10.

Keep the ghost lights shining

When Covid silenced the arts industry

In March 2020, a beast of a virus came crashing into our lives. Fittingly, it happened on Friday the thirteenth, a date that already produces a vast amount of superstition. Covid-19 had not only hit Australia but had shattered the front door of Opera Australia. To top the day off, the Australian government made the decision to cancel all non-essential mass gatherings from the following Monday.

I had two performances scheduled for that final weekend: Carmen on Friday night, and an evening performance of Attila on Saturday. Both performances will stay with me for a long time. After Friday’s show, with the rest of the season in serious jeopardy, we knew that goodbyes and hugs might be important. The impact of this didn’t dawn on me until later that night. As I left the building, the children who had been performing in the chorus of Carmen descended the Green Room stairs and headed out through stage door to be welcomed by a round of emotionally charged and deserving applause from their friends and families, acknowledging what would possibly be their final performance of the season. The moment encompassed both heartbreak and elation.

Although no-one wanted to accept the inevitable closure of the season, or put into words what we were all fearing, the performance of Verdi’s Attila on Saturday evening had a sense of unspoken finality that hung in the air like an invisible mist. I had a strong desire to give my best performance – not only for myself but for the small audience that had ventured out in such uncertain times to be taken on a journey, gaining respite from what seemed to be rapidly unfolding beyond the doors of the theatre. I savoured every note I sang that night and relished every privileged moment I stood on that stage, not knowing when I would return.

The curtain call seemed longer than usual. It seemed that the audience were not only expressing their appreciation for the show; their cheers and standing ovation signified a feeling of unity and strength, an energy that would carry us through whatever lay ahead. Mobile phones shone from the darkness of the auditorium like glow worms, and photos were being taken by members of the company and public alike. This moment needed to be frozen in time so we could remember the day our world changed, plunging our industry into darkness.

Just like that, the Sydney Opera House fell silent. In the week that followed, we still attended music calls at The Opera Centre, with the last piece we sang together being ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical Carousel. What an incredibly poignant moment, and I found it difficult to sing without welling up. I don’t think there was a dry eye in the rehearsal room as we began to comprehend what that day could signify.

After that rehearsal, Opera Australia closed its doors. A few days later we were able to return to the Opera House to pack up our belongings in the dressing room. For some reason, I left home very early the morning we were allowed access. As much as I wanted to share this experience with my colleagues, there was also a part of me hoping I could do it alone. I felt numb entering the place I knew so well, a building that had become more like my second home, one in which I could come and go freely. As I slowly ascended the stairs to the Green Room, I instantly noticed that our dinner tables had been separated and spaced out to comply with government orders. An ominous feeling filled every corner of the room. The people I did see were hidden behind masks, consumed by their own tasks, all of us fearing the unknown but sensing the very real threat to our industry. I returned to the empty dressing room and began packing up my desk. The eerie silence in a room that would usually be full of laughter, music and energy made the task unsettling, filling me with sadness.

I didn’t muck around. I packed everything away and, for some weird reason, kissed my dressing room mirror, whispering, ‘I’ll see you soon.’ I then took a photo of my empty desk and the dressing room now devoid of costume racks, accessories and personalities. As I walked slowly back to my car, I didn’t see any of my colleagues. Little did I know that this would herald the beginning of a very lonely time in my life. Opera Australia was also given the time to bump out the remaining shows that had still been scheduled to run throughout the season, packing up the sets including costumes, instruments, props and lighting. Because there had been several productions underway, this became an enormous task for the theatre crew, and one that would take a few days to complete. None of us could foresee the true impact of the pandemic, and for how long the arts industry would suffer through its closure.

***

In such a bleak time in all our lives, silver linings were difficult to come by. We were trying to navigate a world fast becoming foreign to us all, and yet the space we were allowed to inhabit was becoming smaller by the day. Families were being separated, people were dying, borders were closing nationally and internationally, and the freedom we had always taken for granted was now slipping through our fingers. Industries were being decimated and medical professionals worldwide were having to make heartbreaking decisions. Blessed to be living in the age of social media, I felt grateful to be allowed to communicate with friends and family, but living alone, I began to feel the effects of not sharing my living space with another human being. Not experiencing physical human touch became a new challenge to conquer. Thank goodness for my cat Chloe, and the ability to get out every day and walk, to wave at or interact with other people – even if it had to be at a safe distance.

