Opera's weighty debate: Does size matter?
The news earlier this month that soprano Deborah Voigt, one of the glories of the opera world, was fired because of her size from a forthcoming London Royal Opera production of "Ariadne Auf Naxos" has rocked the opera world. Voigt, who is indeed a very large singer, has won particular praise for her Ariadne in several of the world's great opera houses (including a 2003 Met staging and a 2002 production at San Francisco Opera). This time, Royal Opera casting director Peter Katone decided that Ariadne would be wearing a modern black evening dress and that Voigt "would not look right in it."
Amid the appalled buzz, and the plethora of dreadful "fat lady" headlines, lurk several troubling issues. First of all is the question of relative importance: that black evening dress, or the soprano's voice? (Voigt is being replaced by the more svelte, but decidedly less stellar, soprano Anne Schwanewilms. And London Royal Opera directors have said they still want Voigt to perform there in the future: they "deeply regret" that the firing was made public.)
Second is the general issue of size among opera singers. Why are there so many large opera singers, and what's the relationship of physical size to vocal prowess?
Finally, is fat really a feminist issue? Why are all the cruel jokes and insults aimed at plus-sized women — and when was the last time the jumbo-sized Luciano Pavarotti was fired because he didn't fit into some costumer's tuxedo?
Especially in Europe, the world of opera has been ruled in recent decades by the stage directors, whose "concept" is sometimes deemed more important than mere musical matters. The rise of televised opera, and the goal of all opera companies to appeal to younger and more image-conscious audiences, also have made opera producers ultra-sensitive to issues of verisimilitude. They want singers who "look the part" of young lovers and sultry goddesses, not singers who appear chubby or matronly.
But great voices don't always come in petite packages. No matter how perfect a lesser singer might look as the frail Mimi ("La Boheme") or the consumptive Violetta ("La Traviata"), the music only comes alive in the rich, expressive beauty of a first-class voice. If you really wonder whether the visual impression or the voice is more important, consider this: There are thousands of opera CDs with no visuals except in the listener's imagination, but there's never been a video of an opera without a soundtrack.
Seattle Opera general director Speight Jenkins is a thin, fit man who is concerned enough about singers' size that he once signed a plus-sized Wagnerian soprano for a "Ring" here, contingent upon her losing weight. She didn't — and she wasn't hired. But Jenkins is willing to make an exception for large singers of exceptional merit.
"I do want people to look right. I will only engage a singer of large size if the voice is extraordinary, and if the singer can move on the stage. We are a musical/vocal art form, and my responsibility is to put great voices on the stage."
Jenkins is a particular fan of the large-sized Jane Eaglen, the British-born soprano who now lives in Seattle and is considered one of the world's great dramatic sopranos. Earlier this month, Eaglen was the star of Seattle Opera's modern-dress "Ariadne Auf Naxos," making a stunning success of the very role for which Voigt was fired. In the previous production of "Carmen," the undeniably heavy mezzo-soprano Stephanie Blythe also proved to be one of those exceptional voices who more than justifies a little suspension of audience disbelief.
Opera offers a cruel paradox: the plots are full of teenage priestesses, frail courtesans and lovelorn virgins. But singing most of those roles demands not only vocal maturity — and singers usually hit their prime in their 40s — but also a voice big enough to project unamplified to the farthest reaches of our vast opera houses. This is not work for a 90-pound weakling.
Why do so many singers struggle with their weight? Jenkins says, "It's an awfully hard life. Singers are all by themselves in hotels; maybe they are feeling depressed after a rehearsal, or just lonely. They're stressed, and there's a lot of insecurity. And there is room service, with food available day and night. So they eat."
Does extra weight help the voice? Some large singers think so, using such phrases as "singing from a solid foundation"; others worry about the many stories of singers who have lost weight and also their voices. And as critic Manuela Hoelterhoff wrote in her book "Cinderella & Company," "A little extra out in front functions like a protective buffer as they face some three thousand talentless and probably overweight strangers, who may soon boo them."
From a medical standpoint, however, being overweight is a hindrance, not a help. It makes the singer work harder to breathe and to move, overtaxing the heart and the lungs.
It's not a coincidence that many famous divas have had rich, fattening foods named after them. Chicken Tetrazzini (named after coloratura soprano Luisa Tetrazzini) is a concoction of pasta and chicken in a cream and sherry sauce. Peach Melba, with ice cream and raspberry sauce as well as the peach, was created to honor singer Nellie Melba, and an Australian dessert called "La Stupenda" commemorates the great diva Joan Sutherland (justly nicknamed "La Stupenda," and definitely a lifelong Forgotten Woman shopper).
Of course, overweight is not limited to women, in real life or on the opera stage. The ranks of male singers, from Lauritz Melchior to Pavarotti, have had their share of well-upholstered tenors, especially in the Wagnerian ranks. But there is a special scorn reserved for the "fat lady," a demeaning and undignified vocabulary applied to overweight women in opera that sometimes verges on cruelty. Read the reviews of hefty divas today, and you'll often see critics spending more time making smart quips about avoirdupois than analyzing vocal talent.
Is this sexist?
You bet it is.
Furthermore, as Jenkins puts it, "You can't talk about any minority in the world in these terms; overweight singers are the only exception."
Voigt herself concurs. Earlier, she told one interviewer, "I believe that this attitude toward heavy people is the last bastion of open discrimination in our society."
Her case is a particularly interesting one. She's a beautiful woman with blond hair and brilliant blue eyes. Several years ago, she lost 80 pounds and looked extremely glamorous. When Voigt came to Seattle in 1999 to make her debut here in "Der Freischütz," however, she had already regained about half the lost weight, after undergoing a painful divorce.
"I'm terribly worried about my weight," she confided over a lunchtime interview (no bread, no butter, just salad and coffee).
"I really want to get back to a trimmer shape. It's just so hard."
Ultimately, the weight continued to creep back. Now, unkind reports in British newspapers guess her current weight at 20 stone (280 lbs.), though Voigt reportedly is on another fitness and weight-loss regimen. The London Financial Times, writing about Voigt's presumption in making her "Ariadne" firing public, went so far as to blame the victim: "By drawing attention to it now, she has done a disservice not just to herself, but to her equally large colleagues."
Balderdash.
The "disservice" here is not only the MTV-ing of opera and the rejection of a first-class voice, or the concept-obsessed directors who think the real art lies in their costumes. The real disservice is the open cruelty that makes overweight women singers fair game for sniggering writers, fans and the general public, in a way that never would be tolerated for any other minority.
Some singers are overweight, despite their best efforts to eat healthfully and exercise. Some great, big voices come in great, big packages.
Get over it.
Melinda Bargreen: mbargreen@seattletimes.com