Penis Envy Effecting Your Performance?

[Guest]

Callas wasn't Callas either, until she'd worked at it like a fiend all that time.

What a line! I'm a Callas worshiper and I know what you've said is true, Cant. When she 'lost' her voice nothing she could do brought it back. Tragic, but a truth that made her not want to live.

But while she had The Voice, a true gift, she worked extraoridnarily hard to make it Callas.

Thanks, Pear

 

[oggbashan]

I've posted this once, but it is worth repeating to show what a true artist can do:

Swan Song

From “All I Could Never Be” by Beverley Nichols

It was long after the height of Dame Nellie Melba’s world-wide fame that I came to know her. “You have never heard me sing,” she said to me one day with a catch in her throat. She meant, of course, that I had never heard her in the days of her glory.

But I was to hear her in the days of her glory. The miracle happened a year later, in Venice. Melba conceived the wildly romantic notion of holding a concert on the Grand Canal, singing in a gondola by moonlight. Normally she had a very proper horror of singing in the open air; her voice, particularly at that period, was not of the fabric with which she could afford to play tricks. As for singing on the Grand Canal – it was fantastic. She would have to compete with the hooting of steamships, the cries of the gondoliers and all the bustle of a great city. She thought that all these things would automatically stop as soon as she began to sing. I knew better, but I had not the courage to tell her so.

George Copeland, the American pianist, was in Venice at that time, and said that he would be honoured to play for her. One morning the three of us met to rehearse in a apartment where I had been able to find a fairly adequate Steinway.

At the piano Copeland asked, “What shall we begin with?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“The Duparc ‘Clair de lune?”
She shrugged her shoulders and walked to the window.
“This is going to be hell,” I thought.

Copeland began the lovely lilting accompaniment. She took a deep breath and opened her lips.

And then – I must fall back on the phrase – the world stood still.

For the voice that floated into the room was the voice that dimly, as though through a veil, I had heard in the old gramophone records; here it was, in all its untarnished glory, the voice of the young Melba.

So sudden was the shock, so totally unexpected the impact of this rapturous sound, that for a moment Copeland’s fingers stumbled. Then he was swept away on the magic, and for a while the three of us were away on wings.

I dared not look at her. I stared out of the window to the waters of the canal. In a sort of dream I realised that people were beginning to stop outside, with fingers to their lips; gondolas were edging silently toward the window, and in them the gondoliers stood with wide eyes as though they were in some angelic presence.

The music ended; the little group outside remained silent, spellbound; there was only the lapping of the water on the steps of the canal. Then, with exquisite tact, Copeland played, very softly, the introduction to the lovely aubade from the Roi d’Ys. And again the voice came flawless, with the dew on it. And now I turned to watch her. She had on her face and expression of extraordinary surprise; she seemed to be not so much singing as listening. Her eyes strayed around the room; she even turned behind her, as though seeking the source of this enchantment. But always the voice flowed on. At the end, quite carelessly, with the incredible assurance of the youthful Melba, she sang the trill on G, drifted to the top C, held it diminuendo … fading, fading … till it vanished like a star that is quenched.

And now Copeland grew bolder. He played the opening phrase of “Depuis le jour” – an aria which some critics, today, pretend to find shallow and pretentious, perhaps because they have never heard it sung as Melba sung it then. Between Melba and Copeland, at that moment, there must have been some sort of private understanding, for the opening phrase of that aria is little more than a keynote, and unless the singer is waiting for it there is no reason why she should know what she is expected to sing. Yet without a moment’s hesitation the voice echoed the phrase and soared into the lovely song that is like a winding staircase of melody, losing itself in heights that are unattainable to ordinary mortals.

I was near to tears.

“It can’t go on – it’s impossible,” I muttered to myself. “Something will snap.”

But it went on.

By now the listening crowd stretched far out into the canal, held there, spellbound, in the bright sunlight, utterly silent. The song died away in an incomparable diminuendo.

Then for the first time Copeland spoke.

“You are singing – exceptionally,” he whispered.

