#voicecoaching

Rigour and Compassion

I recently participated in a panel discussion about how to balance the desire to achieve certain standards in theatre training with considerations of artist health and wellbeing. 

We started with three key words: rigour, compassion, and craft, and a premise that rigour and compassion sit on opposite sides of the equation in the process of training actors. The question: how do we find equilibrium between these two contrasting ideas for the sake of our craft? 

‘Craft’ is an interesting word to me. It can mean strength, power, skill or ability. People who work in theatre seem to love this word, I think because it sounds noble. It suggests we’re toiling at something serious, we’re not merely players strutting around in costumes. A craftsperson is humble and dedicated - not a dilettante. 

‘Rigour’ suggests attention to detail, tenacity, and building strength. I like to think of it as a kind of striving. But the definition offered by the Oxford English Dictionary is actually “unbending, stiffness, rigidity” and “harsh inflexibility”. And of course this is how we get the medical term ‘rigor mortis’ - the stiffening of the body after death.

Training that is unbending? Inflexible? Is that how we train artists?

‘Compassion’ also has a problematic meaning. When I looked it up, the definition I found was “to suffer together,” which I’d prefer to avoid in my sessions. But in my experience, the word is usually used to suggest kindness, gentle sympathy - a softness in behaviour. In that sense, it is indeed a contrast to rigour. But training that is too soft could prevent artists from growing. If it’s all comfort, all the time, where is the stimulation that promotes change?

Then I discovered some etymology that intrigued me. ‘Compassion’ contains a Latin participle, ‘pati,’ which it shares with the word 'patient.’ One of the meanings of ‘patient’ is “to be steadfast despite difficulty or adversity.” Isn’t that strength? Or tenacity? Or…rigour? 

So rather than grappling with opposites, I think we’re using different words for the same idea: the idea of applying energy or effort to an activity; to practice patiently and with intention. Maybe our personal experiences lead us to prefer one term over another. Have we internalized some biases either about “being tough” or “being kind” based on how we ourselves were trained? Sometimes our egos build narratives around these ideas. “I was put through the wringer in my training and it was good for me,” or “I choose to teach with more care than I received from my teachers.”

 

Artists commit to developing their craft through training and practice. In the classroom, my syllabus is my contract with the students - we make an agreement to strive together, building craft. At the theatre companies where I coach, a diverse group of professional artists apply their craft to bring the show to the audience. Both contexts are collaborative, with complex dynamics and a range of needs and communication styles to embrace.

Society is changing, our students are changing, and the industry’s expectations seem to be changing. We strive together, responding to the changes and acknowledging, I hope, that ‘rigour’ and ‘compassion’ manifest in different ways in different settings. We absolutely do need to be discerning and clear, and make sure we can tell a hawk from a handsaw. But we can’t afford to get stuck in a binary of either/or terms: hard versus soft, or strong versus weak. If we’re going to talk “standards,” let’s define our terms and set the context.









Spending Father's Day Casting Nasturtiums On His Good Name

I can’t resist re-posting this. Today would have been my father’s 84th birthday. I’m spending the day writing, Dad, and tonight we’ll drink a glass of red wine in your honour.

My father loved words, sounds, and language. I guess I’ll always feel that he played a role in setting me on my voice training path.

I remember back when I was working as a text coach for a production of ‘Medea’ at UBC, I’d discuss Greek pronunciations with him - did he think ‘Glauce’ should be pronounced ‘Glau - say’ or ‘Glau - kay’’, and so on. Dad was emphatic about the muscular sounds of the Greek language, insisting that “the vowels are long, the consonants are hard! It’s always ‘KUH, not ‘SUH’!” I’m not sure he was right about that, but it wasn’t about scholarly precision. He loved the vigour and vitality of those sounds. 

He felt the connection between characters and their utterances.  He once gleefully told me about a woman waiting in the line at the bank who, needing to sign a paper, had turned to him and asked, “can I borrow your paaaaaan?” From this articulation, Dad created an entire character.

He kept note of what he called “howlers” – warped expressions and malapropisms - whenever he heard them. Like the sailor “changing his tact”, or someone “casting nasturtiums on his good name”. Or typos - he took the time to clip an article out of the newspaper and mail it to me just so I could see that the headline read, “Detainee Welcomes a Pubic Inquiry”. Scrawled on the side of the paper was Dad’s voice: “Look at his big smile! And the wife’s expression!”

 At a launch party for ‘Piccolo Mondo’ he said, “Writing began for me in Grade Eleven…It continued at UBC where I sat in the basement of the student newspaper office every Thursday slowly clicking my loves and hates into a Remington typewriter and onto a column of arts criticism…What I loved most dearly, though, was reading poems to audiences, showing off...I’ve always loved having an audience. Lend me your ears.”

