Allegra Durante performs "Ah, non credea... Ah, non giunge" from La Sonnambula.

A video project created for the Brooklyn Music School Opera Workshop, Fall 2020.

Accompaniment recorded by Felix Jarrar.

Direction, video recording, and audio and video editing, by Allegra Durante.

Performer's notes for the viewer:

This video was conceived for a virtual opera workshop taking place in late 2020.

In early 2020, I had just recovered from the second of two drawn-out bouts of laryngitis that hit me only a few months apart (the second one was probably COVID-19, but it was January 2020 so every doctor I saw either couldn't or wouldn't tell me anything other than "well, it's not the flu"). I was happy to have my voice back, and I was excited for the upcoming audition season.

Well. March 2020 happened, and so did lockdowns. And live theater stopped happening.

I spent the next few months going through the stages of grief for what I perceived to be the final death of any hope I had for having a career as a singer. Performing had never been a stable way for me to earn a living, but I kept thinking that if I could just catch a break, it would all be worth it.

It felt as if the pandemic had confirmed my worst fears. I couldn't try to focus on opera any more. I had to find a "real job" and soon, otherwise I'd be stuck in jobs I hated, or chasing unpredictable gigs, for the rest of my life.

In late summer of 2020 I got an email from Judith Barnes, one of my favorite teachers and a performer I had known and respected for nearly a decade, by then, saying that she was going to hold her Opera Workshop class again, but virtually this year. Though I hadn't been in a workshop for a few years, I used to attend one each time it was held. Judith's workshop was where, back in 2012, I first had the chance to perform as a soloist in opera scenes. A year later, it was where I met a friend who's one of my closest to this day.

So, I signed up. I still felt emotionally destroyed, still wasn't sure how I was going to adjust to living in that new world, but I thought that working with some friendly, familiar faces in a supportive environment would do me some good.

instead of doing scenes together, we each worked on an aria or two. The idea was to flex the new muscle of "virtual performance" which so many singers now found themselves in need of, while still offering each other feedback and chatting about each other's pieces. We were each told to do a video project for our aria, something between a music video and a performance for the class. I had done some audio editing before, but decided to make the most of this opportunity to learn video editing, too.

I chose this aria because it had been a staple in my repetoire book for a few years - long enough to be comfortable, but not long enough to feel stale. I don't remember how the concept came to me, but I remember it clearly: using the dreamlike, "is this real?" experiences of the title character of Bellini's La Sonnambula to help narrate my own experience of the pandemic.

"Is this real?" When you're sitting in a practice room because you "should," trying to sing through your repertoire binder even though you have no idea when you'll be able to step onto a stage again?

"Is this real?" When you practice your concert makeup in the mirror to make sure you don't forget, even though you don't know if you'll ever sing on a concert program again?

"Is this real?" When you take out last year's favorite "diva" dress for the first time in six months, and just looking at it brings back triumphant memories of last year's summer program in Germany that now stand in stark, soul-crushing contrast against this summer's quiet isolation?

"Is this real?" When you performed two dream roles back-to-back less than a year ago, and now you can't be bothered to put on real clothes and the only song your traumatized mind can produce when you open your mouth is "Vissi d'arte" but you always stop halfway through because you never figured out how to sing while crying?

In this aria, Amina begins with sleep-talking: she dreams that her wedding bouquet has wilted, the flowers having only lasted a day. Then she is awakened by her love, and her tune becomes joyous: her dream was only a nightmare, and everything is wonderful.

For this performance, I reversed the narrative. The beginning is waking reality: why get dressed, why leave the house, why even sing? The end is the dream: makeup, jewelry, a gown; life as if nothing had changed. Except that, even with the glamourous trimmings all applied, I was still in a practice room. I didn't even have an accompanist with me; I was singing along to a track he'd made for me.

Four years later, things are a little better. But when I watch this project, I still feel the visceral sadness and anger I felt when I made it. I almost can't watch the beginning, it feels too vulnerable. Too real.

But as an artist, I'm proud of the work. I’m proud of myself for doing what artists do, and letting my emotions show.

So, now that things are a little better, I wanted to take a moment to write this explanation. Maybe someone who reads it will have also sat in empty practice rooms for months on end four summers ago, and maybe they will feel a little less isolated now.