-Broadway run, I would’ve wept and screamed to the gods “Why???!!!” But as the saying goes, “ignorance is bliss” and, frankly, there was a lot more I had to experience in order to reach the point I find myself at now.



The life of this piece has seen:

One divorce, two new play festivals, three directors, the loss of four close friendships, five months of physical therapy, a handful of romantic entanglements, moving approximately sixteen times, forty-eight performances in its various stages, the receiving of countless offers/options to produce the show that mostly fell through, an infinite number of hours speaking to healers from all areas of life, a slew of variations on the title “In Spite of Myself” which, by the by, came out last year as the title of Christopher Plummer’s autobiography.

Earlier this year, I was blessed to have a sold-out, one-night-only performance at Ars Nova (it took over a year of communication with artistic director, Jason Eagan in order to arrange this), in whose audience included one playwright I worked with years ago, who decided that he and his wife wanted to produce my show. From the moment, they signed on, I haven’t lifted a finger – it’s been effortless, so I know it’s the right team.

Yes, there have been a myriad of struggles and disappointments in the past ten years around my show. All of which have contributed to the magic, inspiration and creative collaboration I have also experienced with it. At this moment, I am delighting in looking back and seeing how far this show and I have come. And I think of the generosity of an enormous number of people who have helped to bring this piece to its current threshold and am forever grateful.

My suggestions to those of you thinking of creating a solo piece or any piece for that matter: start now, today, this moment. It would be ideal if you can find or initiate a creative home in which you can share your material – whether you prefer to bring in written material or like to improvise on the spot. Sharing your work in all of its stages is invaluable. Start now regardless of knowing exactly what you want to say. The desire to create is all you need to begin. Start now and allow yourself the freedom to make a huge mess. Practice compassion, practice trust and practice patience. And my final suggestion: Have Fun.

This off-Broadway run may last a month or a year. Either way, the piece is finished, its 10,000 hours have been attained, and I can say, statistically speaking, I have achieved expertise over How To Be A Good Italian Daughter (In Spite of Myself). And what is going on in my body? Joyful Abandon.

A Horse Tale...

May 21, 2008

Ciao Belli,
so I'm still in Portland, Oregon doing LITTLE DOG LAUGHED
show is going great, I'm having a blast, cast is lovely, theatre is lovely and I've been singled out in all of the reviews
so all is good and there hasn't been much exciting to write about other than getting an allergic reaction in my left eye cause the grey paint in my hair (to make me look more "Cruella") was a little too toxic for my sensitive skin
(fun fact: at the clinic to see the doctor, a young man at the reception desk flirted with me as I stood there with red, inflamed, puffy eyes - not bad, huh - okay, even if it was my imagination, it's fun to fantasize)

BUT NOW I FINALLY HAVE SOMETHING TO WRITE HOME ABOUT:

about two weeks ago, the massage therapist who recently gave me an amazing deep massage asks me to go horseback riding; I noticed that he had equestrian pix all over his massage studio; told him I grew up around horses, never allowed to ride, etc etc and the last time I rode was an old, sweet horse named "Bob" in the woods of Vermont with a dear friend who I trusted and put me on the safest, gentlest horse and it was a glorious ride
SO...
he decides to take me with him on his favorite trail (which he created) in the deep woods of Beavercreek, Oregon (hometown of Tonya Harding); imagine a bucolic quiet setting - cows on the pasture, rolling hills, mountains in the distance, surrounded by fir trees and wild and vibrant rhododendrons...

the man owns 7 horses, all Arabians and he trains them for long distance races (up to 150 miles); he also hires himself out to other horse owners to train and race their horses as well
I spent a couple of hours watching him train a beautiful stallion named Geswick - this 8-year old had tons of attitude and was very frisky for some female companionship
I hated seeing the stallion harnessed and saddled up - I wanted to set him free to play with the mares...