Six weeks into this new way of life, I realised I needed to be with my family. Mum’s health was slowly deteriorating; she had been living for many years with the cruelty that is Parkinson’s disease. The time for me to step up and help had arrived. In a normal performance year, I would never get the chance to spend an extended period of time with my family, or to help, reconnect and be surrounded by those I love the most. Getting to New Zealand, though, wouldn’t be easy.

Susan Cranfield, a dresser at Opera Australia, looked after my cat Chloe. Thank God for friends like Sue, because this incredible offer of help allowed me to travel home. The drama and stress of finding a flight, filling out all the relevant paperwork and securing a place in managed isolation became my next challenge. But in doing so, I had overlooked one small but very vital piece of information: Australia had closed its borders. Of course, as a New Zealand citizen, I would be allowed to leave Australia and return home. But I had officially become an Australian permanent resident and now, by law, I was not permitted to leave the country, something I only discovered when I turned up to the security desk after checking in. I would need an exemption to get on that plane.

Surprisingly, I remained very calm when a sympathetic member of the Australian Border Force dropped this bombshell. A week later and after much support from a dear friend, I had a new flight booked, and an exemption that had been applied for and granted. I returned to Sydney Airport, which now resembled a ghost town, and boarded my flight home to New Zealand. I knew then that I was one of the lucky ones.

During my first stint of hotel quarantine, New Zealand was under Level Four restrictions, which meant I could walk around the car park as many times as I wanted during the day. Even though on my own, I could still talk to other guests at the hotel across the car park, and I looked forward to this interaction every day. I also took the opportunity to walk beyond the boundaries of the hotel to the nearby park and lake, chatting to the supervisor scheduled to accompany me in case I did a runner. I enjoyed our conversations much more than trying to run away from a guy in the army. It felt so strange to be walking around the empty streets near the airport, not seeing another soul on the road. Even though I found this isolation confronting at times, I knew that every day spent in that room meant one day closer to seeing my family. My silver lining.

One morning, as I lay in bed scrolling through social media, I saw a photo of the Joan Sutherland Theatre at the Sydney Opera House, with a ghost light shining at the centre of its stage. I found this a poignant moment. In most theatres around the world, a ghost light is placed on the stage when a theatre is unoccupied. It acts as a safety beacon to staff who are locking up the theatre after a show, to take care and prevent injury in what would otherwise be complete darkness. But these ghost lights took on a whole new meaning during the pandemic, becoming a symbol of how we were keeping the very soul of our theatres alive. The stage is the beating heart of any theatre. It is where people say the ‘magic happens’, where transcendence can occur, both for the audience and those of us who are lucky enough to stand upon it. Seeing the solo light onstage sent a message of hope, of survival, and a promise that live theatre would return.

***

Many of the defining moments of my career have been beautiful ones, but others have made their presence felt like a blunt razor. Friday, 21 August 2020 will always feel like the latter: the day the reality of Covid-19 punched my industry in the face, with the word ‘redundancy’ rearing its ugly head as a very real threat. Up until then, Opera Australia had thought it might be able to weather the storm but, like everyone, we were dealing with an ever-changing world, which meant decisions and strategies were on the table one day then discarded the next.

I had been stood down in stages as the pandemic unfolded, receiving the JobKeeper allowance and continued assistance from Opera Australia – one of the lucky ones. This allowed me to pay two mortgages and put food on the table. But I had many friends who had no security, lost all their income overnight and, for reasons beyond my understanding, were finding financial assistance very difficult to secure. Now redundancy threatened to end my career as I had come to know it, and this sat at the forefront of my mind, dominating all my thoughts, emotions and activities from that moment on. The pandemic’s effect on the arts industry was now serious.

