Nancy Warren
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"Hello, Mr. Carreras" chronicles a personal experience with an overwhelming creative and spiritual inspiration as it unfolds over a period of two years in a profound series of events which completely transform the life of the author, Nancy Warren, and her entire family -- all as the result of hearing a man sing.
The cataclysmic episode begins with a public television broadcast of an opera concert which the writer, then a successful, affluent businesswomen with no particular interest in opera, coincidently overhears from an adjoining room. The voice is that of Jose Carreras, notably a world famous tenor, but a singer completely unknown to the listener. The encounter inexplicably triggers an avalanche of emotional and spiritual crisis, and an artistic renaissance, in her life.
Finding this overwhelming transformation incredible and frightening, yet undeniably real and exhilarating, she begins a vigorous search of the disciplines of psychology, philosophy, music, world history, quantum physics, mythology and religion for possible explanations of her reaction to this vocalist.
And, in the course of her persistent search for the facts about Carreras, as her usually orderly personal and professional existence turns upside down, she abandons her lifelong business goals and begins a career on the ground floor in opera production. In this way, she hopes to increase her knowledge of the vocalist and of the operatic Art form in order to interview Carreras, understand his impact on her life, and write about him.
As a consequence of her determined quest, this respected and wealthy business executive soon finds her future forever altered in a traumatic loss of career, marriage, home and financial security. Yet, an irresistible inspiration persistently propells her into musical and literary pursuits she had once considered beyond her grasp.
Even more amazing, the author's backstage investigation of opera as she prepares academically for a person-to-person interview with Jose Carreras leads to fresh discoveries about the nature and source of the Universe, an encounter with angelic forces, and a new appreciation for the creative power of music.
Nancy Warren, author of "Hello, Mr. Carreras," was born in Philadelphia and raised in northern Bucks County, Pennsylvania. She was educated at the University of Pennsylvania in creative writing, Spanish literature and journalism, and is a member of Pi Delta Epsilon Honorary National Journalism Fraternity.
In her early career, she worked in public relations and charity fundraising, in Spanish language translation, and as a fashion model. She later held executive positions in the development of a conglomerate corporation, including a delinquency treatment program, a video production company, and a chain of retail clothing boutiques. She also served on several corporate boards of directors and as a corporate trouble shooter. Nancy co-authored a book to do with the habilitation of juvenile delinquents in the United States and has published magazine articles and poetry. As an amateur, she performed vocal and classical piano music.
The author's career direction changed dramatically when she happened to hear Mr. Jose Carreras singing and, as a result, enacted a lifelong dream to undertake a career in classical music. She became Assistant Stage Director at Arizona Opera Company in 1992, Production Stage Manager in 1994 and the Company's Production Director in 1995.
She was production chief for the Arizona Opera Company's flagship effort -- two consecutive cycles of the Wagnerian Ring -- performed in 1996 and 1998, under the executive direction of impressario, Glynn Ross, renowned as creator of the first Wagnerian Ring Festival in the United States.
The first notes passed my ear and rolled around the kitchen, tantalizing. Who was that singing? Oh, I'll think of the name. Let's see, that must be... It was a voice I recognized from somewhere far in the past. In fact, the recognition was so absolute, I felt I knew the pain inside the words by heart although the song was unfamiliar. Now, this is silly. Don't you hate it when a name, a face, flirts at the edge of your mind and refuses to be identified? Now think, the name sounds like...it rhymes with... I drew a blank.
'Who's singing, kids?' I called into the other room.
'Some guy,' they answered. Wonderful. For this I sent them to all the best schools.
Overcome with curiosity, I set my garlic mountain aside, grabbed a blue checked tea towel to wipe my hands and rounded the corner into the family room, still talking.
'I know who it is, I'd know that voice anywhere. I just can't think of the name,' I babbled.
