As a plus-size classical soprano, I'd always been pushed into opera. It wasn't how it is today where women of all sizes can have their own stands in front of a symphony or headlining their own shows. When I was coming up, the bigger girls had two paths: Teaching and opera. I couldn't stand teenagers, much less children, so opera it was.
The year I turned thirty was the year I landed the role of Salome for the Palais Garnier, joining the storied ranks of Birgit Nilsson and Catherine Malfitano. I'd loved Oscar Wilde my entire life and the decadence, sensuality, and brilliant lilting chromatics of the role made my heart soar and stutter at once. I'd been familiarizing myself with the role since undergrad and performed it as a graduate student, then later for some smaller houses across New York and Los Angeles, before it was my debut at Carnegie Hall. This, though, moving to Europe? That was the cream of the crop. That was life-changing.
I relocated to Paris months before the role to immerse myself and make sure to have enough one-on-one time with the director and fellow musicians well before formal rehearsals began a month in advance of the opening. If this went well, I'd be joining the full-time ensemble at the famous repertory house, reprising the role month after month for years.
Even though the piece was set in the palace of Herod in the Middle East, Paris felt like the perfect place to dive into Salome's mind and the music to put on the performance of a lifetime. The role was marked by confidence, sultriness, and a touch -- often more than a touch -- of madness. Paris had an underbelly that went beyond romance and croissants.
Those first few weeks in Paris were a whirlwind of exploration and preparation. I wandered the streets, taking in the historic beauty of the city while imagining Salome's world within its boundaries. I indulged in decadent French cuisine and sampled the local wines, trying to capture forbidden desires and pleasures. The director and I spent hours dissecting each scene, each aria, delving into the psychological intricacies of the character's journey.
Rehearsals began with a sense of nervous excitement. Stepping onto the stage of the Palais Garnier for the first time, I couldn't help but feel the weight of history on my shoulders. This was a venue that had witnessed countless legendary performances, and now I was about to add my name to that list. The orchestra started to play the opening notes, and as I sang, I felt the music resonating deep within me, merging with my emotions and intentions.
Outside of rehearsals, I continued to explore the city, finding hidden pockets of inspiration that fed into my portrayal of Salome. I visited art galleries, absorbing the works of the great masters, and strolled along the Seine, pondering the stories of passion and tragedy that had played out along its banks.
The only thing I struggled to really, truly embody was her sexuality. While I'd found Paris to be more polite about my body type and much more accessible for my queerness when compared to the US, politeness didn't equate to attraction. Lesbian bars were full of slim women smoking cigarettes and the idea of approaching them intimidated me. So few women were my size -- an 18 in the US, somewhere above a 50 in Europe (the numbers drove me insane) -- that I felt like a fish out of water, unable to connect to my romantic and sexual life the way I had back home. Apps felt stale and awkward with the language barrier, and I didn't have much time away from the opera house, anyway.
As the opening night drew near, the pressure mounted. The anticipation was palpable, and I could feel the collective energy of the entire production team rising and rising. I may not have been the absolute star of the show, but I knew that I was the one they'd be talking about when they went home, still buzzing from the dark high of those final few scenes.
When I showed up to the theatre the morning of opening night, my name was up on the marquee. I'd known it would be, of course, and it wasn't the first time seeing my name in lights, so to speak, but this felt brand new. Esther Renee as Salome. It had a nice ring and lilt to it, I thought, and I snapped a picture to send to my mom later on. She wouldn't be able to fly in to see it for a few more weeks.
I headed backstage to start my vocal warmups and meet with the different teams who would hopefully make tonight seamless. The day went by in a blur. The backstage area was a bustling hive of activity, filled with the hum of voices, the clatter of equipment, and the scent of stage makeup. I sought out my vocal coach, a seasoned expert who had been by my side throughout this journey.
With each note, I focused on the sensation in my throat, the resonance in my chest, and the connection between my breath and sound. The familiar routine grounded me, allowing me to find my center amid the whirlwind of emotions. The makeup artist delicately applied foundation, enhancing my features to ensure they would be visible under the bright stage lights
Time seemed to warp as we moved through the various preparations. The stage manager reviewed cues and timings, ensuring that the transitions between scenes would be effortless. I exchanged smiles and words of encouragement with fellow cast members, each of us riding the rollercoaster of emotions that comes with the moments leading up to a performance.
The hours slipped away like sand through an hourglass. Before I knew it, locals and tourists alike began to fill the seats. I always liked to watch people come in and sit down for a few minutes to center myself before the performance. It helped cool my head to remember that they were all there, rooting for me. Some performers saw the audience as judgmental, waiting for any mistake, but I knew all they wanted was to be wooed by the show.
I noticed one particular woman as soon as she walked into the main theatre, even from where I waited in the wings, listening to the ambient music the orchestra played as the audience took their seats and paged through the playbill.
Liliana Riva.
The youngest woman ever to play Salome at Teatro di San Carlo, a centuries-old, world-famous opera house in Italy. We were around the same age -- her only a few years older -- but in the last few years I'd watched her skyrocket to a level of fame I could only hope to achieve by the peak of my career. I'd heard that she went to see any new Salome at the major European houses; seeing her in person, though, still surprised me. Thrilled me. Terrified me.
This was the only time I'd gotten a good look at her outside of a costume and not in a photograph. She was sitting front and center. Nearly black hair cascaded in precise ringlets to the middle of her chest. Her ample body, only a size or two smaller than mine, was cinched into a dress with a white corset and bustier for the top but a sleek black silk skirt all the way to the floor for the bottom. I couldn't stop myself from noticing how her breasts, slightly flushed under the hot lights, sat high and full in the boning of her top like a 19th-century madam.
Our eyes met, for a split second. Recognition flashed in hers and she offered me a small, intimate smile that I returned, heart racing. Once she was seated, I returned to the underbelly of the theatre to finish up makeup and costuming.
Soon after, when I stepped on the stage in the iconic plunging neckline dress, I didn't feel nervous.
Instead, calm filled me from my open lips down, spreading through my entire body.
For the next two hours, it was me, the stage -- and, of course, the severed prop head of John the Baptist. I'd warmed and soothed and stretched out my vocal cords and they served me well, lifting up into the arias and dropping into the depths.
The time came for the Dance of the Seven Veils, the part of the piece every Salome was most nervous about every night. It relied not on the soaring highs and lows of the demanding Strauss soprano but on the body, the eyes, and the unexplainable connection with the audience. Even engaging only with the other performers on stage, the audience had to feel my presence just as intimately.
As the dance unfolded, I surrendered myself to the character's essence. The movements were deliberate yet fluid, careful yet explorative, sensual yet innocent. Every step, every twist of my body, was a brushstroke on the canvas of the narrative, a stroke of vulnerability and seduction that captivated the audience's attention.
The moments of stillness were as powerful as dance. In those moments, the air held its breath, the silence echoing with the collective heartbeat of the audience. The intensity was a testament to the character's allure, her power to captivate and unsettle, to draw the audience into her world. My power.
The final act approached, and I stepped onto the stage once more, feeling the weight of the performance's climax settle around me like a velvet curtain. The music swelled, the emotions soared, and I channeled every ounce of passion, every layer of vulnerability, into my voice and movements. The regret, the loss, the self-reflection. As the narrative reached its poignant conclusion, I could sense the audience's emotional investment, their collective breath held in suspense.
