Something Is Always on Fire

by Measha Brueggergosman

  The house we rented in Mojácar was nestled inside a compound of beautiful flowers. It also had a view of the ocean, which was within walking distance. While growing up, I had never experienced those destination vacations where the whole family climbs onto a plane, then tumbles out in, say, California to glamp around in a rental RV. With the Gosmans it was a trip up the road for a Baptist convention or to summer camp. I had always wanted a beach holiday, so Mojácar spelled luxury to me, and because Markus and I were together all the time, eating and being sassy newlyweds, it also felt like the best Christmas ever.

  And then I called home.

  Since our Spanish house didn’t have a phone—and in 1999 neither Markus nor I had cell phones—I’d been out of touch with my parents for a couple of weeks. After a pleasant chat my mother asked, “How was Peterborough?” She had her Manager Voice on and her tone indicated something had gone awry. When she called my dad to the phone, I knew I was in serious trouble. An event I’d hoped to forget came rushing back in hideous detail.

  After our perfect wedding Markus and I had travelled to Peterborough, Ontario, for me to sing my very first Verdi Requiem. It is a very demanding part (at any age), but in my mind at the time, I was thinking that this concert would position us nicely to fly out of Toronto to Europe—neither the first nor the last time I would use professional pursuits as a springboard for what I ultimately wanted to be doing with my own time. Frankly, I didn’t know the music as well as I should have, so I was playing a recording of it on the drive from the airport. I was twenty-one and I knew what the standard was, but I was hoping—just this once, please!—to fly under the radar and coast through.

  One of the indisputable tenets of getting what you want is putting in the work. There are no shortcuts, there are no drive-bys and there are no small gigs. If there are ears present, it’s up to me to deliver my highest standard. Does this always happen? No. But am I the one responsible for having enough under my belt and between my ears to maintain the illusion? Yes.

  This would be my first real-world career experience in which I truly came up short. Because of poor preparation, I was unable to dazzle the audience with how much better I was than the pool of professionals with whom I was singing, which was my usual experience. Instead, I weighed everybody down. I had been given this wonderful opportunity, and I had squandered it because of a sense of entitlement or overconfidence or some other hubris. I had taken my eye off the ball and used my wedding as an excuse to not be good at my job. Of course I hoped no one had noticed and that I had escaped unscathed. Now my father, who was my co-manager with my mom, was telling me somebody had indeed noticed.

  “Your conductor from Peterborough called me. He was very angry and he had some serious words about your performance.” He told me this could do damage to my career if it got out, so we had to figure out how to go about responding.

  Standing in the oceanfront phone booth, I could feel my face drain of blood as a proverbial fist punched me in the gut and the high-pitched whistle in my ear made it difficult to hear. I was so short of breath I was afraid I was going to faint. Was my career finished before it had started? I tried to explain why I had been so unprepared, even though the words rang hollow. Excuses are so lame! I could tell from the edge in my father’s voice that he needed to know the truth, even as his paternal side was trying to protect me against the hurtful things the conductor had said. The truth was, I had blown it.

  I hung up the phone in a panic. Who can help me? I decided to reach out to John Hess and Dáirine Ní Mheadhra, the producers of Beatrice Chancy. Ours was a small community, and I wanted some perspective on how this might damage me and how I could improve my situation. Though I tried hard not to cry, the tears spilled as I confessed everything to them.

  As I wept into the pay phone on the beach in the south of Spain, John and Dáirine were wonderful and provided balanced, candid counsel. They told me that the conductor’s assessment might not do a great deal of damage; however, it was important for me to accept responsibility for failing to live up to my own standards.

  I was still devastated, still convinced that when I returned to Canada, the customs officer would snatch my passport: “We do not allow into this country those who have messed up their debuts in the great Verdi Requiem!” Thankfully, in the end, my reputation didn’t suffer. But I knew how deeply I had failed myself. This was my first deep wound of humiliation, and because I was just twenty-one, it wouldn’t be my last.

  When I did return to Canada after my honeymoon, it was with new determination and dedication to my process. It was also without the groom. Even though Markus and I were now married, we weren’t spending the summer on the same continent. He needed money to continue his studies, which meant working as a security guard in Switzerland, while I was due in Toronto for rehearsals for a remounting of Beatrice Chancy.

  At the end of the summer of 1999 I enrolled in the Goethe-Institut in Düsseldorf, billeted in a woman’s home while I learned German. As well as wanting to speak my husband’s mother tongue, I knew that German was a language I hoped to use the whole of my career. I also knew that being able to speak the language fluently would cut down my workload (efficiency or bust!), since I wouldn’t be spending all my study time doing translations. It seemed easier and less time-consuming just to become fluent. Here is the first piece of advice I give to young singers: Learn your languages. Don’t be satisfied with simply doing translations.