Somewhere along the line, we had thought it important to invest in a projection television with a screen approximately the size of a bed sheet. All of this for one channel and the screening of a few videos. Talk about schizophrenia. But despite this enormous visual aid, I could not identify the singer. In fact, I found myself gazing at a gentleman I had never seen in my life; a friendly looking man in formal concert attire, with black wavy hair and sparkling dark eyes. He finished his song with appreciative gestures to the audience and conductor. Typical of PBS and its love of the cognescenti, I thought, that nothing indicated who the artist was as he bowed, waved and disappeared from the stage, unidentified.
Being denied the facts enflames the imagination of a certain type of person who cannot do without knowing. Once the red flag, the incendiary of inquisitiveness, has been waved before this variety of animal, thunder will roll, life will cease and Hell will be declared on earth until the question, whatever it may be, is answered. I am such a monster. Dinner went on hold as we sat breathlessly before the television, waiting for this person to appear once more. Had I imagined the familiar quality of his voice? Why could I not recognize who this was? And what would I do with all that garlic now that the kids had ordered pizza?
Tenors Luciano Pavarotti and Placido Domingo did the honors for the next four pieces. The singer in question did not reappear for some time; not until nearly the middle of the program. Then, again unidentified, he sang 'Core 'Ngrato':
'Catari, Catari, perche me dici sti parole amare?' [Catherine, Catherine, why do you address me only with bitter words?]
Curiosity turned to fascination. And as the song continued, an awareness descended, the cognizance of a transcendent quality which glowed about this man. His performance shone with intensity, discipline, serenity and presence, with the grace of an archangel unfolding luminous wings. He sang straight from his soul. I was in awe.
'Mama, the pizza man's here!' My son, Daniel, danced in front of me. In semi-trance, I grabbed my purse from beside the sofa and handed him my wallet, vaguely hoping he would not tip the delivery boy more than fifty dollars or so. The children quickly set up dinner trays and began grazing on the extra cheese and pepperonis, watching me keenly with huge, brown eyes.
They have learned to cope with having a writer for a mother --have suffered through the production of everything from public relations brochures and poetry to a novel -- and can actively follow the various stages of my creative delirium. A startling fact, a play on words, or any sudden inspiration roils its way into an emotional preoccupation, then a poem, a chapter, a short story. And the urgency of identifying this singer and knowing more about him had escalated to the potential of a five alarm emotional emergency. No one spoke for the rest of the program as I concentrated.
Domingo and Pavarotti came and went on the screen. I had admired both of them over the years and collected some of their musical recordings. But it was this other vocalist who now had my undivided attention as he rolled out the 'R's' in the song 'Granada,' with evident patriotism and perfect pronunciation. He must be a Spaniard, I decided. Toward the end of the program, he sang once more alone. An aria I recognized from Giordano's opera 'Andrea Chenier,'
'One day I stood raptly gazing
at the blue vault of heaven
and at the flower-filled meadows;
the sun rained showers of gold
and the earth was a golden splendour;
the world seemed a limitless treasure,
and the firmament its casket.
The earth breathed a caress,
a living kiss upon my face.
Completely overcome by love, I cried:
I love you, you who kiss my face, my heavenly
beautiful motherland.
With this song the crisis deepened in dimension. Some different emotion took over. 'Mama's crying,' Daniel whispered to his sister, who between gulps of milk tossed a handful of kleenex to me from the box on the coffee table. First just Daniel, then both children, watched with astonishment and concern as I struggled for control. This was a new one on them.
'Are you alright, Mama?,' they wanted to know. I was not, although I nodded affirmatively for their benefit. I had been hit head-on by a consuming and indefinable sort of comprehension; something of the magnitude of being struck by lightning. I had the sense of watching an old friend, someone I had not heard from in a great while and missed; the overwhelming feeling that I not only knew this person who sang, but had something important to discuss with him or he with me. Ridiculous. No, asinine would be a better word. How would we communicate? We probably couldn't speak even one of the same languages fluently. And, anyway, why would I have that impression of someone I had never even heard of before? I did not know so much as his name. It was a baffling and disconcerting occurrence. I could not decide whether to be intrigued, frightened, or just plain annoyed. Whatever was happening was completely unique in my experience and beyond logical explanation.
