Character Work

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.

And then, with the final note, the music subsided, and a hushed silence filled the theater. The moment hung in the air, a suspended breath that bridged the gap between the stage and the seats. And then, as if on cue, the applause erupted like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. The audience rose to their feet, their appreciation a symphony that reverberated.

We took our bows, mine final. The spotlight embraced me once more, its warm glow a testament to the journey I had undertaken on this stage. The beginning of a new journey. As the curtain fell and the lights dimmed, I stepped off the stage, the echoes of the applause still resonating in my ears. The backstage area welcomed me back with its familiar hustle and bustle. I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, a reminder of the intensity of the performance that had just concluded.

Walking down the corridor, I found my way back to the costuming and hair department, where they carefully removed my wig and final, faux-blood-stained gown. Back down to my makeup and slip, I walked to my dressing room to get ready to return home for the few hours of rest I'd have before starting it all over again tomorrow.

The door closed behind me, enveloping me in a soft blanket of solitude. A few bouquets of flowers, already transferred into vases by doting assistants, sat on top of my vanity. I smiled and took in their subtle perfume. I unfolded the notes with them -- the director, of course, and my parents, sent through a local shop. One without a note.

As I began the process of shedding the layers of costume and makeup, a sense of quiet satisfaction settled within me. The performance had ended, but its impact lingered. The dressing room, once filled with preparation and anticipation, now held a sense of closure and restfulness.

There was a knock at the door; the director popped his head around. "Darling, you were everything tonight. This is going to be the show of the season." Before I could say thank you, he added, "Liliana Riva is here to see you. I thought you two should meet before she leaves Paris in the morning, so I brought her right down. Is that alright?"

I tried not to reveal too much of my excitement. "Yes, yes, of course."

He opened the door wider and she stepped through. Up close and personal, she was as beautiful as any character she'd played from the distance of the stage. She was Italian through and through with hooded hazel eyes, a commanding nose, and full lips. Her skin was vacation tan and dewy. My mind drifted to how soft it would feel under my fingers.

Jesus, Esther.

It had been a while.

I chastised myself and offered Liliana a demure hand. "It's an honor to meet you. Really."

She kissed my hand. "You were a revelation out there, I swear. Even your low 'G' had this power; I always struggle with that note."

"We all do," I chuckled. "Thank you. I so appreciate you coming by to see the show."

"To see you," she corrected, her eyes carrying a spark I didn't want to let myself recognize. "Once I heard you were relocating to Europe, I promised I'd come to see whatever your first role ended up being. It's just a perk that it's Salome."

Blush rose in my cheeks and I was thankful for the dressing room's dim lights. "Someday I'll return the favor."

Liliana raised her hand with a charitable laugh. "Italy is overrated."

"I'll have to see for myself."

We both paused for a minute. There was a palpable tension between us, one that I couldn't deny. We were both gay -- not all that unusual in opera these days, despite the suave heroes and delicate damsels -- and an intimacy came from knowing the same roles, the same career, the same types of challenges.

After a moment of not making eye contact, Liliana asked, "Would you want to get a drink with me? Maybe a late dinner? We should get to know each other and I've only got one night left here in Paris."

I grinned. "I'm famished."

"Good." She let out a laugh that sounded almost nervous. "I'll meet you outside in a few minutes?"

I nodded. She ducked out of the dressing room and I hastily peeled off the last of my clothes so I could change into my streetwear. Typically I went right home after shows, but I figured opening night warranted a tiny bit of celebrating. It was the height of summer, so I only wore a pair of bike shorts, a cropped black tee, and a pair of worn sandals that came with me everywhere.

Liliana must've brought a change of clothes, too, because she was dressed in a different outfit when I met her outside the back door. She'd tied up her dark hair into a high bun, leaving a few pieces out that framed her round cheeks. Wearing a plain white tee-shirt dress, she was even more stunning than in her opera gown. The simplicity highlighted the natural curves of her body and face, letting her be the star instead of her clothes.

We started walking and she said, "I thought just go to the bar in my hotel, if that's alright with you -- just over the street. Not that you'll be drinking anyway, I assume."

"Definitely not." I laughed as she steered us toward one of the old downtown hotels. "I've been on the lukewarm water and decaf honey tea regimen for months."

"I'm not looking forward to that when my season starts back up in the fall. Trust me, missing out on the wine in Italy is a shame."