Just a year before, I’d proudly accepted one of three union representative roles for the chorus. Now, along with my two colleagues, I needed to be a voice, a ‘middle woman’, and work hard to help us all ride out the crisis. Even though I found it soul destroying at times, we had redundancies to navigate, and if that wasn’t enough, we needed to plan our return to work and look closely at how our employment conditions might change in this ever-evolving landscape. I jumped in at the very deep end, but my colleagues helped enormously with support and guidance, giving me some confidence that I could take on the responsibility. It’s certainly a time in my life I never want to repeat.

But we were all fearing the loss of our jobs. I knew that those selected would be contacted via email, and every time I checked my inbox I felt a sense of dread. With only one opera company in Australasia employing singers on a permanent basis, those selected for redundancy would have that security taken away from them, abruptly ending a full-time career on the stage. Every day I woke wondering whether I had to consider a plan B. What would I fall back on if the arts industry continued to be a volatile career choice? Definitely a harsh wake-up call, and incredibly confronting. I actually didn’t have a plan B. I only had a plan A – to be a professional singer – and it had been my sole focus and drive for 25 years. For thirteen of those, I had been solely employed in the wonderfully insular world of opera, but now the future of my career lay completely out of my hands. I prayed every night that the company would pull through.

I realised, too, that I had become institutionalised, like many of my colleagues. Don’t get me wrong – it has been the most amazing gift to be able to do this job. When you spend years of your working life embedded within one industry, expanding your skill base outside working hours isn’t always at the top of everyone’s To Do List. Why would it be? Up until now, our fingers had been firmly planted in the opera pie. The thought of having to prise them out and venture beyond our safe and familiar surroundings concerned us all.

I attended a few sessions with a careers counsellor, which I found both enlightening and confronting – confronting because I realised there were not many other industries I wanted to work in, and enlightening after listing the skills I had attained over many years, then exploring where they would best be suited. It ended up being a valuable exercise and I’m sure one day I’ll return to the file now buried deep within my wardrobe, reassessing the options in a different light and taking a more vested interest in future possibilities. Until then, I will try to sing for as long as I am able, and continue to do the job that makes me happy, defining so much of who I am.

***

My industry stayed silent for eight months, resulting in my longest break away from performing. I did fit in a few singing lessons via Zoom with my teacher back in Sydney, which gave some sense of normality. But during this period, as much as I yearned to be back on a stage, the idea of getting up and singing couldn’t have been further from my mind. My heart just wasn’t in it, and I couldn’t bring myself to practise any form of technique. I constantly sang other types of songs around the house, but being with my family I now had other priorities. This time was precious. I helped to maintain the vast garden at my parents’ home, fixed things around the house, trimmed trees, knocked down the old boundary fence and repainted the new one, completed a ridiculous number of craft projects for family and friends, spent time with my loved ones and did everything possible to help where I could. I loved it and, as stressful as it was at times to watch Mum struggle, every day felt like a gift. I didn’t have time for singing.

Finally, in November 2020, we were able to return to work and sing again, thanks to the management at Opera Australia implementing rapid antigen testing (RATs) twice a week. I hadn’t been in a rehearsal room for months, let alone read a vocal score, and my sluggish brain received a rude shock as I tried to get the cogs turning again. Soon the strict guidelines became second nature to us: mask wearing, temperature checking and the constant voice of reassurance (‘You Have Normal Body Temperature’) echoing around the Green Room, health declarations, QR codes, and staying home with the mildest of symptoms.

But we finally made it. Tuesday, 5 January 2021 is another date I will always hold dear. Amid a cluster outbreak in Sydney, restrictions for indoor entertainment to 500 patrons, general concerns about Covid case numbers rising and new clusters simmering under the surface, this date heralded our return to the stage to perform Lehár’s The Merry Widow in front of an audience – the first audience I had performed for in ten months. Hearing the call ‘Act One beginners, this is your call to the stage’ that night nearly made me cry. After the final makeup and costume checks, I left the dressing room, donned my surgical mask and, with a nervous yet quiet anticipation, allowed myself a moment to sit with a myriad of mixed feelings as I made my way to the stage.

