Home/The Ghost of Florence Foster Jenkins

Wow. I haven't sat down and written anything unrelated to my job in a very long time. I really hope I haven't lost any of my charm!

I just moved. Well, I have partially moved. I still have to go back to my former dingy, moldy basement apartment in Bushwick and schlep the rest of my stuff to my new apartment this weekend. I guess my point is that I don't live in Bushwick anymore.

I move a LOT. I move so often that most of my friends and family think I actually love not staying in the same place and that I have some sort of weird compulsion and that I'm incapable of making a home . . . that I am a bird who will always fly away. NOT TRUE. The reason that I move so much is because I'm constantly making impetuous decisions, not thinking them through fully, and then realizing my mistake I try too quickly to remedy the problem. It's a vicious cycle and I really hope that this is the end of it.

My new place is amazing. I REALLY hope this is the end of the vicious cycle because I come home at the end of the day, and it feels just like that - HOME.

It's funny, I didn't really sit down to write a blog about having a place to call home. I was going to write about something unexpected, wonderful and hilarious that happened during my commute to work this morning, but then I realize that the commute is a component of what home really is. To me, home is everything not including work. Home is the time that I don't get paid for. I don't know if that makes any sense. Home is the place that we elect to be, not the place we are required to be. At least that's how I feel it should be.

I suppose perhaps I received divine confirmation of my new home being, at the very least, an INTERESTING one during my commute this morning (I also believe it may be the RIGHT one, for once, but I only *just* moved). I live in Long Island City, and it's a 5 minute train ride from work for me. I woke up rather early this morning and, due to my affinity for crossing bridges, decided to walk over the Queensboro to work.

I spent about 10 minutes in the industrial part of Long Island City searching for the pedestrian entrance to the bridge (it's on the north side of the bridge, if anyone needs to know), and sometime during that 10 minutes, I could SWEAR that I overheard the ghost of Florence Foster Jenkins.

For those of you that don't know who I'm talking about, Florence Foster Jenkins is just about the funniest story in the history of funny stories about singers. She was (and I'm quoting Wikipedia here): an American soprano who became famous for her complete lack of rhythm, pitch, tone, and overall singing ability. Also, an interesting tidbit: Her she was born NARCISSA Florence Foster. Wow. Her name was really Narcissa, y'all.

I need to add that I've always been a huge fan. Nobody could tell Florence Foster Jenkins not to dream.

This is my all-time favorite recording of her:


Yeah . . . so the sound that I overheard on my way to work today was pretty similar to that.

Once I finally began to cross the bridge, the singing started up again. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere ahead of me, and also beneath me, rising up from secret crevices in the Queensboro Bridge. What made this particularly exciting was today's foggy, overcast state - PERFECT weather to encounter a ghost in. I looked around at the other pedestrians and was surprised to find absolutely no quizzical expressions on their faces. I suppose this sort of thing happens every day . . . we're in New York City, after all. I became determined to seek out the source of the really, really, exceptionally bad singing.

I sadly learned, once I passed the pedestrian ahead of me, that it was not the ghost of Florence Foster Jenkins. It was simply the woman ahead of me, which was kind of adorable because she looked like a little yellow puddle duck in her rain gear and boots. Florence Foster Jenkins reincarnated as a little puddle duck lady walking her bicycle over the bridge - just take a second to think about that and laugh.

Long story short: Today has been awesome. I'm happy to be where I am right now.

A message from Kurt Vonnegut

"You are who you pretend to be, so be careful who you pretend to be." -Kurt Vonnegut

This means whatever you want it to mean. I just wanted to write it down so that I'd remember it.

It's easy to pretend to be something small and petty.
It's much harder to pretend to be something bigger, especially when it involves parts of your imagination and consciousness that are rarely accessed by yourself, let alone anyone else.

Jan. 3rd, 2009. Love.

