Opera Memory: Ann Shaw
by Syd
My family loved to tell of the event, which launched my determination to be a part of the Central City Opera Company, and so I remember it as if it had happened yesterday. My father, mother and I traveled from our small hometown (Wilsonville, NE.) in our!!! New!! 1936 FORD to visit my uncle, Madison Shaw and my aunt, Eldred Shaw who were living in Central City. I had just turned six and had been smitten by the theatre at age five when I won first prize (a silver dollar) singing “I’ll Never Say “Never Again” Again in the annual Amateur Contest held in Wilsonville’s Rainbow Opera House. I looked forward to seeing what was happening in the Central City Opera House.
My uncle had arranged for my mother and aunt to attend an evening performance of The Gondoliers at the Opera House and had tickets for my Daddy to take me to a puppet play in a ramshackle building down at the end of Eureka Street. I stated my wish to go to the “show” at the Opera House. My elders reasoned with me saying it was a show for grownups and the people in it would be walking around the stage wearing long robes and gold crowns and singing in very loud voices AND after the puppet show, your Daddy will take you to a café for ice cream.” I knew a scam when I heard it and declared I had ALWAYS wanted to see living people walking around in robes and crowns and to hear LOUD singing. I lost the argument. Daddy took me to the puppet show, the backstage area caught fire, the audience was hustled onto the street, and the café didn’t even have chocolate ice cream.
The next afternoon my uncle escorted us up Eureka Street to the stage door of the opera house to meet his friend Frank (Pancho) Gates, assistant to the great theatre designer Robert Edmond Jones who had joined the MacFarlances and Anne Evans in restoring the Central City Opera House and imbuing it with new life. A big man wearing work clothes came through the stage door. I am told I said, “Wow! You are a big fella! Where’s your long robe and you gold crown?” He responded, “Well, Cookie…I didn’t know I was going to be meeting you! My uncle explained my disappointment. I do have a memory of responding: “That’s O.K. Someday I’m going to work in this opera house and hear as much loud singing and see as many gold crowns as I please!” Pancho replied, “Good for you, Cookie! Ask for Pancho when you get here. I’ll be glad to see you.”
From 1936-1952, except for the years of WWII, I visited my family in Central City for a week or so each summer, sometimes sneaking a listen to the operas at one of the side doors of the house, using my uncle’s ticket to a dress rehearsal, or splurging and buying a ticket. In 1953, I took the first step toward keeping my 1935 vow, walking boldly past the backstage doorman, Billy Hamilton, with a casual, “I’m here to see Pancho.” Billy pointed the way with his cane.
And there he was, “the big fella” himself! I reminded him of our 1936 exchange, and asked, “Where do I apply for that job?” Pancho asked, “What’s your specialty?” I replied, “acting and costuming.” He responded, “No actors needed but a head of costumes was another matter. Go talk to that bald guy standing over there in the wings. That’s Bob Brown, the General Manager.” I did and was astonished when Mr. Brown said, “Have dinner with me tonight at the Teller House and we’ll talk about it.” It seems the wardrobe lady, once the alterations were completed and the dress rehearsals over, had declared she was tired of this “opera stuff” and her hours would change to 8 AM-1 PM. She would do ironing and repairs only and go home. She didn’t like sweaty bodies, half naked people, or that terrible, loud music. Bob asked some questions about my experience. It included a good deal of work in the theatre at Colorado Woman’s College and much more work as a theatre major at Northwestern University as well as costuming several productions for a theatre in Evanston. Bob offered me the job starting the next day! Unfortunately, I had a summer commitment. He nearly wept. “Contact me in December about the 1964 season.” I did so and was hired. Incidentally, I was not a union member. The other production areas were unionized but the men accepted me because no Wardrobe Union card holder in Denver wanted to work “as hard as you have to in Central City and drive those roads back and forth to Central City six days a week.” Their loss was my gain.
I had made a vow to work at the opera in 1936 and had chosen to make the history and restoration of the Central City Opera House the subject of a research project at Colorado Woman’s College in 1949. I kept my vow in 1954. Shouldering major responsibilities and working twelve hour days six days a week plus another four hours or so on “dark Monday,” living in a small room in the Teller House which was lighted by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling and had all the amenities of an antique washbasin and pitcher, and an ancient W.C. and old bathtub down the hall for a pittance pay each week me question my sanity at times but the minuses were outweighed by the pluses: the fragrance of the clear air, laughter and meals at the Teller House, “liquid sunshine” as the sun struck the raindrops and lighted the mountains in the afternoon, the starry night skies, picnics and panning for gold, parties in lovely homes, the sound of those wonderful voices singing opera, and grand friendships forged and cherished.
