Indescribably close to life

How meager descriptive language can sometimes seem. How quickly one reaches one’s limits when trying, for example, to describe the special, unique, moving nature of a musical experience. How little words can then capture what takes place in a space between the artist and the audience. No wonder music criticism has always grappled with this phenomenon. A symphony may be “spectacular,” a recital “gripping,” a sonata “moving.” But how does one pinpoint what the magic really was? Why a moment of brilliance occurred? Why one had to swallow hard after the aria?

When, for example, Asmik Grigorian takes the stage as Manon Lescaut and sings the great “Sola, perduta, abbandonata” aria: How can one describe the nuance of the gaze with which she looks at the glittering jewelry—disdainfully, yet scrutinizingly? How can one comment on the film that plays out before her inner eye? There, something is revealed that one can only experience firsthand to do justice to the richness of the moment. An entire life story is condensed and brought to light: What Manon Lescaut was and is, what she hoped she could be or never wanted to be—you sense it. And not just through the music. Nor through the acting. But through this unique, unique blend, delivered by the singer with a breathtaking stage presence. Or take her Tatiana in *Eugene Onegin*: One could spend a great deal of time trying to fathom the transformation of the character, which Grigorian shapes so vividly. What begins with a lonely Tatiana, lost in her books, ends with an exceedingly composed princess, who knows how to preserve her public image, yet whose inner turmoil remains palpable.

You can feel Tatjana’s sleepless nights; you can feel her doubts, her convictions, her wavering, her love, her suffering. A biography in three hours—condensed and powerful. And once again: You have to experience this Tatjana for yourself, because it cannot be put into words. Just as the description of Grigorian’s vocal techniques and their use reaches the natural limits of language. Time and again, in such situations, one therefore resorts to the device of functional poetry. For example, a Guardian critic once described her singing in roughly these terms: “Her full-bodied, velvet-clad vocal steel shines with the necessary sharpness to cut through everything a Rachmaninoffpiano part has to offer at full throttle.” Still, a good approximation of a phenomenon!

But let’s rewind briefly. How else could the career of the stage animal Grigorian—and she is one of those personalities who truly deserves this title —begin anywhere other than on stage? Namely, even as a baby still in her mother’s womb. A singer, by the way. This also includes having a singer for a father and growing up in theater circles. Something like that can shape a person, but above all: inspire them. Now, once significant careers have reached great heights, are easy to recount in a straightforward manner and therefore often sound simpler than they actually were.

Grigorian, too, had questions, uncertainties, and doubts. Later, in her shimmering, honest, and also ironic evening A Diva Is Born, she’ll talk about the difficulties she faced as a young singer, the crises she went through, and her journey of self-discovery. She deals with this, too, with the same blunt honesty she applies to so much else in her life. But she also mentions that she had people who gave her sound advice. She once recounted that Florian Boesch, with whom she is now sharing the stage again, had been one of her biggest supporters 15 years ago. “In 2011, during a production of Wozzeck, I shared the stage with Florian for the first—and so far only—time. But that one time was so important to me as an artist! I had tremendous self-doubt back then; I didn’t know if I was good enough, if I was on the right path, or if I should just stop singing altogether. Florian helped me get past that, giving me the feeling that I absolutely had to keep singing.”

The honesty that drives her, in turn, means that she doesn’t pretend—she doesn’t offer anything “as if.” “I am always Asmik and, at the same time, the singer Asmik Grigorian. These two simply belong together; they’ve developed side by side and are interconnected. I’ve never tried to protect myself by putting on a facade. I’m always myself. That’s something that’s perhaps unique and that defines the deep connection I share with my audience. Because the listeners understand and appreciate this honesty. No masks! “I think it takes more courage to show yourself as you are,” she said on the occasion of the State Opera’s premiere of Don Carlo.

“I am always myself,” however, also refers to her portrayal of roles—namely, that she is always the role, or conversely: the role is always her. What one sees is always the singer herself, revealing one aspect of her personality.

Not only does that sound honest, but it also immediately puts one on the trail of a therapeutic play theory. Yes, but is it really therapy when one goes through, suffers through, and sings through various, mostly tragic life stories? The answer came out like a bullet: “Of course! It’s always, always a form of therapy, too. And I believe that for me, this is one of my favorite aspects of my work: that in a single lifetime I get to traverse so many other destinies!”

