Audition (nonfiction)
This weekend, I went to Manhattan for a regional audition for a conservatory in the UK. I stayed with my aunt and uncle on the Upper West Side; I was there for two nights. My audition was scheduled for Sunday at 10:30am, and I was to warm up with the accompanist at 10.
I flew in on Saturday afternoon. The next morning, I left early enough to arrive at the audition location at 9:20am. The front desk staff told me there weren't any auditions, as the entire building was being used all day for a film shoot; when I showed him the emails I'd received with the location, date, and time, he said "they were here last weekend." I didn't have a phone number to call, so I emailed the person who had emailed me previously and asked her to call me as soon as possible.
About twenty minutes later, a clarinetist arrived. She had a similar conversation with the desk staff; it became clear that her audition was scheduled for 11. We spoke in the breaks between takes, as filming was taking place one floor above us and any noise we made would disrupt the shoot. Still no phone call.
Between five and ten minutes passed. Then some official-looking people began to arrive. There was a lot of back-and-forth between one of them, who later introduced himself as David, and the people in charge of the building. The other stood and chatted with the clarinetist and myself; she was very apologetic. The accompanist sat on the single bench, engrossed in his phone. (I would have done the same.)
10am came and went. About five past, David asked us to go into the side office, which was more soundproof, allowing us to speak freely. He apologized profusely for what he said was a miscommunication; apparently the differences in date format between the US and the UK caused confusion -- I think the building staff double booked the space, but that's neither here nor there. He told us that we would not be auditioning live, and asked us to send video recordings of the audition repertoire via email; we would, however, have the interview in person. We elected to interview together, to save time, as we were both there and sitting.
The interview turned out to be more selling the conservatory to us and answering any of our questions, rather than asking us too much about ourselves. There was still opportunity to talk about ourselves, if we took it; he did ask, at the beginning, why we're interested in the conservatory. (He also told us, in passing, that he graduated from Peabody as a cello performance major.) I was able to ask all of the questions I had prepared, in conjunction with the clarinetist, who is looking into a dual degree in clarinet performance and composition.
When I got back to my aunt's, I called my mother. We had a good laugh. Part of me still can't believe that this happened; the stress of this audition had been building for weeks, and then I didn't even get my cello out of its case. I had been texting my mother while I was waiting, before the interview, and I kept saying "I just want to play. I want it to be over." Even then, I was in full control of myself.
I think, between last spring and now, a switch somewhere inside me flipped, because if this had happened to me a year ago, I probably would have cried in public. I'm not sure how I stayed calm; I'm a little worried that it's depression, or a sign that I didn't care about this audition, except that if I'm accepted to this conservatory, I absolutely want to go. (It's a one-year intensive MMus, so if I get in to schools in the US, I could potentially defer enrollment, if I want to.) I can't figure it out. Am I better? Healthier? How did I get here? I want to know so I can do it again if I ever need to. Maybe I won't need to. Maybe I won't ever be there again. I feel like I'm high up on the South Kaibab trail, hiking down, and it's morning, not too early and not too late, because we haven't been hiking long and we haven't stopped yet, and I take off my fleece jacket and stuff it into the top of my pack, and I feel lighter, as the wind worms its way through the vents in my shirt and dries my sweat into tiny, tiny icicles. I put my pack back on, buckle the straps to keep it from falling off, and wrap the straps of my hiking sticks around my wrists. And for the first time in a long time, I feel truly okay.