  I think it’s imperative to get the flavour of the language in your mouth so you will sound more authentic, because the devil is in the details and every language has its “tells.” For German, foreigners tend to make the closed e too narrow, or roll the r at the end of the schwa. For English, a good non-native-speaker “tell” is whether someone has mastered our odd consonant and vowel clusters, like the voiced and unvoiced th, as in the difference between through or though, which includes knowing that those vowels are u and o, respectively. Any language will have its syntax, its own natural rhythm chained together with unimportant filler words and connectors. Mistakenly stressing what is inconsequential also gives you away as a non-speaker.

  Markus and I would be reunited in Düsseldorf at the end of September when my German course finished. That’s when I would begin my graduate studies with Edith Wiens at the Robert Schumann Musikhochschule, while Markus would study art history as a prelude to taking over as my manager from my parents. Turns out art history was not my husband’s bag, and he would later switch to studying international business management.

  Though Edith Wiens had already accepted me as a student, I needed a certificate guaranteeing proficiency in German before I could enter the Robert Schumann Musikhochschule. After that, all my classes would be conducted in German. I was nowhere near ready to have my entire world switch over to a language I’d only been “speaking” for a month. But I was determined, because I knew I wanted to understand what was going on and have access to a culture that was not my own. Language is the passport to other worlds. Sure, you can visit places, take in the scenery and eat the food, but you’re not really there unless you can render yourself invisible. A culture’s language reveals the character and regional divides of any country. Germany was no different and I wanted total access.

  Markus and I have always enjoyed an ease of being together. I’m generally annoyed by most people, but Markus has a very calming disposition. That’s not to say he’s a peaceful person. It just means he has a streamlined approach to things—something I’ve always admired. He can also make people nervous with his silence. It’s not his intention to make people nervous, of course, but over the years, I’ve learned to employ an “ears open, mouth closed” approach to any uncomfortable situation, if only to see how the situation evolves and resolves itself. Markus, perhaps in complement to me, has learned that “small talk” is just as much about making the other person feel comfortable—and showing that you have a genuine interest in having some sort of exchange—as it is about controlling the narrative and not le
tting tension set in where, were it not for the silence, there would be none. I’ve learned that the Swiss Germans are perfectly content to allow whole minutes to pass without so much as a peep, while us Maritime Canadians fill every millisecond with chatter. Markus and I each welcomed the other because we’d both been at either extreme for our whole lives.

  We moved into our Düsseldorf apartment, our first home as a married couple, mere days before we both started school. As soon as I walked in the door, I asked Markus, who had found the apartment on a short break from his job in Switzerland, “Where’s the kitchen?”

  Markus replied, “In Germany you don’t get kitchens with apartments.”

  “Wait. What?”

  “You bring your own kitchen, and then you take it away with you when you move out.”

  News flash: Kitchens do not come standard in German apartments.

  I also discovered that I still couldn’t meander through German culture on broken English or what I’d learned at the Goethe-Institut. I needed Markus to open a bank account, figure out where to buy things, read our rental agreement and tell me what an Immatrikulationsbescheinigung was when my university asked for it. (It’s a certificate of enrolment. Obvi!)

  Having someone take over all the logistics that come with setting up your life away from your parents—in a new time zone, continent and language—was a big departure for me. In Fredericton Markus had been essentially living my life, in my culture, my language, my hometown. But in Düsseldorf we were in his linguistic and cultural wheelhouse. He was also more travelled than I was with all the vacations and adventures he’d had with his family while growing up. I came to trust him more as the head of the house and as a provider.

  I also discovered how handy Markus was. Though we had been together four years before marrying, we had never lived together, so we didn’t know each other’s skill sets. I felt proud of how adeptly I had drilled an Ikea coat rack to the wall . . . until it ripped itself out of the wall when I tried to hang actual coats on it. Once Markus attached it, we could have both swung from it at the same time. If I assembled a piece of furniture with the raw side out, I artfully shoved that exposed section against the wall. No one could ever feel confident sitting on a chair I had put together.

  After more trial and error (and badly assembled furniture), we learned that I was better at picking out and arranging the rugs, the art and the side tables, whereas Markus was better at executing their assemblage. I also took over the cooking because Markus eats for the fuel of it, whereas I eat for the fun of it.

  During our four years in Germany, Markus and I lived on Canada Council and Chalmers performing arts grants, a New Brunswick Arts grant, a Sylva Gelber Music Foundation Award, plus income Markus earned during summers and money I made singing concerts and winning competitions. This amounted to about $30,000 annually, which seemed downright luxurious to me at the time.

  I felt proud walking through the doors of the music school. Even though it was intimidating to know that if someone approached me and started rattling off in German, the chances of me understanding what was said (let alone being able to respond) were slim to none, I was still tickled that I was actually living in Europe. Germany! ME. The girl who grew up in Nashwaaksis was now walking through the doors of a German music school (where they spoke German!) to start not my first but my second degree as a classical singer. I remember my mind being completely blown.