Except for 1955 when the D’Oyly Carte Company brought its own large wardrobe staff and I took on the job as Box Office Manager for what became a sold-out season, I was Head of Wardrobe (Costume Mistress) with a tiny staff for eleven seasons through 1965 and had the great pleasure of working with many of the best singers, conductors, designers, stage directors, and production crews in North America AND I got to play walk-on roles in several opera!!
Once an opera opens, two of the primary responsibilities of a Wardrobe Department are 1) Keeping costumes clean, aired, and pressed and 2) Keeping costumes in repair. Re: 1) Dry cleaning/laundry service didn’t exist in Central City and 24-hour service wasn’t available in Denver until the early ‘60s. As I recall, it wasn’t washtubs in the Costume Room. Talk about “washday hands!” Management did, however, agree to purchasing a steam iron in 1956. The old “steamless” iron served as back-up. (All appliances were understood to be solely for wardrobe use.)
1957 Anecdote: When leaving the theatre, my assistant and I were very careful to close and lock the windows and the costume room door as the backstage door was often left unlocked. We had to discourage members of the company from “borrowing” items and guard against tourist seeking souvenirs. One day we hurried back from a working lunch. Shirts needed to be ironed for the matinee, shoes polished. One of the windows of the costume room was open! We were certain we had closed and locked it. We entered the dressing-room wing of the theatre. The costume room door was ajar! We knew we had locked it! We entered. THE IRONING BOARD AND IRON WERE ALWAYS SET UP FOR USE JUST INSIDE THE DOOR! THEY WERE GONE! It was clear. Someone had forced open the window, filched the ironing board and steam iron, opened the snap lock on the door and fled. We ran outside to look for evidence in the garden bed below the window. Ah! Ha! The thief’s large footprints were detected under the window and a plant was crushed. Obviously the thief was a big man! We looked toward the street. Here came THE BIG THEIF LUGGING THE IRONING BOARD AND FOLLOWED BY A BREATHLESS SMALL CHILD WHO WAS CLUTCHING A STEAM IRON BY IT’S HANDLE. HE was the great baritone Cornell MacNeil, one of our Rigolettos in the 1957 season. SHE was his little daughter Mary who loved to run away from home and visit the costume room. (That’s another story!)
It seems Mac’s wife had gone to a Laundromat in Idaho Springs with over a week of laundry for their family. On her return, she discovered both the iron and ironing board in the house assigned to them broken. Mac said, “She went berserk and started shouting that my shirt and her outfit for the party tonight HAD TO BE IRONE! I came here for help. The costume room was closed. I figured you were gone for that production meeting and lunch. Though, I could get this equipment back before you needed it.” He apologized and said. “I’ll fix the lock on the window.” I told him I would ask one of the stagehands to repair it. I could sympathize with his wife and knew she must still have lots of clothes to iron for the kids. So I offered him the “non steam iron” to use for the afternoon. (Mac was sure he could improvise an ironing board.) The theft set me thinking that Wardrobe needed a back-up steam iron in the event we lost or broke the one we had. The next day I talked Bob Brown into buying a second steam iron and making the one I lent Mac a “loaner iron” for the opera company. It was frequently borrowed and always returned in
The goal of Wardrobe is to discover the need for repairs well in advance of the next Performance. Singers were usually careful to draw our attention to repair needs. Nevertheless, there were almost always repair needs discovered in the last 20 minutes before curtain: “The clasp on my cape isn’t working.” “My suspender just broke.” “The feather on my hat has gone quirky.” “Help! My bustle has gone flat.”
In every cast, there was usually a singer or two- more often men than women- who frequently had repair emergencies at the last minute: buttons came loose, zippers stuck, shoe laces broke, collars, “felt funny,” etc. Joshua Hecht was one such singer. In the 1959 production of Ballad of Baby Doe, his pants split several times about eight minutes before curtain. I would ask: “What were you doing when your pants split this time?” His usual response was: “Just warming up.” I assumed he meant “warming up” his voice, vocal exercises many singers do before going on stage, but without damage to their costumes. I mentioned it to one of the stagehands. He laughed and said: “Oh, Hecht isn’t warming up his voice, he’s warming up with the Saloon girls who do high kicks, squats, and stretches backstage about ten minutes before curtain. I warned Josh that the fabric in his pants was wearing thin from all the repairs and he had better forego the exercises. Five minutes before curtain at his next performance, he rushed into the costume rooms yelling, “My pants split again!” I sent him to the little dressing room in the costume room to strip off his pants, threw them to my assistant, Ginny DeChaine, who was sitting at the sewing machine waiting for last minute emergencies and told her to work her magic. She quickly stitched a patch into them. I threw them back to Josh. He pulled the pants on and ran for the stage. When the scene ended, Josh returned to the costume room and said: “These pants feel strange! They are real stiff and they crackle when I move!” I asked him to change into his next costume and bring the “crackle pants” back to us. He did so. We found the opera program Ginny had been reading at the sewing machine had been sewn inside the crotch of his pants when she made the repair! Ginny swore it was unintentional. Josh ceased “ warm up dancing.”