My friend Jack, who happens to be a cat, is very sick. He has very slim chances of recovery from what is ailing him.

He is in Houston with my family - I just brought him home on Christmas day. I'm currently in New York, finishing the rest of the packing up of my things, and grabbing Jack's brother Homer to return to Houston with me once the movers come for my stuff.

Jack might be there when I get back to Houston. Jack might not be there when I get back to Houston. The waiting and not knowing is the hardest part.

I have limited experience with the death of loved ones. I'm trying my best to understand....that's why I'm writing this, I suppose.

That, and also I love Jack very much.

When situations like this happen, when people flutter in and out of our lives, my initial reaction is to ask, "Why, God? Why did you bring this person into my life only to take him away? What is the lesson I'm supposed to take away from this?"

With Jack, the only lesson I can even begin to fathom is that I needed to learn about love. Plain and simple. Jack taught me that love is easy, love is uncomplicated, and that love is definitely, definitely real.

Thank you, Jack. I believe in love. I'm really glad we met and got to love each other.

December 23rd, 2008. 16 things.

This seems to be making the rounds....
I'll give you 16 things about me you may not know (likes,dislikes,hobbies,et

c.), and I'll also tag 16 people. You're suppose to go into why you tagged the people, but, I'd prefer not to. I'll just simply say that if I tagged you, it's because I want to know more about you. After you've read about me, and my 16, why not post your own note with your 16, and tag 16 people you're curious about.

1. My funny gray cat Homer used to be named Hildy. I thought he was a girl for the first week he lived with me. I loved the name Hildy so much that it took me three months to come up with another name. Homer has also been called Elliot, Miles, Newman...and finally he became Homer after he grabbed an empty bottle of beer out of the trash and it became his favorite toy.

2. There are several Disney movies that are probably responsible for me becoming an opera singer. Sleeping Beauty (is there any question why I sing so much Russian rep? The main musical theme of this movie is Tchaikowsky), Mary Poppins (I used to cry myself to sleep over how beautiful "Feed the Birds" was), and The Little Mermaid (that was the one that made me realize that I'd be lying to myself if I grew up to do anything other than singing).

3. I'm completely obsessed with the history of France - not just the revolution of the late 1700s (although I'm obsessed with that too...when I was in the 6th grade I did a report on the french revolution complete with a miniature guillotine model which I used on a barbie that I dressed in period clothing), but all the way back to France's origins. Why are the women so effortlessly femmes fatales? Why are they even worse snobs about their language than we are? Why does everything taste better there? My friend Kelly says I'm a French-supremacist when it comes to my taste in men....she is right. They are hotter and behave like gentlemen.

4. My favorite shows are all cartoons. King of the Hill is my favorite, it reminds me of where I grew up in Texas.

5. One of my favorite places in the universe is the hill right near Miller Theater in Houston. The happiest times in my life involve rolling down that hill.

6. I lived in Jakarta, Indonesia during middle school. The first time I ever heard the term "third world country" was when I lived there. This turn of phrase makes me sick to my stomach. Third world. This is only something that people who have never been there would call it. It's ONE world. Every place in the world has something of great importance to contribute. It's up to us to erase stupid phrases like "third world" from the collective vocabulary.

7. I am obsessed with surrealist artist Renee Magritte. And surrealist filmmaker Federico Fellini. And anybody who is brave enough and individual enough to turn their dreams into something tangible and memorable. It makes me wonder if it's possible for me to do this onstage. Also, I love Michael Sowa for his surrealist art for children.

8. Sweet potato french fries from Kerby Lane in Austin, TX are my own personal ambrosia. They're a cure-all, at least for me.

9. Sometimes I make an airgun with my fingers and shoot the moon. Because I'm a lonestar. Feel free to ask more about that one....it's a quirky Abbyism.

10. My favorite opera is Richard Strauss's "Salome," and I'm going to be making my professional operatic debut in this show in March. I'm SO STOKED!

