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12月19日 Sample Speech for ClassCOPY RIGHT 2007, CHEN XING
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
How pilgrims felt when they set out to pay homage to their holy land I do not know. But I fancy it should be somewhat similar to mine when I stepped onto my flight, excited, exhilarated, exalted, knowing that I was only 10 hours’ away from my wildest childhood fantasy: London.
For an ardent lover of English literature like me, London is one of the places that one has visited over and over again through the pages until the urge to be there in person is insuppressible. I longed to explore the dark winding alleyways where my favorite detective might have hurried along in hot pursuit of some deadly criminals, or stroll in one of the royal parks where my favorite hero and heroine might have walked hand in hand, or visit the famous museums and galleries where my favorite writers might have gone to seek inspiration. London showed generous hospitality to me. It did not rain a drop for three days straight when I was there. On a particularly fine morning, armed with a map, I set out in the glorious sunshine to make my dreams come true. I had planned enthusiastically on the plane that I would spend my first night in London following Sherlock Holmes’s footsteps in the dim alleyways. But alas, being alone and realizing that I was far far away from home made me wary of the dark. So instead, I explored through the alleys in broad daylight. When I finally emerged out of them, I found myself facing the obscure little gate of a beautiful verdant park. Green Park it is by name. And so it is green and full of life. This park has trees and open space, sunshine and shade—a most charming park. It is not large, but exquisite. A five-minute stroll across the park brought me to its magnificent front gate. Stepping out of it, my eyes were suddenly dazzled by red and white and gold. Buckingham Palace stood solemn and stately in front of me. This is, of course, where the royal family resides. But it is not closed to public. If you have the money (₤14) and the time, you can very well go into the rooms to see the pomp and circumstances of royal life. And if one is lucky, one might be on time for the famous Changing of the Guard, when tourists get to gape at the bright red uniforms and bearskin hats of shouting and marching soldiers. But mind you, it can get awfully crowded out there. Unless you are there early to find yourself a good position, or you are exceptionally tall for a person, you won’t see much except for the heads of the other tourists blocking your view. When I was there I had neither money nor luck, so I hurried on into the famous St. James’s Park. This is generally acknowledged as the most pleasant of London’s royal parks. What impressed me was the harmonious coexistence of man and nature in this park. The scenery is astoundingly beautiful with large lake and waterfalls, green trees and smooth lawns, busy bees and dancing butterflies. You will find up a tree squirrels gaping at the peanuts you are holding, around the bench pigeons strolling lazily past you, and in the lakes swans swim gracefully on, occasionally bestowing on you one of their elegant glances. You can spend a whole day here reading, breathing and feeling the serenity. But I had other wishes to grant myself. So I took a deep breath of the sweetly scented air, waved my hands at the squirrels, and hastened on. My next destination was Westminster Abbey—or to be exact, the Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, where many of England’s finest writers are buried and commemorated. Maybe it was the numerous confusing steps and chapels, or the quiet, dark, cold, and solemn interior of the abbey, or the countless tombs and sculptures of kings and queens lying serenely on their deathbeds, or maybe it was because of them all that I felt strange and uncomfortable, shaken and overpowered. Confused, I never did find out where my favorite poet Wordsworth was buried. Getting out of the eerie Abbey into glorious sunshine was a most gratifying experience. Warmed by the sun, I walked steadily on, secretly determined to visit the Abbey some time in the future—preferably with a companion. I went down Parliament Street, passing government buildings, statues, monuments and other historical bits and pieces. At the end of the street, looking up, I was awed by the towering figure of Nelson standing high on a column against the background of a piece of cloud. I knew that I was approaching Trafalgar Square. A dancing fountain and hundreds of pigeons greeted me as I stepped into the square. Nelson looked down from that 52-meter column of his. Nelson’s Column has stood in the center of the square since 1843 and commemorates the admiral’s victory over Napoleon off Cape Trafalgar in Spain in 1805. Many visitors, however, seem less interested in this history than clambering on the backs of the lions at Nelson’s feet. I ended my days’ travel in the National Gallery, the largest of its kind in the world with more than 2000 European paintings on display. The shear number of the exhibits made my head dizzy while they themselves took my breath away. I hardly know how to describe my feelings when I found myself face to face with masterpieces that previously I only had had chance to admire in books. Raphael, Gainsborough, Constable, da Vinci, Monet, Holbein…they were all there, alive through the canvas and the strokes. For one who is interested in western history, London is grand palaces, great halls, and magnificent museums. For one who has an eye for art, London is gallery after gallery of masterpieces in western civilization. For one who grew up reading Charles Dickens, London is miserable winding alleyways and shabby ramshackle houses. For one who spends his time turning over the pages of Vanity Fair, London is a great market place glittering with exotic luxuries and the splendor and grandeurs of the old empire. For one who daydreams in the world of Jane Austen, London is a young girl’s heart’s desire, where she gets to step out of her mediocre county existence to see fashion and the world. For someone like me who falls into all the above mentioned categories, London is a mystery, a light, and a constant yearning.
