Beverly

Thinking tonight of those singing divas I used to love. Many years ago I was a subscriber to the New York City Opera. I preferred that opera to its next door neighbor, the Met, because it was a company of the people. I’d become an opera fan in college when my good friend Stephen took me to see a City production of Mephistopheles. He thought an opera about Beelzebub was just what I needed to turn me into a fan. Although my father had played opera in the house all through my childhood I never got beyond thinking it was just so much noise. But when I saw Samuel Ramey sing Boito’s devil I was completely entranced.

One of the things that made me such a fan during those years was Beverly Sills. I began my dedicated opera going during her final years as a member of the company. I saw her sing many roles, including Gian Carlo Menotti’s Juana la Loca. Juana was a mediocre opera made far more popular by the fact that it was written for Sills. She sang its debut and I can’t imagine that it’s been performed much since. She made what felt like an unfinished composition sound like a triumph at La Scala.

What I loved about the City was that you could find enormous stars on the boards singing beside the company. What I loved about the City was that their schedule was robust and had a wide rotation. What I loved most about the City was that I could see stars like Sills and Ramey almost whenever I wanted to. They sang often. And, although Sills was wrapping up her career, they sang beautifully. Like angels.

In 1979 Sills became the sole director of the New York City Opera. The original plan was for her to share that role with the former director, Julius Rudel. But when Rudel suddenly resigned Sills took on the role solo. There was much consternation at the time. Bubbles, as she was known in the opera world, had little administrative experience. And running an opera company seemed a big job for a poor little soprano. But Sills rose to the challenge and made the company really feel like New York’s opera.

My fondest opera memory came one night when Sills was firmly ensconced as director. I can’t even remember the production, but I remember clearly Sills’s part that night. Before the overture began, while the houselights were still up, she appeared before the curtain. The spotlight illuminated her wonderful red hair and the house went silent as she stood waiting for her moment to speak. The star of the production was ill, Sills explained, and we would have to hear an understudy. It was disappointing, but singing opera is demanding and, although stars don’t often find themselves unable to sing, it does happen.

But that wasn’t all.

The understudy had a terrible case of laryngitis. She could not go on either. The audience groaned. What now? What could Bubbles possibly pull out of her hat to fix this? “So…” she continued, a principal from the company had quickly learned the role that afternoon. She would sing from the orchestra pit, while the voiceless understudy acted the role onstage. What an inventive solution, gasped the audience. How will this work, we all asked ourselves.

Sills was asking herself the same question and, with not totally fake exasperation, she explained that such was the life of an opera director, always having to come up with inventive solutions to unimaginable problems. And then she made her fingers into a little gun and shot herself in the head.

It was an adorable and endearing gesture that, once again, forever linked her with her audience. We were exasperated, but none of us more than our poor Beverly who was trying to give us the best. She stood with us, wanting to hear astounding opera. We knew she would never let us down.