anyway, I repeated over and over again, "remember, I need a gentle, safe horse, I've only ridden once before"
"no worries" he tells me, "you're going on Leon, he's a sweetie"

when I see Leon and Rose (both Arabians); I fall in love - they are both a wee overweight and beautiful, big horses
Leon is a 10-year old Grey horse and he has dread locks cause his mane is long and he likes to swish it around
Rose is a chestnut mare and Leon's half-sister - she's only 6 and has quite the attitude I'm told
they are fat cause the trainer hasn't ridden them in ages

he gives me a quick lesson in riding in the indoor track: lean back, use my calves to make him go, how to hold the reins, etc...
it seemed to work well enough, but I admit I was a tad overwhelmed by the list of things I needed to remember for this short (I thought) trail ride

so we begin, the horses are moving slowly (which is PERFECT for me) and we ride down the road to the trail - here I am thinking the trail would be a well-worn one that is easy to navigate, but I find myself on what appears to be treacherous, muddy paths, branches everywhere tearing at my cotton t-shirt
let me say that these woods are GLORIouSLY beautiful - moss-covered, tall thin trees and wild irises, morning glories and Scottish Broom and other wild things that smelled incredible - I was in heaven for a while
having no idea how long this ride was going to be, thinking it was only a short, slow walk in the woods, I was very relaxed and then the trail became steeper and we were going downhill and the trainer kept reminding me to lean back and hold the reins, etc. etc.

NOW imagine, the man in front of me, on horseback, is also documenting this entire ride - he has a camera, a videocamera and a cell phone in his front pouch
at this point he is video-taping me - I try not to worry since all seems to be in order

there are moments of tension when Leon wants to catch up to his little sister by breaking into a trot on these narrow, not quite clearly-laid paths and I stop breathing, but am reminded that all is fine - relax and to stop making sounds when the horse trips on a branch or begins to go faster (I'm Italian, i'm reactive so, yes, sounds come out instinctively and I wasn't able to take his advice although I tried my best)

THEN, we head steeply down to what appears to be a creek that has two huge logs across it and when the horse descends, I naturally lean forward because I was unprepared for the steep angle, and then, of course, the horse decides that since I've given him the "signal" to go faster, he jumps over the water, and proceeds to run into the deep thicket of woods - I act quickly - I slide off the saddle and fall hard on my ass
this entire time, the trainer is yelling at me - "lean back!" "don't squeeze your calves" - I'm in shock
I stand up, dust myself off and am thankful that I didn't land on anything else
I keep saying "poor Leon"
"oh he's fine - he'll be back"
"did you get that on video" I ask
he checks the camera "nope, but I think it caught the audio of the fall"
I could tell the fall unnerved the trainer but what the hell could I do - I apologized for not leaning back and for squeezing my calves
Leon returns looking innocent and sweet
the trainer calms both horses down and tells me to get back on the horse

Now, the the dialogue goes like this:

"I should have put you on Liza (another Arabian in his stable) - she's less reactive than Leon" HUH? (these responses are not voiced, only thought in my mind)
"Leon is really only used to me riding him so he's sensitive to any and all signals you give him" SO WHY DID YOU GIVE ME THIS HORSE, YOU NIMROD? (again, just internal thoughts)
"he's used to going much faster" I TOLD YOU I WAS A FIRST TIME RIDER!!!!! (thinking, thinking, thinking)

so, I'm doing my best, to be calm, hold the reins because the trail gets only more treacherous, muddy and steep going up AND going down - I take deep breaths, the forest at this point holds no interest for me - I ONLY want to get back to the stables and back on solid ground
WHY AM I ON AN ANIMAL THIS HUGE - MISTAKE, MISTAKE, MISTAKE (again all internal thoughts)
the trainer keeps asking me to look at the woods behind - this, mind you as we are climbing the steepest hill of the entire ride
I was keeping my eyes forward and putting all of my focus on staying alive
the trainer keeps telling me to breathe deeply, relax my chest, ride from my glutes, relax my stomach - I felt like I was back doing Pilates (which, I'm not very good at...)

