01/07/2000

Anyone Can Sing!

By Beth Bruno's daughter, Nikki Bruno

Take a huge, slow breath; feel your lower abdomen fill out, your lungs swell, your sternum rise, your shoulders roll back from the extra space. Now, keep your weight in your feet, pretend you're an elephant, and speak the sound, "Aaaaahhhh," until you run out of breath. Take another breath and speak the same syllable on a slightly higher pitch with some inflection.

You are singing.

A ham from the get-go, I have sung through many phases of stage fright. After years of ensemble and solo performances, the nervousness still has not gone away completely. I wonder how old I was when I first learned the difference between singing and performing, expression and communication. If only I could convey in public the same joy I derive from singing myself to sleep or becoming enveloped in a chord while surrounded by hundreds of singers. In part this is my goal, and it drives me to perform. But I know in my heart that broadcasting is not at the core of why I open my mouth to sing. I am the tree falling in the forest; even if no one else hears me, I still sing.

My friend Julie makes art -- paintings, drawings, sculpture, greeting cards. Even the simple yet functional plank shelves she constructed for her college dorm room sprung from an artistic impulse. Julie taught me about art: its theory, through her course readings; its practice, through our trips to galleries in New York; its spiritual basis, through her discipline and faith as she created magic.

I told Julie many times how I'd always thought I couldn't draw, that I'm incompetent when it comes to any kind of visual art. Music is my biz. Julie didn't believe me, and instead encouraged me to take an introductory drawing course. "You've got a great eye for art," she said. I reacted the same way Julie often did when I complimented her on her singing voice. "Could I have an undiscovered talent?" I wondered.

Julie and I became artist companions. Spring of senior year my first drawings hung on display in the visual and performing arts building, and I was proud. As we walked around campus to and from dinner, Julie joined in with long-memorized lyrics as I hummed through a tune from my a cappella group's repertoire. What's funny is that I still complain of my lack of artistic talent, my tendency to ruin stick figures, my inferior spatial intelligence. I have not yet internalized my own lesson: what you "can" do ends up being a function of what you have done. "Haven't" or "don't like to" translate into "can't." I limit myself.

For all you closet singers out there, please hear me: the human voice is a celebration. Your vocal chords, diaphragm, tongue, lips, mouth, are the model for all instruments. We are the living instruments who deny ourselves music when we stay silent. Think of how often you've let it loose in the car when your favorite song comes on. Remember when you belted "Frosty the Snowman" as you romped in winter through your childhood? So turn off the Divas Live performance on MTV, get back in your car and sing out strong! And for my part, I will put a new pencil to paper and draw.

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.