Diary of an Opera Singer: Desert Island
Rhoslyn Jones
November 26, 2022
“If I could take one thing to a deserted island, it would be Act 2 of Tosca.” My voice teacher declared this in an opera repertoire class I was forced into during my undergraduate degree at The University of British Columbia in 1998. I never wanted to be in an opera program. When applying to UBC I selected, “General Music” on my application because I wanted to leave my options open and not get cornered into choir or that long boring crappy music in another language.
I found out later that the same teacher who would take one act of an italian opera to attempt survival on an island instead of vital things like carbs, caffeine, or a cell phone had scratched out my selection of “General Music” and thrown me in the “Opera Performance” program. I had an OK voice and I was a good musician, but I was pretty shy and definitely had no desire to be on stage with everyone staring at me while I screlted in a foreign language. Nancy Hermiston had other plans.
She was my voice teacher, and to this day remains my mentor, advisor, director, and inspiration. She’s five feet of fierceness and fury and a full force of nature. She once walked into my voice lesson wearing a full black leather outfit complete with stilettos, jewels, and a fierce short haircut that was as blazing fiery red as her passion for opera.
She had with her a mug of black coffee and her little dog, Chico. She asked if I wanted a cup but I declined politely. “You’re not a real soprano until all you drink is coffee. BLACK coffee,” she said peering over her glasses with impish judgment. She has that irresistible thing about her that makes you feel equal parts terrified and intrigued. One of those forces that could make you pee your pants if she stamped her approval, but also like you might poop your pants if you crossed her.
Either way, diapers were required and I certainly wasn’t ready to add black coffee to that intestinal situation.
She was definitely not someone I was going to disagree with when she ordered, “You’re taking opera repertoire class and you’re going to love it.” I did not love it. I sat at the back and tried to be invisible.
The genius students next to me would comment on the intricacies of Mozart recitative and Verdi’s complex orchestral writing. They could all decipher leitmotifs in Wagner and identify the singer and the year of the recording in each clip played in class.
I would just pray she wouldn’t ask me who wrote La Boheme and count the minutes until class was over so I could press play on my discman and listen to Mariah Carey.
Something changed that day in class, though. She played the 1953 recording of Maria Callas’ Tosca and took us through each moment of the show. She explained how every moment of the story was supported by Puccini’s writing and that everything we needed to know was all there in the score.
I could feel my interest getting piqued as she played the Te Deum that closes the first act. She shared the juxtaposition of Scarpia’s lust for Tosca crossed with the religious fervor of the chorus and Mass processional. She pointed out the musical cues that signaled Tosca’s entrances before she is even seen onstage and the way her act 2 aria has the potential to stop time.
After class on that day I went to the library, checked out the 1953 Callas record, and sat in a listening booth with a score for 3 hours.
Two days ago I got a call from that force of a woman who we, her loyal subjects, refer to lovingly as The Frau. Nearly a quarter century later and her power has only deepened and grown as wide as her educational and operatic reach. “Roz, you’re going to have to have a Thanksgiving breakfast. Not a dinner. We need a Tosca.”
I remain powerless to her requests and hopped on the first flight to Vancouver. On the very stage where she taught me to twirl and cross a stage with some sense of coordination, I get to perform her desert island opera.
The stage where she showed me how to lead clueless tenors and basses around the stage, and die with drama and grace on a rock. The stage where we used to have rehearsals on scaffolding while she raised literal millions of dollars to renovate a theater so her students could have a real opera house.
The stage where rehearsal stopped as a squirrel suddenly emerged from a hole in the wall stage right, scampered across the proscenium, and paused down stage center before high tailing it off down stage left, aware of the fearless female chasing after it. The stage where the Grandfather of Canadian opera himself, Irving Guttman, hoarsely and loudly whispered to Nancy that my portrayal of Massenet’s Manon was, “absolutely to die for.”
The stage where I can look out into the house that Nancy built where there are dedicated seats to Irving, Judith Forst, Nancy, and me. All in a row.
Photo by Emily Cooper
I arrived in Vancouver just in time for the dress rehearsal and was keenly aware of the students in the wings watching me sweat my eyelashes right off my face as I made my way through act 2. I’ve known some of those students since they were 14 years old and now they’re finishing up their graduate work.
I met students who may not love opera yet, but who are being thrown into the deep end, just as I was, by a woman who believes in the undeniable power and impact of live opera. I met two wonderful and world class colleagues who welcomed me on stage with a warm hug, at least until I stabbed one of them with a butter knife in act 2.
Nancy gave me zero stage direction because she knew I wouldn’t need it and there was no time anyway. Besides, she taught me everything I needed to know with her shining example of endless determination and fathomless love of music and teaching.
Somewhere in the middle of the show it dawned on me that if Nancy and I were stranded together on a deserted island and only had act 2 of Tosca, we would have everything we need. Well, that and two cups of black coffee, please.