SO what seems like an eternity passes and he asks me if I'd like to go to the cliff with a 200 ft drop or see the OAK tree - thoughts of me being thrown off the horse at the side of the cliff and dropping to my death prompt me quickly to respond "oak tree sounds good"

It's a lovely oak tree, but I'm thinking "home, home, home"

we finally get to a path that will shortly lead us back to the road, I begin to truly relax - so does the trainer because he takes this moment to make a business call on his cell
I'm feeling more comfy, taking deeper breaths and I let go of the reins
we are on flat ground now, a real path and I'm enjoying the apparent safety of this part of the journey
then I notice that Leon is looking side to side - thinking that he's enjoying the pretty forest, I enjoy the horse's curiosity and keep following the trainer and Rose his mare
FINALLY, the trainer gets off the phone and looks back at me and I see terror in his face - "LEAN BACK, DON'T SQUEEZE YOUR LEGS, LEAN BACK, BRING BACK THE REINS!"
okay, my legs were wide OFF the horse's body since the last fall and I'm trying to grab the reins, but the horse kicks it and begins to go 35 miles an hour down this path
my mind is a blank - shock sets in (as it did earlier)
before we're off into the depths of Beavercreek, Oregon, the trainer catches Leon by his reins and the trainer and I and Leon and Rose circle a few times in rapid succession until the horses finally come to a halt
at this point I am literally hanging sideways on the horse's body, completely off its back
I get down, breathe deeply and, again am in shock - I apologize for my lack of experience, but "I didn't do anything wrong, I thought"
it turns out that holding the reins too loosely, and possibly keeping my calves too far from Leon's body may have spooked him

I get back on the horse (we still have to get back to the friggin' stables)
the trainer leads me and Leon by Leon's reins and I hold onto the saddle for dear life
I counted every breath until we finally made it back
the trainer gives me a long speech about the fact that I'm too reactive and that is what is getting the horse nervous
HEY MISTER, I KNOW I'M REACTIVE BUT YOU ARE ASKING ME TO CURE MY LIFE LESSON ON THIS PLANET - IT AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN IN ONE RIDE, BUT THANKS FOR THE TIP (again, not voiced, only thought)
when it was time to get off, I thanked all of my angels and saints for keeping me alive
I looked down at my arms and they were bloody and scratched from the branches I went through in the woods (I wear an evening gown in the show that is sleeveless); so I'm already coming up with solutions on how to hide them for this week's performance (opera gloves will do nicely); thankfully, scratches only surface wounds so it will only be a couple of days of red scratches and then back to glove-free costume

on the crazy ride home, where the trainer is eating a nutrition bar, talking on the cell and driving like a maniac - he tells me of horror stories of people falling off horse, running into trees, losing their memories for 3 weeks, and worse and my brain freezes - when I get home, I take 5 hot showers praying that my body doesn't fall apart
that night, I relive the fall and the more "dramatic" parts of the ride over and over again until I finally take a Tylenol PM and call it a night

now the trainer wants to take me out again on a different horse; I think I'm going to politely decline
my adventures on horseback are over
I realize that my life is fulfilling and exciting enough

and there you have it - my final horseback ride

The Ethiopian Orphanage Theater Project Fundraiser

Ethiopia beckons us. We (Lisa Rothe, James Hallett and James Haven) leave in one week.
The fundraiser was an enormous success. The light and love in the LuEsther Hall at The Public Theatre was palpable.
I will carry it all in my heart to the children of AHope in Addis.

This is a picture of me, Dr. Jane Aronson, one of my heroes and Lisa Rothe at the fundraiser.

Photos from the fundraiser can be found on the below website:

http://www.pbase.com/elysurf/ethiopian_orphanage_theatre_project

MY CARNEGIE HALL DEBUT

I haven't been able to shake the smile off my face since my Carnegie Hall debut. It was one of the most unlikely, exciting and terrifying moments of my life standing on that stage and facing that audience

The rehearsal (the day before, 2pm):
Alvin Ailey auditorium on 55th street

I was so nervous walking to my first rehearsal. I spent the entire morning going over my Italian text (all 24 lines of it). I couldn't make a fool out of myself in front of all of those first-class musicians. As I entered the building, I was behind a line of people who all seemed to look like they were showing up for a parent/teacher/student conference. "Who are they?" "Was I in the right place?" I was directed to walk down the stairwell and I realized I was following those same parent/teacher/student combos. It quickly became apparent that they were part of the rehearsal and knew exactly what they were doing. They were members of the chorus, and they all checked a seating chart, which I knew intuitively, couldn't have my name on it. A very young man was looking at the chart, and he asked me if I was in the chorus, "no, I'm the only actor in the concert" to which he responded, "cool, I'm the only high school-er." And then we tried to high-five, shake hands and do some hip-hop handshake simultaneously. Strange moment but beautiful nonetheless.