11. I try hard not to spend all my money on clothes, but it's hard. I know it's completely materialistic to obsess over one's wardrobe, but I just see fashion as a way to express myself. People often don't realize that the way they dress is a big artistic statement (or at least an opportunity for one)

12. I have never been sick of a Beatles song, NEVER. I've heard all of them eight million times but they always sound new to me every time.

13. I am terribly, terribly afflicted with wanderlust. I constantly need to change scenery.

14. My brother is the wisest person I know. I always trust his advice.

15. If I wasn't an opera singer I would be a lawyer. I grew up in law firms (single mom was a legal assistant) and I've always been really interested in the difference between the law and ethics. They are two completely different things. I would always choose to be ethical first. So I guess that means I wouldn't have been a very good lawyer.

16. I completely and unabashedly believe in love.

Dec. 12th, 2008. Dedicated to everyone who's been auditioning like mad lately.

This note is dedicated to anyone and everyone who shows up for an audition.

So, I don't know if everyone knows this or not, but this is the first year that I have consistently shown up for every single audition that I applied for. Today's audition was number 57. That's right. 57. I'm not exaggerating. I have 6 more auditions before Christmas. I'm starting to see some light at the end of the tunnel. I don't know if it's because I know that I've been cast in a couple of things - I tend to think that it's more because I've figured something out.

Before I get to the thing I figured out, though, I need to rant just a little bit. Feel free to rant in your comments, I just need to get this out of my system.

Just who the hell is ANYBODY to decide what is art and what is not? What we do, as singers, actors, instrumentalists, in the audition process, is to get up in front of a select few people and make art. Private art. Just for them. Just for a few minutes. And they get to sit there all day long, witnessing art being made. I sometimes find myself wondering if they can appreciate how awesome their jobs are. I've been blessed with a few auditions this year where the adjudicators acknowledge how lucky they are - these instances have brought me to tears. And then there are the other kinds of auditions....the ones where the adjudicators talk loudly over the music, scribble away furiously, stop you one measure before the end of your piece, make comments about how much they have a distaste for the contemporary music you offer....

So, again, just who is ANYBODY to say what is art and what is not? I mean, I MAKE art for a living and I'm not someone who can gauge this question. I honestly think my cats are just as qualified as the people I sing for.

So here's where we get to the part where I figured out a solution to the audition funk that works for me.

Oddly enough, this thought came to me as I was reading Charles Dickens' "A Tale of Two Cities." What I am about to quote isn't the happiest thing you've ever read, but it's somehow comforting to read just before I get up to sing for an audition, and I'll explain why once I finish quoting this amazing Dickens passage:

" A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other. A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it! Something of the awfulness, even of Death itself, is referable to this. No more can I turn the leaves of this dear book that I loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all. No more can I look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, I have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged. It was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when I had read but a page. It was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and I stood in ignorance on the shore. My friend is dead, my neighbor is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which I shall carry with mine to my life's end. In any of the burial-places of this city through which I pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than I am to them?"

You see, these people that we sing for, they'll never REALLY know what goes on in our hearts. And that's why it's completely okay to walk in there and completely expose your heart to them when you sing. You'll always be a mystery to them and they'll always be a mystery to you - and that's life. All that matters is that YOU know what's in your heart.

So maybe the person/people you're singing for will see a flash of the treasure that's in your heart. Maybe they won't. Regardless, they'll never be able to capture it. It's your treasure. And don't forget that - it's TREASURE.

You only have to show up and do your best. You might fail. Failure is a hell of a lot better than mediocrity, though. This has been a hard lesson for me to learn but I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

another old blog: Why I love Joseph Cornell and don't think his art is safe at all

****Just FYI....if you want to see the full images of Cornell's art, you have to click on them.****
I have been wanting to write a blog on Joseph Cornell for a while now, I just wanted to wait until I'd actually had some time to research him.