She nodded. She still wore that strange expression of bewilderment, as though she were asking herself, “Who is it that has been singing? Whence is the music coming?”

He spoke again. “Do you feel like this?”

To my astonishment and dismay, he sketched the opening phrase of the recitatif from the Mad Scene in Lucia. “But no,” I wanted to cry, “that is madness. She has not sung it for twenty years. It is the supreme test – it is exhausting even for the youngest coloratura. You will shatter this wonderful moment forever.”

He paused. The echo of the chords trembled in the air. Then, she nodded. And she sang.

It was the culmination of the miracle. Many times I have heard the Mad Scene. I know all its pitfalls, the devilish little breath traps in which it abounds. Never, never have I heard it sung as Melba sang it then, at the age of sixty-one, in the middle of the morning, unrehearsed.

And then, without warning, in the middle of a scale, she stopped. The silence was so sudden that it hurt. I turned to see what had happened. She was standing there with her hand to her throat, staring before her as though she was looking into some great distance. Slowly she shook her head and whispered, “No more.” She seemed to be speaking not for that moment only but for all time, “No more,” she said again.

Copeland was crying, quite unashamedly. The moment was so overwhelming in its emotion that I felt something must be done to save it from bathos. I took her by the hand and led her to the window. As soon as the crowd outside saw her there was a burst of cheering from a thousand warm Italian throats, and all the tightly packed gondolas blossomed with fluttering handkerchiefs and waving hands. “Viva! Viva!” they cried. “Bis! Bis!”

But there could be no “bis”. It had been for the last time.

 

[cantdog]

What a pack of intellectuals we are. Doood.

 

[Svenskaflicka]

I don't usually compare myself to other writers. I always do my very best when writing a story/poem/whatever. I can always improve, and do so occasionally.

 

[Guest]

 

[Boota]

I write for myself, first and foremost. As long as people keep buying my books I can have a career in writing. If not, I'll still be writing. There's no real point in trying to compete in an art form, as it is so subjective. In writing, as in everything else, my personal favorites aren't always the people considered to be the best anyway.

Like Dr. M I've had occasion to be humbled in music. I went to see Buster B. Jones do a guitar clinic. Before I saw him play I thought I was a pretty god damned good guitar player. At the end of the clinic I sat in my chair for a few minutes just thinking, "Damn! I suck!"

But, in the end, I get paid for playing guitar too, and I love it, so I'm not competing with Buster, either. There's still room for a hack like me.

 

[Virtual_Burlesque]

. . . I believe that it is common for a writer/artist to suffer a degree of penis envy. . .

I never understood how penis envy works.

Do I envy him because I don't have one?

Does he envy me because he's got to lug one around?

Or am I envious of his dick because it gives him so much more pleasure during the sex we share than it gives to me?

If the answer is number three, then my answer is not at all. I know how to get pleasure without relying on a penis, and besides, available penises are a glut on the market.



* * * *



As for writing, I am not at a point where I would be comfortable comparing mine to others, Lit writers or professional, published-on-paper writers.

Except for my father, when he was alive, and school assignments, I could never show anyone my writing.

A few years ago I took a Creative Writing course at a local college where I was forced to share my work with others, and continued in a couple of Writing email lists, and became comfortable sharing with a couple dozen people.

I started here in March ‘04 and although I wrote several stories during the following six months, I was never able to push the “Submit” button until September.

In that case I submitted the story in such a rush that I accidentally submitted the second to last version. (The one that still had several typos in it.)

When it was accepted and posted, and the sky didn’t fall, nor anybody come around to confiscate my computer, I was encouraged to submit more. With the help of contest deadlines, I have been able to get five titles on my submissions list.

It is getting easier to push the “Submit” button. I just don’t know if that is really a good thing, or not.

 

[Boxlicker101]

Personally, I write dirty stories because I enjoy writing dirty stories. I don't really competer with anybody although I like to say that my stories are dirtier than anybody else's.

I have no idea how long some persons take to write a story and I don't care. Nobody really knows how long I take either.