I needed to check in with someone who could guide me. I was spotted immediately, they saw a lost but deliriously excited woman, "you must be Antoinette!" I told the stage mgr. that I didn't know what to do, where to go, how to read music, to please help me, didn't know my entrance, didn't know my birth-date, blah, blah, blah. Michael, stage mgr. extraordinaire who is really an opera director with great bleached blonde hair, told me not to worry and that he would take care of me. He walked me down the steps of the auditorium. As I made my way down the steep staircase, I took in the chaos. The chorus was sitting in the audience, either greeting one another, bored, gossiping or going over music and the orchestra was onstage, reading the paper, drinking coffee, chewing gum, trying to figure out the music and the conductor was upstage of all of them. Then I lost Michael the s.m., he was nowhere to be found. So, in a panic, I took a seat in the front row of the audience. An older bearded man whose body was clearly bent over from life's disappointments, looked sternly over to me, and said "you can't sit there", I told him "oh, but I'm part of the concert", "well, this is the Bass section, and unless you're a Bass..." oops, where was Michael?! Then, finally, I spotted his bleached blonde hair and ran over to him. He was walking me to the four chairs behind the conductor. It dawned on me that I was in the same row with the famous opera singers. I was considered a soloist. I think that's when I started to feel pain across my chest. But I quickly forgot about my anxiety, as I was only inches away from the orchestra. It was their rehearsal that day more than the chorus or the singers or me for that matter. I was so overwhelmed by being so close to such beautiful sounds and also to see the musicians as real people. Looking to the conductor for guidance, rolling their eyes at him when he yelled. The conductor was clearly very passionate and demanding, as he should be, yes? He reminded me of characters I saw in movie musicals from the 60's. Very sharply dressed, clipped speech and black-rimmed glasses. I watched the first cellist and the first violinist (is that what they are called?) take copious notes; these women, one looking very much like one of my favorite grammar school teachers, the other, a button-nosed woman who resembled an overgrown child, truly led their sections like generals leading their troops. The different musical sections were trying to keep together during difficult passages. The cellos were behind, or the woodwinds weren't listening. The percussion section was way ahead. So much drama and politics. Oh, it was glorious. I loved it! I was brought to the verge of weeping many times during that rehearsal. Who knew woodwinds could make me cry.

There was a definite curiosity about the new chick in the house (that being me.) Musicians stared quizzically at me and smiled and I just beamed back at them. The only other person there with the same glow was the understudy, standing in for the concert's tenor suffering from a stomach virus that day. The famous baritone was more quiet and kept to himself as he only spoke Italian. He asked me if I was related to the Maestro who also shares the last name "LaVecchia" and I assured him that "I was the only one of my family to have ever performed with an orchestra" (as far as I knew). Then the diva arrived - the world-renowned soprano who is famous for her Verdi portrayals. Everyone clapped. She graciously waved back. Knowing essentially nothing about opera, I had only heard about her days before, so I was thankfully informed enough to be respectful but had never heard her sing. Once the chaos was brought to heel, the conductor took a moment to introduce the singers. Oh, but he didn't mention me. I took it in stride; after all, I wasn't a world-famous opera singer. Then the lovely first cellist leaned over her cello to me and asked so that everyone could her, "and who would you be?" It was truly an ALICE in WONDERLAND moment. I didn't know what to say, so I said "uh, Antoinette" and then the conductor noticed and apologized saying he was going to save introducing me for my cue which came one hour later. I blushed and giggled. Oh my God, what was I doing there?