Having read a bit about him, I can safely say....I'm in love. Platonically, anyway.

Joseph Cornell spent most of his life living on Utopia Parkway in Queens with his mom and crippled brother. He was a recluse that bravely ventured out to collect the scurf of others, refuse, really, and elevated it to art.

An artist friend of mine admitted to me that he was surprised at my warm reaction to Cornell's art. "He's so safe, Abby," my friend remarked.

Well, who's to say what is safe? Joseph Cornell was such a shy man that lived such a private life that I really don't feel that his work is safe at all. His work is brave. No, there's nothing particularly sexual or violent about it....why does sex and violence equal boldness, bravery? Not that sex and violence should be discounted, I just feel that boldness is all relative.

Cornell was very passionate about what he did. To me, that is very bold, and very brave.

Cornell actually reminds me of sweet Nino Quincompoix (from Jeunet's "Amelie.") Nino collected the refuse of others, discarded photographs left under photobooths, and placed them safely in his precious album....his album of mysteries. Maybe that's why I adore Cornell, because Nino is the perfect man to me :)

Anyway. Here are a few images of his art.

This first piece is called Object (Roses des Vents). It is filled with emblems of journeys Cornell always wanted to take but never did.


This one is Untitled (the photos are of a Medici Princess)


This one is The Hotel Eden. I should mention that Cornell loved to use caged birds, to him they represented sublimation, memory and peace.



Cornell had a subtle fetishism for ballerinas. Or at least the leading lady ballerinas of the day. There's something VERY ballet about this one, called Tilly Losch. Was Tilly Losch a ballerina, does anyone know?


Finally, this is the one of Cornell's works I've actually spent time with, in person. At the Menil Collection (which I will be visiting again soon!) It is called Toward the Blue Peninsula:


It's my feeling that WE, the viewer, are the actual art that Cornell intended. Although, again, who's to say? Regardless, safe is not the word I would use to describe Cornell....I know they are synonyms but I think the word "protected" works better. There's less negative connotation, I think. Cornell's works are protected, and the glass window separates YOU, the viewer, from the protection. Are the works really all that "safe," then? Hmmm. You tell me.

an old blog: pretty, for a fat girl.

My whole life, or at least for the length of my cognitive memory, everyone has always told me that I'm pretty, for a fat girl.

I'm sitting here today, trying my best to reconcile what that actually means.

Essentially, what it boils down to is this: I am pretty in spite of something. That I somehow am able to project myself through my layers of chubby insulation and shine through, in some kind of resplendant fashion.

I assure you, I am not pretty in spite of being fat physically. I am pretty in spite of the way that I've been treated most of my life. In spite of my cousins teasing me as a five year old for having lumpy thighs. In spite of being publicly denied cheeseburgers at family functions for years. In spite of always wanting to be held, and never holding on for fear I might crush something. In spite of always feeling like the bull in the china shop. In spite of only enjoying myself on very rare and private occasions. In spite of always feeling so judged by the general populus that at twenty-six years old I still haven't managed to develop any truly useful social skills.

Before too long, I'm not going to be physically fat anymore. I don't worry about my "pretty for a fat girl status" so much, because I know that there's something more troublesome ahead of me to deal with - even if I manage to whittle myself away into a pair of size 4 designer jeans (don't worry, it's not likely) I will always be fat on the inside. I worry about how to deal with that. I worry that my old fat self will feel betrayed; I worry that my new healthy, possibly thin self will still not know how to function socially; but then I realize that the before and the after, they're both me and not separate from each other.

Maybe "pretty" isn't in spite of anything. Maybe "beautiful" is because of something. Maybe beauty happens because we are each given a divine spark of hope, of kindness..... of grace.

While I don't profess to be any kind of beauty queen, I admit to being beautiful. And I'm promising everyone, right here and now, to continue to be so for the rest of my life through hope and kindness and grace. And not in spite of anything, but simply because it's true and I believe it.