I put a hand to my forehead like a fainting maiden. "The sacrifices we make for our art."

After strolling through a few streets, we reached her hotel and tucked into the ornate marble lobby. We found the bar ridiculously crowded, loud and hot and busy. It was a weekend in the most romantic city in the world, after all. Tourists, locals, and businessmen alike flocked together to share bread and cheese and wine.

Liliana touched my forearm to get my attention over the noise. "Want to come up instead? We can get room service."

I paused for a second. The bar was busy, yes, but there were open seats. And beyond the bar, the lobby had plenty of places to sit and talk. But she was inviting me up to her room anyway.

"Sounds perfect," I replied before I could let myself read too much into things. "Quiet is good."

She agreed, "Can't have you straining your voice opening week."

The elevator ride up to Liliana's hotel suite was swollen with a charged silence, an unspoken connection that lingered between us. We shared the elevator with a couple who seemed lost in their own world of whispered endearments and stolen glances as they touched and kissed each other without any shame or abandon.

Inside her hotel room, we kicked off our shoes. I left mine by the door. She had a nice-sized suite with a king bedroom, large bathroom, and a small sitting room. Clearly, she'd been staying here a few weeks, her clothes strewn around and her makeup spread over the bathroom vanity.

"Make yourself at home," she called over her shoulder as she stepped into the bathroom.

I sat down on the bed and paged through the room service menu. When she came back to the main room, she'd lost the bra underneath her dress and taken her makeup off. I tried not to stare at her pert nipples, even as I caught her glancing at my cleavage more than once.

For room service, we got a platter of fresh summer fruits, nuts, and a few spreads. Liliana and I sat across from each other on the king-sized bed, legs crossed, the tray between us. She had a glass of overpriced red wine, which she sipped slowly, savoring it.

As we ate, Liliana spoke of her upbringing in a small Italian town, her voice carrying a mix of nostalgia and affection as she recounted the scent of olive trees and the sound of distant church bells. She shared stories of late nights with her grandparents, listening to them sing folk songs that had been passed down through generations.

In turn, I shared my journey from a little town in the United States, my early exposure to music through my parents' eclectic record collection, and the first time I had set foot on a stage, feeling the rush of adrenaline and the sense of purpose that had ignited a lifelong passion. Our experiences were different yet strangely parallel.

The conversation veered from our careers to our personal lives, laughter punctuating our stories of quirky family dynamics and moments of vulnerability. We talked about our favorite books, the places we longed to visit, and the simple pleasures that brought us joy -- the way the first sip of coffee felt in the morning after weeks without it, the smell of rain-soaked earth after a long, the way music had the power to transport us to different emotional landscapes.

After half an hour of talking, the conversation drifted back to Salome, and she was finally comfortable enough to give me honesty -- a gift all performers secretly craved.

"You really were divine, Esther. You're already Violetta with that range of yours." She took another sip of her wine and carefully -- but with a subtle confidence -- added, "The only thing you were missing was honesty."

Our hands touched as we reached for the same strawberry. She caught my fingers in hers and kissed them. I asked, even though I knew, "What do you mean?"

"Well, you're gay, right? And you know I am, too."

Her words held a mix of challenge and invitation. I nodded.

She tipped her glass in my direction, her eyes bright and flirtatious. "I could tell you were still thinking of John the Baptist as a man. You need to think of him as a woman."

"Is that what you do?"

"Always."

"Any particular woman?"

Liliana held out a piece of honeydew melon between her thumb and forefinger. Almost instinctively, my lips parted. We watched each other's expression carefully as she touched the fruit to my lower lip and pressed it into my tongue.

"Usually, no." Her voice was a whisper, a secret shared between us. Our eyes remained fixed on each other, a silent understanding passing between us. She took a deep breath and said, "But I might think of you next time." Our eyes met. Hers burned. "If that would be okay with you, of course."

"Maybe." My heart pounded as I swallowed the tart, soft fruit. "But you'd have to prove that thinking of me would make your performance more authentic."

Liliana pushed the half-eaten platter of food away, setting it on the bedside table. She crawled toward me on hands and knees, stopping with our faces two inches apart. There was a single moment of hesitation where her eyes were on mine and my eyes were on her everything. Then I kissed her or she kissed me. No matter who moved first, our lips began to move together. Her lips tasted strawberry tart and, deeper than that, like the fine red wine she'd been sipping, the remainder of the glass abandoned on the table now.