The singers did not sing in full voice, but just marked their way through the music. The diva had her ipod to record the orchestra's music. I was anxious to hear her voice which I had heard was as endless as the ocean. The conductor yelled at the musicians, beamed at the singers, the diva kept sucking on licorice drops, the baritone watched everything with a curiosity that made me think he wanted to direct. And I sat there smiling, smiling, smiling. Then we took a 20-minute break. I still hadn't done my part. During the break, I ran into my Catechism teacher from my hometown. What was he doing there? Turns out he's been in this chorus for 15 years. All of a sudden, a man who had thoroughly intimidated me as a child had transformed into a colleague in an instant. A miracle! When we returned, I was brought up to my stand and it was over in a moment. The conductor only wanted me to say my first few lines that were performed with accompaniment and then he told me that I was done for the day. That was it?!! I had no rehearsal whatsoever!!! I left feeling more terrified than ever. I spent the entire evening memorizing the text, making sure I was prepared more than I needed to be, cause if I was that nervous in the Alvin Ailey auditorium, how would I be in Carnegie Hall.

THE NEXT DAY (the day of the concert):

Run-through at 10:30am
I was finally in Carnegie Hall. Found my dressing room and went immediately to the stage. If they weren't going to rehearse me, I was going to do it myself. So I stood on the lip of that stage, in front of the orchestra and repeated my text over and over. I was losing my voice, but I couldn't stop myself. Then the soundmen came over to figure out how to put my body mike on. They wanted me to wear the battery around my waist. "oh, no, no, no" I said, "my dress is quite form-fitting." Eyebrows raised. They seemed pleased to hear that. They then suggested that I wear it around my thigh, like a gun holster. I didn't trust that it would work, but I nodded and kept practicing my text. "Who puts it on?" I asked. Another smile from the soundmen. "Well, we would love to, but we think it best that you do it."

Then it was time for the run-through. All of the understudies performed during the run-through, except for the Baritone who was always around with his eagle eye. I decided to watch so that I could hear the music from the Hall. The diva's understudy, an opera diva in her own right, was remarkable. I was smitten with her sound and her emotional depth. And I got to hear her in Carnegie Hall, which is incomparable. I then watched a blind chorus member who was late, guided to stand next to the choir's place upstage. She just stood there facing the choir. She still had her coat on, a plastic bag filled with her meals for the day and her umbrella, but that didn't faze her, she began to sing her part with gusto. She had so much power in her face and voice. I looked at her colleagues and they all had their noses in their scores while they sang. The blind woman seemed so courageous to me at that moment and the others seemed handicapped next to her.

I spent some time in my dressing room, on the phone, had to make an appt. for my hair, my make-up. I had to look good for my debut. Forty-five minutes passed and it was finally my turn to rehearse. I walked onto the stage, wearing my jeans and cowboy boots and I performed my part. It was over before I knew it. That's it - I was free to go to prepare for the evening's performance.

Getting dressed:
After my email request for gowns, and the responses of so many generous people and a couple of "trying-on" sessions which didn't work out, I knew I had to find a dress that fit my body and one that I could afford so I headed to Macy's. Once there, I grabbed every floor-length red dress I could find and tried them on. It was so much fun. There was one that required help zipping up and when I came out of the dressing room to request a helping hand, a young woman stopped what she was doing and said "ooooh, that's so pretty," and I knew it was the perfect dress. Got the shoes on clearance. Had my hair done down the street, and make-up done for free at a make-up counter. Easy and effortless. And, last, but certainly not least, my beautiful friend, Irene Stockton, lent me her outrageously stunning Queen Elizabeth choker made of rhinestones and I was all set. Nails done the day before, everything was in order. Time to go! Kept the text running through my head ALL day.

Got dressed at the theater. Walked into my dressing room in jeans and sneaks and exited fully dressed in operatic splendor to small squeals of delight from the musicians hanging out before the concert. My dress was a hit so far. A violinist of the male persuasion said something to the effect of "you exceeded our expectations" - again referring to the dress. My "lady-in-waiting", Diane, flattered me from my temple to my toes. She was the fairy godmother of the Carnegie Hall dressing rooms, having worked there for years. The second the tenor saw me, he went bezerk. (I've heard Tenors are famous for this.) Didn't stop looking at my cleavage for our entire first conversation. He asked what I did in the concert, "I have a small part" I told him, and without breaking a sweat or taking his eyes off my chest, he replied, "it looks like you have a big part to me." (groan)