12月15日 Chen Xing's New CrushNew Idol: Jose Carreras~~
 OK, I admit I am more enchanted by his looks, manners , and spirit than I do his voice. In regards to singing, I still stick to Fritz Wunderlich.
But his voice is fine with me. Although he is not a Mozartian tenor (he has never ever sung a Mozart role), he is not entirely a Wagnarian tenor either (thank God..I cannot stand Wagnarian tenors--they are canons, not human beings).
Here is a brief biography.
In 1972, Ovation magazine described the voice of a young man making his debut as Pinkerton in Madama Butterfly at the New York City Opera. It was "a honeyed lyric tenor, richly coloured, clear and true and possessing a sensual beauty that is quite extraordinary." The young man with the sensuously beautiful voice was Jose Carreras.
He was born on December 5, 1946 in Barcelona, the capital of Catalonia, a region of Spain with a unique cultural life and language. (Carreras’ true first name is Josep, the Catalan version of Jose) The youngest of Antonia Coll-Saigi and Josep Carreras-Soler’s three children, he has described his childhood as happy and completely carefree. This is quite a tribute to his parents, given the dire economic conditions in Spain during the years following that country’s Civil War. The family briefly emigrated to Argentina in 1951 in what proved to be an unsuccessful search for a better life, returning to Barcelona less than a year later. Carerras’ father, his teaching career ruined because he had fought on the Republican side during the Civil War, eventually had to take a job as a traffic policeman, and his mother opened a small hair-dressing shop.
It has been said of many great singers that they have an almost physical need to sing, a need that can express itself when they are very young. Carreras was no exception. As a child he truly loved to sing. He sang to the passengers on the steamship from Argentina back to Barcelona. He sang to the customers in his mother’s hair-dressing shop. And, after he came home from seeing Mario Lanza in The Great Caruso, he sang to his family all the arias that Lanza had sung in the film - especially la ‘Donna e Mobile’ which seemed to hold a special fascination for him. Whenever his family suggested that his constant singing, although impressive might just be starting to drive them crazy, the six year old happily locked himself in the bathroom and kept right on singing.
Fortunately for the world of opera (and for the other members of the Carreras family who were waiting to take their baths), his mother arranged for him to channel this seemingly boundless vocal energy. He started voice and piano lessons with Magda Prunera, the mother of one of his boyhood friends. and at eight he started attending the local music conservatory after school. At eight he also gave his first public performance, singing ‘La Donna e Mobile’ on Spanish National Radio. (A recording of this still exists and can be heard on the video biography, Jos?Carreras – A Life Story). At eleven, he was on the stage of Barcelona’s opera house, the Gran Teatro del Liceo, singing the boy soprano role of the narrator in de Falla’s El retablo de Maese Pedro. A few months later, he sang for the last time at the Liceo before his voice started to change. It was perhaps a bit of type casting for the boy who used to drop clothespins onto the heads of the hapless passers-by beneath Senora Prunera’s window. He played the naughty child in the second act of La Boheme who was dragged by the ear from the toy-seller’s cart crying "Vo’la tromba, il cavallin!" ("I want the trumpet and the little horse!")
By 18, the soprano voice of Carreras the boy had become the tenor voice of Carreras the man. He studied at first with Francisco Puig and later with Juan Ruax, whom he has described as his artistic father. It was Ruax who encouraged him to audition for what was to become his first tenor role at the Liceo, Flavio in Norma. This minor role had major consequences for his career. The beauty of the few phrases that he sang as Flavio was noticed not only by the critics but also by the great soprano in the title role, Montserrat Caballe. She asked that he sing Gennaro with her in Donizetti’s Lucrezia Borgia, his first principal adult role, and the one which he considers to be his ‘real’ debut as a tenor.