What I remember about him, and what guides me, is the way he spanned a continuum of physical, vocal, verbal, and written expression. He embodied words - reaching across, darting through, dancing along breath, muscle, sound, typeset, and ink. For him, sounds, speech, words and text merged in a way that is rare – a way that I will likely spend my whole life trying to understand.

To me, his sound and fury signified everything. 

 

 

 

 

 

Spending Father's Day Casting Nasturtiums On His Good Name

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My father loved words, sounds, and language. I guess I’ll always feel that he played a role in setting me on my voice training path.

I remember back when I was working as a text coach for a production of ‘Medea’ at UBC, I’d discuss Greek pronunciations with him - did he think ‘Glauce’ should be pronounced ‘Glau - say’ or ‘Glau - kay’’, and so on. Dad was emphatic about the muscular sounds of the Greek language, insisting that “the vowels are long, the consonants are hard! It’s always ‘KUH, not ‘SUH’!” I’m not sure he was right about that, but it wasn’t about scholarly precision. He loved the vigour and vitality of those sounds. 

He felt the connection between characters and their utterances.  He once gleefully told me about a woman waiting in the line at the bank who, needing to sign a paper, had turned to him and asked, “can I borrow your paaaaaan?” From this articulation, Dad created an entire character.

He kept note of what he called “howlers” – warped expressions and malapropisms - whenever he heard them. Like the sailor “changing his tact”, or someone “casting nasturtiums on his good name”. Or typos - he took the time to clip an article out of the newspaper and mail it to me just so I could see that the headline read, “Detainee Welcomes a Pubic Inquiry”. Scrawled on the side of the paper was Dad’s voice: “Look at his big smile! And the wife’s expression!”

 At a launch party for ‘Piccolo Mondo’ he said, “Writing began for me in Grade Eleven…It continued at UBC where I sat in the basement of the student newspaper office every Thursday slowly clicking my loves and hates into a Remington typewriter and onto a column of arts criticism…What I loved most dearly, though, was reading poems to audiences, showing off...I’ve always loved having an audience. Lend me your ears.”

What I remember about him, and what guides me, is the way he spanned a continuum of physical, vocal, verbal, and written expression. He embodied words - reaching across, darting through, dancing along breath, muscle, sound, typeset, and ink. For him, sounds, speech, words and text merged in a way that is rare – a way that I will likely spend my whole life trying to understand.

To me, his sound and fury signified everything. 

 

 

 

 

 

Speak With Authority

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You’ve tackled the tech pivot. Now is the time to find your VOICE.

These weeks have been about juggling which Zoom link, what Teams feature, which Meet video setting, or what Hangout audio settings you needed. Now is the time to dial in your messaging and speak with authority.

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A system to structure any presentation that comes your way.

A system to tap into your powerful, authentic, confident voice.

A system to ground you in the moments before you step on the stage.

Join me for my 4-week program and claim your power as a confident leader. Here’s how it works:

We meet once a week on Mondays. During the week, I support you via Marco Polo and a private Facebook group. The 4 week course starts on 06/08/2020 at 11:00am PST.

Tuition is $300.

Questions? Leave a comment to start the conversation. I’ll ask you a few questions to ensure we’re a fit and discuss the details.

Burned Out On The Fry

Who isn’t talking about vocal fry these days? Google will give you 509,000 responses in .28 seconds and they come from journalists, speech therapists, actors, job coaches, physicians, singers, politicians…

In a Guardian newspaper article, Naomi Wolf called on young women to “give up the vocal fry and reclaim your strong female voice”: 

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jul/24/vocal-fry-strong-female-voice

A response to that article accused Wolf of “missing the point”. Complaining about vocal fry, says Erin Riley, is just another excuse not to listen to women:

http://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/jul/28/naomi-wolf-misses-the-point-about-vocal-fry-its-just-an-excuse-not-to-listen-to-women

In some ways I agree with both points of view. It seems (anecdotally, at least) that we are often more critical of women’s voices than men’s. Traditional authority figures still, in 2016, try to discount the voices of young women in particular. However, standing up for the right to be heard also means resisting pressure to conform to a popular sound which could damage your voice. I hope that women, especially young women, can be true to themselves -- expressing themselves with authenticity, and saving and cherishing their precious voices. Our voices are the means with which we tell the world who we are.

This debate came up for me again in a recent visit to a Women’s Studies class at Vancouver Island University.

The students expressed differing points of view, and some admitted they had not previously been aware of vocal fry, or had never carefully considered their own voices. By the end of the discussion, they were excited to continue reflecting on these questions, and inspired by the possibility of harnessing the power of their authentic voices in their careers and their personal lives.