I paced for what seemed like an eternity until I heard my name over the intercom. It was my turn. I was beyond terror. I snapped the mike pack around my calf as it was a bit too conspicuous around my thigh and headed for the stage. The door was opened for me and I walked onto the stage. The only thought going through my head during that endless passage, "don't trip, don't trip, please don't trip", but I was distracted from my inner anxiety by the audience's gasp. My red dress was quite the showstopper it seemed. It turned out that every person on that stage chose to wear black for the evening's performance, except for me, the narrator, who chose a deep red.

I opened my mouth, sound came out, I sat down, the orchestra played, I stood up, made more sound and sat down again to listen to the rest of the music. It was a blur. I just told myself "tell the story," that was the most important thing and to tell it with respect- and to make sure that everyone in the audience understood what I was saying even though I was speaking in Italian. The orchestra played under me for the first passage and I felt as if I were floating on air. The second passage was just me alone and that's when I really saw how many people were in that house. Incredible. And then, like that, it was over. And I walked slowly offstage. The stagehands applauded my Italian, I asked if they wanted me to "take it off", there was a pause, "I mean the body mike", polite laughter, "yes, please."

I passed the diva waiting for her cue, she whispered, "Brava, Antonietta", my heart expanded, and my task was finished. Now all I had to do was to walk on for the curtain call.

I waited backstage. Introduced myself to the Bulgarian Baritone, a very charming man with a wide smile, who spoke of his worry that his Italian was suffering now that he lived in NYC. He got into an excited conversation with the Italian Baritone about Puccini, the difference between his first and last operas. And how Puccini couldn't compare to Verdi, "oh, no". And then the diva came offstage, popped some licorice drops and had a seat. Now the wait for our cue to bow.

I watched the diva and divos talk about the audience, the concert so far, etc. and then I saw the conductor come off, and immediately I was told to run out on stage. I walked as quickly as possible for the first bow and to my surprise and enormous delight; the audience screamed "Brava" over and over for me. I was dumbfounded and thrilled. My Cinderella moment was incredible.

I ran out to meet my parents and brothers and my sister-in-law who came in from CT and were going to leave during the intermission (always with my fairy godmother, Diane at my side.) Many audience members who were very flattering stopped me, but I just wanted to see my family. And when I did, it was deeply satisfying. The pride on their faces. They were so impressed. It moved me a great deal. We took many pictures and then they were gone. And I was left alone to watch the second act in a box above the stage. Made friends with my box-mates who were also Italian-American. They wished me luck.

Turandot was beautiful. I applauded the phenomenal talents of the brilliant orchestra, the genius conductor, the glorious singers and myself. It was a good day.

I stepped into the elevator to get to the dressing rooms, the diva entered, I whispered, "bravissima" to her, she nodded and we silently went up to the 3rd floor.

I pinched myself.

It was difficult to take off the red dress and the choker, but the night was over and after receiving so many compliments throughout the evening, I had my fill and I had to finally go home to my humble Upper East Side studio apartment. I grabbed my flowers (from the chorale group and my lovely friend, Domenica, who came in from Los Angeles) and my bags and headed out. When I said good-bye to my "lady-in-waiting", Diane, I gave her one of my bouquets for making my evening so magical. She was thrilled and promised to keep my dressing room warm for my return to Carnegie Hall.

I walked out of the stage door with my flowers and bags. An old man with a cane, surrounded by his family, called to me, "hey paisan!" He asked me where I was from in Italy. He told me my Italian was "perfetto." I decided to walk cross-town to the furthest subway. I ran into many who had seen the concert, recognized me and applauded, "great Italian and fantastic dress!" A man, who noticed all of my roses, screamed to me from across the street, "is it your birthday?” "No, I replied, I just had my Carnegie Hall debut". He laughed and I headed for the subway.
What an adventure.

And there you have it - my Carnegie debut.
Unforgettable.

Welcome!

Hello Everyone!

Welcome to my new blog!

I will be adding posts to update you of my news and travels.

Love,

Antoinette