  Though Düsseldorf was an old industrial city, I liked what it taught me about German life. People walked instead of drove. The Germans were dependable. The bread tasted better. Düsseldorf had boutiques instead of big-box stores. The super-fancy Königsallee featured a landscaped canal lined with designer shops selling sophisticated European brands I’d never seen before. Since I’ve always possessed a supreme adoration for makeup—the skill required to apply it, its transformative powers—I was thrilled to discover a mega MAC Cosmetics store standing like a proud beacon to beauty in the heart of the Königsallee. A big moment for me was when I walked up to the counter to make my purchase with my MAC professional discount card—one of the originals from Canada.

  Markus and I found a wonderful church, full of young people, offering many community programs, such as weekly ballroom dancing. Given my travel schedule, we probably made only one or two of those classes, but they were one of the only husband-wifey things we ever did as a couple, and it made me feel I might really have a chance at something resembling a normal life. And while I was away, Markus created such strong community that he was eventually asked by one of the new friends he made to be the best man at his wedding.

  Life in Germany moved along swimmingly, but one very intimate event revealed an important difference in modus operandi between Markus and me.

  Rewinding to the previous spring . . . Three weeks before our wedding, my dad had taken me to our family’s pharmacy in Fredericton to pick up my birth control pills. I was going to be having sex for the first time, so I needed to be proactive about contraception. Or as my father put it, “Measha, you’re a woman now, with a very busy schedule, and we need to make sure that you have everything in order.”

  Six months into my marriage, now living in Düsseldorf, I said to Markus, “This is odd. I have my period and it isn’t in my one-week break.”

  Markus asked, “What do you mean, your ‘one-week break’?”

  I replied in a patronizing tone, “Well, let me explain the birth control pill to you. I take a pill for twenty-eight days, then I stop for a week.”

  In complementary opposition to my own approach, Markus wisely read the instructions on the box, which I’d never bothered to do. Now, in full possession of the manufacturer’s point of view, he informed me, “Taking a week off doesn’t mean going without pills. This box contains a week of sugar pills to keep you in the habit of dosing during the break in your cycle.”

  That’s how I discovered that Markus and I had been having sex for six months with me taking sugar pills I thought were birth control pills, then skipping a week, then sometimes forgetting to take any pill at all. Hence, me getting my period smack dab in the middle of a cycle of pills. My body had no idea what was going on.

  That first year was a bit of a blur. There was so much newness and discovery. So many firsts: first year married, first language from scratch, first apartment, first trip to Ikea, first power drill! I couldn’t really keep track of the fact that time was even passing, because there were so many things to absorb and interpret.

  The strongest voice in my head for four years running when it came to vocal technique had been Mary Morrison, and now I had a new mentoring voice in my head in the form of the voice teacher for whom I had made the decision to continue my studies in Germany: Edith Wiens. New terminology, the uncovering of technical shortcomings that I’d managed to squirrel away, exercising humility and exorcising bad habits. That first year was a bit of a diagnostic reconnaissance mission for both Edith and me, and it felt like I was starting all over. I was the first student to have come from such a distance to study with Edith, and she was getting her bearings as a mentor. I have distant memories of pangs of frustration and confusion as we both deciphered our bearings in our new lives, mixed with strong memories of breakthroughs and complete clarity.

  After that first year in Düsseldorf, Edith accepted a teaching position in the south of Germany, so Markus and I packed up everything we owned and drove south to Augsburg, Bavaria. There was nothing for us in Düsseldorf, since I had moved to Germany to study with Edith. The possession I most remember bobbing along in the back of our van was our money tree—a generic houseplant with a braided trunk and big leaves that grows and grows and grows. We bought it at Ikea. Though it would flourish for three years in Augsburg, it did not survive our return to Canada. After its demise we bought another money tree, also from Ikea, which has since travelled in all our moving vans, dying and resurrecting as required. It’s a great plant . . . and a loyal friend.

  Though I had enjoyed Düsseldorf, it wasn’t until
we moved to Augsburg—a university city with cobblestone streets and a history going back to the Roman Empire—that I discovered what Germany was supposed to look like to my Canadian eyes. Our apartment, a fourth-floor walk-up, was twice as big and half as expensive. Plus, Bavarians are super fun!

  The reason for our move was a pragmatic one: I wanted more of what Edith had to teach, so I would have followed her wherever she went. The change also worked for Markus, who wished to switch from art history, which he hated, to international business management, which would prove handy, since he eventually became my manager.

  Who was this Edith Wiens, the voice teacher who had lured me from Canada and now across Germany?

  A very striking, very blond, very charismatic and very successful recitalist and soprano is the easy answer. Born in the Canadian Prairies in 1950, in Saskatoon, daughter of a Mennonite pastor, she sang her way up through church and beyond her small-town roots—very much as I have. Though Edith would tell you she didn’t have the voice of the century, she carved out a career in which she was universally heralded and deservedly respected. She made her operatic debut at Covent Garden—no baby steps for my Edith! She performed her last public concert at age fifty, the soprano soloist in Mozart’s Requiem with the New York Philharmonic in what was then known as Avery Fisher Hall (now David Geffen Hall). Out on an upswing and with a bang. That’s my Edith.