Portrait of an Artist: My Time with Pierre Bernac

IT IS HARD TO BELIEVE that this October will be the eighteenth anniversary of Pierre Bernac's death.1 I can honestly say that not a day has since passed by without my thinking or speaking of him at least once. No one else has marked my life so indelibly, or given me more, than he. The decade during which I knew and worked with him now seems like the kind of dream from which one desperately hopes not to awaken. I look back at the moments spent at his side in the studio, in class, in concerts and at receptions, at table, in the car and, most of all, on our chaises longues in the sunset after a long day's work when we delectably translated the late cycles of Faure and many of Francis Poulenc, all while conversing about just anything and everything. Such highly privileged gifts come only once in a lifetime, if at all.Pierre Bernac was a simple, almost ascetic man, who yet knew and deeply savored the beauties and pleasures of being alive. He was entirely dedicated to his work, which, when I knew him, was teaching. Just about everything I now know about working with singers and pianists on the song repertoire I learned from Bernac. The most important lesson of all those he taught me was to demand the highest standards from myself and every student, and that no one deserved any less.I also witnessed his tolerance of un talented and ill mannered pupils. Pierre Bernac was always a gentleman with a secure sense of self, something that protected him from any loss of dignity. Yet, he was firm. Bernac taught me as much about life and people as about music and language, not only by his words but by his actions. He was the consummate maitre who gave real meaning to the abused term "master class."I met Pierre Bernac for the first time on the musical Upper West Side of Manhattan in April of 1970. During the winter I had written to him to request his instruction and guidance in my newly assigned French Diction and Repertoire classes at the Manhattan School of Music. His book, The Interpretation of French Song, had just appeared, and after studying it carefully I knew that Bernac was the man I had to see. Much to my surprise, he responded immediately to tell me that he would be teaching privately that spring in New York. On Thursday, April 2, 1970 at 3 p.m., Bernac slowly opened the door, his eyes shyly peering upwards, all while greeting and admitting me into his rarified world. He was smaller and more frail than I had anticipated, soft spoken and prone to long silences during which his strong and warm spirit pervaded the room. His attire was truly drab: a tan linen jacket, gray gabardine slacks, white shirt and muted tie, and those light brown cloth shoes with rubber soles that he always wore.That afternoon my singer and I presented the first three of the Fiancailles pour rire of Poulenc for Bernac.2 To her he spoke of legato and the importance of singing, not speaking, every note, while with me he dwelled upon getting the right sonority for Poulenc's pianism by means of deft pedaling. We returned to work with Bernac again the following Monday. It was then that I dared ask him whether I might assist him in his classes at the Blossom Festival that summer. Again, he answered me immediately in the affirmative. For the next three months, I spent all of my spare time procuring, studying, and practicing the countless melodies that I did not yet know. I so much wanted to be worthy of the privilege granted me.For six weeks that summer Bernac gave a four-hour class in the afternoon every weekday and coached privately on Saturdays.3 I never ceased to marvel at his patience and persistence, as well as his energy and generosity with the class. At first Bernac expressed dismay at the presence of so many bebes, his affectionate term for young beginners, but I promised to prepare them rigorously during the mornings before and evenings after class. A few voice teachers in the class4 assisted me in prodding these neophytes to action so that by the end of the second week the hum of excellence, or at least the striving for it, was in the room. …