If Ruax was his artistic father, then Caballe was to become in many ways his artistic mother. She sang the title role in his London stage debut, a concert performance of Maria Stuarda, and the recordings (both commercial and ‘pirate’) of their artistic partnership went on to include over 15 different operas. The English critic, Alan Blyth saw the Maria Stuarda performance at the Royal Festival Hall. Carreras was only 25 at the time but Blyth recalls "It was one of those occasions when one immediately and instinctively recognises that one is in the presence of a new and very special talent. Not only was his a profoundly beautiful tenor, typically dark-hued in the Spanish vein, but its owner knew how to employ it to maximum advantage and, almost as important, had the vital, vivid presence of a born communicator."
Carreras went on to grow into what Lofti Mansouri, the Director of the San Francisco Opera has called "One of the most complete operatic stars that I have ever worked with...His musicianship, intelligence, dramatic ability, not to mention his gorgeous voice make him a total artist." What is perhaps quite unusual about Carreras’ career is that by the age of 28, when many opera singers are just starting to make their mark, he had already sung the tenor lead in 24 different operas in both Europe and North America and had made his debut at the world’s four great opera houses - the Vienna Staatsoper in 1974, as the Duke of Mantua in Rigoletto; London’s Royal Opera House in 1974, as Alfredo in La Traviata; the New York Metropolitan Opera in 1974, as Cavaradossi in Tosca; and La Scala Milan in 1975, as Riccardo in Ballo in Maschera.
Ballo in Maschera
is inextricably linked with both his artistic and his personal life. Carreras had married Mercedes Perez in 1971. Their son Alberto was born in 1972, on the day after Carreras had sung Riccardo for the very first time in Parma. Their daughter Julia was born in 1977, on the day after he had finished recording Ballo in Maschera in London. At the height of his career Carreras was singing over 70 performances a year and was almost constantly travelling around the world’s opera houses. Although an intensely private man, in several interviews he has alluded to the problems of combining an international opera career with a family life – the sense of alienation and the dangers of forming new ties. (He and his wife divorced in 1992 and Carreras has never remarried.)
In 1987, at the height of his success, Carreras was diagnosed with acute leukemia and was given a 1 in 10 chance of survival. Had it not been for the skills of his doctors in Barcelona and at the Fred Hutchinson Clinic in Seattle, Washington, the Missa Criolla would have been his last recording and his performance in I Pagliacci at the Vienna Staatsoper would have been the last time he sang on the operatic stage. After his recovery, one of the first people he went to see was the great Austrian conductor Herbert von Karajan, a musician with whom he had an almost instinctive affinity. Carreras found it fascinating "how Karajan made you feel that he was like your father, conducting for you alone." Their ten year artistic collaboration has produced some of Carreras’ finest performances and recordings. In an interview shortly before his death in 1989, Karajan said of Carreras "If the crew were here I would play you the video of the Verdi Requiem. Did Caruso sing the ‘Ingemisco’ better? I wonder. He has had this terrible illness, but he is full of hope. From all that he has told me it was a terrible experience, but he has now set up his Foundation to help other sufferers, and this is a great joy to him. He is an adorable person, and as he is still young, we all hope that he will make a new career now."
Carreras did indeed resume his career, gradually returning to the opera stage and the concert platform as well as to the recording studio. He now concentrates more on concerts and recitals and restricts his opera performances to one or two productions a year. His most recent role debut (Zurich, 1998) was in the title role of Wolf-Ferrari’s Sly. In 1999 at the Washington Opera, he again sang this role for the opera’s North American premiere. It was a performance that moved the Opera Now critic to write "His ardent infusion of grace and lyrical vitality was both poignant and powerful."
And of course, his Foundation has added a new dimension and purpose to his life. Many of the concerts and recitals that he now gives are benefits for the Jos?Carerras International Leukemia Foundation. The 1990 Three Tenors concert in Rome was originally conceived to raise money for this Foundation and as a way for Carreras’ colleagues, Placido Domingo and Luciano Pavarotti, to welcome their "little brother" back to the world of opera.
Carreras is now in his fifties. His voice is older and darker, but he still has the vital, vivid presence of the born communicator that Alan Blyth recognised over 25 years ago. For many people, the first time they ever saw or even heard of Jose Carreras was through one of the Three Tenor concerts. He perhaps remains the least well known of the three, or as one of the characters in the Seinfeld Show said, "Pavarotti, Domingo, and...you know...that other one." But those who have discovered "that other one" and have listened to his recorded legacy have also discovered one of the most beautiful voices of this century.
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