Christiane Patard 1934-2021.
A few days ago, a French woman changed my life again. I received a sad telephone call from Catherine, the daughter of my French singing teacher. Catherine informed me that her mother had passed away. My teacher’s name was Christiane Patard. I had my first lesson with her in October 2017. Once a month, I would embark on a marathon: I would take the early morning Aegean Airlines flight to Paris, have our lesson with Christiane Petard, and return exhausted to Athens that same evening. Christiane was not my only singing teacher, but she was the one who literally changed the way I sang within 15 minutes of our first lesson.
Before Christiane, I feared high notes. Whenever the melody of an aria would go high, my throat would close like choking. Christiane made me realise my intense efforts were actually a barrier, and singing should be effortless. “You don’t sing the note; you give it,” she would say powerfully. This paradox was of a piece with Christiane, a powerful personality contained within a small, seemingly fragile body.
Her advice resonated beyond music. She taught me how to be free. Whatever keeps us back is psychological, after all. Life isn’t some grand plan. You just give life meaning by living it. As an artist, this insight affected me deeply. Singing for me is more direct and more intense than painting—which is why I previously found it easier to paint than to sing. That’s why I have never cried after painting something that I considered a breakthrough. But I have cried when I listened to my voice finally reach a C6 when it previously used to “choke” at a G5.
In an older post, I wrote that painters, sculptors, composers, and writers can rework a piece repeatedly until they decide it is complete enough to be shown to others. But for musicians, dancers and actors, this luxury does not exist. Although they may practice for years, their performance can only manifest in the moment. At that moment, they reveal themselves entirely. Singing exposes me completely. This is why I used to sing in secret. Even as a teenager, whenever I was alone at home, I would close all the doors in the corridor to create a mini reverberation, and then, and only then, I would sing my heart out. My music was my personal possession. Decades later, people who had known me for years were amazed when they first heard me sing in public.
Although my artistic inclinations were evident early on to my parents and my school teachers—evidenced by winning drawing competitions to singing solo at school celebrations—these inclinations were not supported. I still remember the expression of stoic disappointment on my high school’s music teacher’s face when I told her that I would study economics, not music because it was “decided for me.” But, of course, the artistic gene never goes away; it matures in seclusion, often returning like a tsunami.
Our vocal cords, tiny yet mighty, are powerful enough to tear down the “muzzles” of life —all those insecurities, doubts, and vulnerabilities.
And the sound they give is the melody of our lives.
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