Two blockbuster operas were selected for the 1960 season: Verdi’s Aida and Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermor, both grand in scale. The productions astonished Central City audiences with the magnificent scenic designs of Robert O’Hearn, the outstanding stage director of Nathaniel Merrill, and the great artistry of Beverly Sills as Aida and Judith Raskin as Lucia. As always Maestro Emerson Buckley reigned over all and inspired/threatened everyone into meeting his high standards/
Three anecdotes from this season are well worth telling:
1) A number of ushers were hired as “extras” to argument the size of the crowd scenes in both operas. They would race from their tour duties to the men’s dressing room and, depending upon the opera, would throw a kilt (Lucia) or the garb of a gladiator or prisoner (Aida) and dash to the stage. I made tow interceptions, one of a kilted Scotsman headed for the triumphal scene in Aida, the other of a scruffy prisoner headed for the Great Hall of the Lammermor’s, the setting of The Mad Scene. The very sight of him would have driven Maestro Buckley mad! Somehow we managed to correct the errors and each breathless usher arrived on stage in proper attire.
2) Judith Raskin’s Mad Scene in Act 3 of Lucia was both heart rendering and frightening. Nat Merrill built on Judy’s marvelous acting ability and asked her to wheel on a group of the wedding guest made up primarily of chorus members and ushers and “Convince them you are mad.” Well she convinced them! In the final dress rehearsal the action was so compelling the wedding guest scattered-some knocking into others, some fleeing the stage. After the Act 3 curtain, Maestro Buckley shouted the company together and threatened them with dire consequences if they ever again re-staged a scene or left the stage before directed to do so. One of the veteran chorus men told me he was never able to overcome the pity he felt for Lucia as Judy portrayed her and always fought back tears.
3) Much to her surprise, Beverly Sills was cast as Aida. In the New York City auditions for the season, Maestro Buckley asked her to sing arias from both operas. As it was known Donizetti was one of her favorite bel canto composers, she assumed the contract she received was for Lucia, signed it, and mailed it back to Buck. A short time later she received a score of Aida. Beverly called Buck and laughing (and Beverly Sills has an infectious laugh) told Buck he had sent her the wrong score that she was singing Lucia not Aida. Buck informed her that her hired her to sing Aida, that he was holding her signed contract in his hand and he expected her to honor it. Beverly honored the contract and performed the role brilliantly despite three major challenges, all related to costume, hair and makeup.
Aida’s costume for Acts I, III, IV was a pale blue-green chiffon gown with fortuna pleating from neck bone to ankle and a narrow cinch at the waist. At that time, Beverly wore a size 16 at most and had a size 12 waist. Fortuna pleating may have flattered Nefertiti but it would make a modern day Twiggy look like a hot air balloon. I called costume designer Bob O’Haern in for a consultation. He agreed it was very unattractive. There was not time to design and build a new costume. What to do? None of the chorus costumes were long enough for her. Beverly came to the rescue. She remembered her Mother (Shirley) had made her a concert gown, which, if she still had it, could be made to work. Quick to the backstage pay telephone. Shirley still had the dress. Yes, she would send it the fastest way possible to the Denver office. A member of the staff drove it up the mountain to Central City. The gown fit and looked fine. O’Heran’s Act II costume looked terrific on Beverly). Then the wig arrived from New York City. It looked dreadful. Nothing better could be found in Denver. Beverly volunteered to use a black hair rinse before each performance and wash it out afterward—a net trick in a small washbasin! A rather dark makeup was necessary to make her pass for Ethiopian. She agrees to use if on her face, neck, arms and hand…”But not on my legs or feet!!!” I explained that as she was fair skinned and would be wearing sandals, the eyes of the audience would be drawn to her white feet. “NO!” Buckley asked me to persuade her to darken her feet. I tried. “NO!” I offered to put the makeup on her feet and the lower part of her legs and wash it off for her at the end of the performance. “!NO!!!” Beverly Sills was an excellent colleague: hard working, high standards, delicious sense of humor and she had solved the costume and wig problem. Her friendship was more important than her foot color. End of subject!
On closing night of Aida, I helped Beverly into the lovely costume Bob O’ Hearn had designed for the Act 2 Triumphal Scene, checked on the other principal singers and the chorus and returned to the costume room. As the Stage Manager called, “Five minutes, please!” the costume room door opened and Beverly entered. She thanked me for my help throughout the season and for the good times we had shared, then lifted her skirt and said, “Mimi, JUST FOR YOU!” She had darkened her feet and legs!