Before the curtain went up on that wonderful evening, revealing the return of opera under the magnificent sails of the Sydney Opera House, we were all given a programme of the show, a bottle of wine and Lindt chocolates from Opera Australia, and a note: ‘Toi Toi Toi for what will hopefully be the first of many Opening Nights in 2021 as OA returns to the stage’. It was a very special gift and message to receive. Standing onstage that night felt so strange, especially knowing how fragile the opera and arts industry had become. Now we all needed to rely on each other to do the right thing for the season to continue, and help get the company back on its feet. There didn’t appear to be much theatre happening around the world at the time, meaning we were seen as a frontrunner to opera companies outside of Australia returning to the stage.

As we slowly walked towards our opening positions, waiting for the curtain to rise, you could almost believe that nothing had changed – certainly a stark contrast to how the world now looked beyond the perimeter of the stage. The realities of the pandemic, with all its problems, had melted away. Did I feel excited? Yes, and no. Yes, because I had finally returned ‘home’, to do what I love. But I also felt apprehensive, as if we were doing something we weren’t allowed to do, even though the company had taken every precaution and followed every guideline to the letter to get us to this point. By testing negative, I could attend work and fulfil my duties. We were still required to wear our masks during rehearsals, while moving to and from the stage, and in the wings, but thankfully we didn’t need to socially distance. Everyone working backstage needed to wear their masks at all times, and there were boxes of the things available as soon as we walked into the wings. These masks presented new challenges – learning how to hook it around my ears without interfering with a wig and remembering to stuff it down my bra before walking onto stage. But we were strangely getting used to them, and during one full company number, a surgical mask found its way onto the stage and started travelling from one side to the other until someone had a chance to grab it, finally hiding it in their costume. New theatrical mishaps thanks to Covid!

Once the show began and I looked out to the socially distanced audience, I found it unsettling at first, even though I was slowly adjusting to the mask-wearing world as soon as I left the security of my front door. It’s certainly much more difficult to recognise people sitting in the audience, or to gauge their reactions throughout the performance, when a large percentage of each face is hidden behind a mask. We all just had to hope and pray that they were enjoying themselves, with their laughter now muffled behind this new facial accessory. I felt carefree up there on the stage performing within our bubble; we could touch each other, sing freely, converse and react in small groups as if the virus didn’t exist. And for those three hours onstage, it didn’t.

Our audience were full of appreciation, and I felt incredibly grateful to each and every one of them who had braved this new world, determined to experience live theatre once more. I loved every minute of being onstage again, and my fears melted away as I sang and danced my way through the show. A cannon exploded in the final curtain call, resulting in a sea of glittery paper cascading all over us, just like that golden buzzer moment in Australia’s Got Talent! What an overwhelming curtain call, and it didn’t take long before tears escaped and began trickling down my face, a combination of sheer relief and joy. I felt like the real me again, right back where I belonged. We had all managed to contain the emotion and enormity of the evening and get through the performance, but as we received our applause, we were a sobbing mess.

The heartbeat of the Sydney Opera House was pumping again, a sign that our industry had finally emerged from the darkness. No celebration followed in the northern foyer that evening, no celebratory cheers or opening-night functions to relish. I left the theatre with my beautiful bottle of wine, walked slowly to the car park and drove myself home. It was more than enough. I headed to bed knowing I’d been reunited with my first love, finally falling asleep dreaming of better times ahead.

Opera Australia managed to not only perform the entire season of The Merry Widow but all the scheduled operas in that return season, as well as La traviata on Sydney Harbour and a tour to Melbourne for a three-week season of Verdi’s Ernani and Aida. Thankfully, we managed to leave Melbourne just before they were required to go into lockdown again after a strain of the new Delta variant found its way into the community. Unfortunately, it did come knocking at our door when Sydney’s Delta outbreak exploded, forcing everyone back into lockdown in June 2021. Yet again, like many other industries, the arts suffered immediately, and even though we could still rehearse the upcoming operas under very strict guidelines, the entire winter season eventually came to a grinding halt.

Once again, we had all been silenced, and overnight my performance calendar for the rest of 2021 vanished. Opera Australia did a remarkable job looking after its staff and providing financial support, and I knew that help was only a phone call away if needed. This time, the task of packing up all our belongings in the dressing room fell to a few staff members allowed to return to the building sometime later – not an easy task, considering we had literally dropped everything and walked out of the building. But this time, everyone focused on vaccinations, and the company looked towards 2022 and beyond, searching for a way to present opera once again to an audience starved of live theatre. I stayed in Sydney during this second lockdown, and decided to focus on discovering a new part of the city every day, until the local government area restrictions were put into place. I navigated my mental health much better the second time around, partly due to the buddy system. The glorious winter weather played a big part too.