Now, it’s one thing to captivate the audience. It’s quite another to be moved by the role herself—as she seems to be on stage—even while fully immersed in it. But is she really? Or is everything she shows just grand theater—artful acting that doesn’t, however, penetrate to her innermost being? “I have to be emotionally moved,” she clarifies. “But you can’t always be moved by the same story. So my feelings don’t necessarily stem from the story of the evening. When I sing Cio-Cio-San in Puccini’s Madama Butterfly for the hundredth time, that hundredth immersion in this story will not be the same as the first time. “That’s why I have to find my own personal pain each time, so that I can convey it appropriately.”

Conveying the message is, after all, her special art. Even during rehearsals, it’s exciting to watch the singer explore her role. She spontaneously grasps the situations in the scenes and immediately brings them to life with her acting. Suddenly she’s sitting there, legs drawn up, on the couch, on the floor. She storms up a flight of stairs. Looks pensive. And conveys big stories through small gestures. Where does all this come from? Take, for example, her expressive facial expressions, which have so much to tell. Did she practice them in front of the mirror? Does she, like the protagonist in Heinrich Böll’s centennial novel Views of a Clown, stare at her own face for hours on end as part of her training? None of that! “I think that’s the magic of genuine emotion,” says Grigorian. “When you feel something, the expression just comes naturally—you don’t have to think about it. It’s like crying: Nobody asks themselves what kind of facial expression they have then. If the emotion is real, the facial expression is real, too.”

What she certainly brings to the table, however, are two things: experience and empathy. These help the singer to sense the inner world of a stage character and make it her own. “In addition to life experience—and I’ve really accumulated a lot of it—it’s certainly also a matter of empathy. I can very quickly put myself in other people’s shoes. When I understand the situation someone is in, I immediately empathize with him or her. So it doesn’t take much effort for me to to empathize with someone else’s emotions, even if it’s not my own story.”

The soprano, who most recently caused a sensation as Carmen at the Salzburg Festival, has appeared on the stage of the State Opera just over 40 times to date. She has been heard as Elisabetta in Don Carlo, as the aforementioned Tatiana, Cio-Cio-San and Manon Lescaut, as Turandot, Jenůfa, and Nedda, as a concert singer, and also at this year’s season opening in the Burggarten. With the premieres of Eine Florentinische Tragödie and Bluebeard’s Castle, she is now adding two more works to her State Opera repertoire. Although she has already sung the role of Judith in Bluebeard’s Castle, that was a long time ago, and her memory of it has faded. And even if it’s not uncharted territory, it’s still new ground, since “my body—but also the circumstances—have changed.”

If one were to say that Grigorian shines during rehearsals through the utmost concentration, intensity, and meticulous analysis, that would, at best, be a cliché. After all, that is precisely what is taken for granted in theater— that the matter is taken seriously, that the work is done with great intensity, and that one seeks to get to the heart of the work being presented. With all one’s strength, with all one’s devotion. And yet. Grigorian’s rehearsal process must be mentioned here, simply because it elevates this (self-)exploratory work to a level of its own. Just a moment ago, during a break, she was talking to the conductor’s musical assistant about his colorful shoes, and now she’s already at 300 percent, focusing all her energy on the stage character entrusted to her. Immersion, penetration, devotion —once again, words aren’t strong enough to truly capture Grigorian’s dedication. And despite her exhaustion after a rehearsal, she still knows how to draw strength from the intensive work. Simply learning the role, she says, is the most exhausting part. Once the part is under control and it’s time to fine-tune the scenes, that’s when true creativity kicks in—and it gives her a lot of energy in return.

Part of their creative process also involves taking individual, standard interview questions from the specific to the fundamental. For example, she answers the question about the loneliness of Judith, the character she plays, with a general exploration of the topic. “I believe,” she says, “that the meaning of life on earth lies in this: that we all come here alone and we all leave again alone. And the attempt to understand one another somehow, to be connected to one another—that’s the beauty of learning in this world.” Is that also why we like to go to the theater? To seek connections? “I think so. I think it’s about seeking connection—with others, but also with ourselves. Through other people’s feelings and experiences, we often feel less lonely and are more connected to them, but also with ourselves.”

One last time on the topic of character portrayal—the “I am always me,” not acting, but simply being. After a performance, does the theater remain within the theater? All the Salomes, Judiths, Carmens, Tatjanas—can she detach herself from them? No, because she isn’t playing a role—she is the character. “Since I’m always myself, I never truly detach myself from a character or immerse myself in her. Instead, they all live on inside me. ‘Just like,’ she adds with a laugh, ‘Bluebeard’s wives.’”