We began the slow return to work in November 2021. With the new Omicron strain becoming more infectious, OA decided to implement daily RATs. Although a huge financial outlay for the company, it proved to be the only way we could even contemplate the idea of returning to the stage. I’ve lost count of how many swabs have been inserted into my nose and throat. At times I had to insist on testing only one nostril, allowing the other to recover from being constantly poked, but if I wanted to get back on the stage and sing, then this was the way to do it. How lucky were we that Opera Australia decided to undertake this testing regime and do everything in its power to recover.

***

Before the pandemic, I loved sitting in the Green Room at the Sydney Opera House, feeling the buzz of excitement in the air before the curtain rose across the many theatres within the venue. This communal space is used by all staff and performers, resulting in a wonderful coming together of an eclectic group of people, all with a passion for the arts and the joy of entertaining. There are five TV monitors in the Green Room, each one representing one of the performance spaces in the building. Even though you don’t hear the sound, you can still see what’s happening on the stages, and there is always a variety of events taking place. So many things changed during the pandemic, and for a while after we returned, the Green Room remained practically empty. I found it heartbreaking, and I missed its chatter and bustle. Thankfully, in July 2022, the Sydney Symphony Orchestra returned to the newly refurbished Concert Hall, other theatre companies such as Bangarra Dance Theatre entered once more, and suddenly the Green Room started to feel alive again.

With Covid’s new subvariant cementing itself firmly in the community and sweeping through thousands of victims daily, every industry started to see an increase in sick leave, with those infected initially going into seven days of isolation. After the second lockdown in 2021, in many industries, people were able to continue working from home, but in the arts that’s nearly impossible. Has society changed for the better? For friends of mine who work in the corporate world, they may now only work in the office once or twice a week, preferring to work from home when they can. But this brings up many new issues of isolation and the lack of social interaction, which might not be a good thing. Covid aside, I’m more than comfortable with my own company, but I also need to be surrounded by people. And, despite what people think, Covid is still with us; people are still getting sick, and at Opera Australia, if we show any symptoms, we are asked to stay home. It’s interesting to see covers listed on cast lists now, and I’ve even noticed the names of alternative directors added. Companies have had to adjust to the possible impacts of Covid on their rehearsal and performance seasons and are doing everything they can, ensuring productions open and see out their seasons. Opera Australia, like so many other arts organisations, is forging ahead, facing new problems as they arise and battling through.

It is a heartbreaking decision for a company to cancel a performance as a last resort because of illness among the cast, orchestra and crew, and when it happens it’s financially devastating. Theatre companies were never more reliant on swings and covers than they were in those early post-lockdown months. These incredibly talented individuals were allowing shows to go ahead and, in turn, were given the opportunity to shine. On stages around the world, covers were saving the day. Principal performers were making announcements at curtain calls, inviting all covers to stand downstage centre and take a well-deserved bow. They were finally being acknowledged – not just by their colleagues within the industry, but by the thousands of people returning to the theatre – and their skills were being applauded. About time! A good swing is literally worth their weight in gold to any company.

During the winter season of 2022, we were once again affected when many of the performing company came down with Covid. During one particular performance of La traviata, there were fifteen choristers and four principals at home sick. As mentioned earlier, I stepped up into the role of Annina, and some of my fellow chorus colleagues helped save the show.

It’s certainly a time for everyone to work together to ensure shows go ahead. Nowadays, we talk about ‘before Covid’ and ‘after Covid’, but I think we’ll be living with the ever-changing virus for years to come. Near the end of 2023, Opera Australia finally stopped weekly RAT testing, only requesting a result if staff were suffering from symptoms.

Covid taught me some invaluable lessons: never take my job for granted, appreciate every opportunity I get to walk out onto that stage, always hug loved ones, cherish our medical professionals and never underestimate the gift of good health.