Opera's American accent
BEVERLY SILLS transcended the opera house. In her day, the coloratura soprano was an ever-present part of New York City life, almost a living Statue of Liberty, someone whose work one had to see if one wanted to say that one had seen New York. So it was a shock when Sills died last week at age 78, because institutions are supposed to last forever.
To admire her, it wasn't necessary to like Giuseppe Verdi or "La Traviata." It wasn't even necessary to have heard of these things. Because Sills's world-renowned talent -- balanced by an infectious, plain-folks enthusiasm -- was about more than the music. She loved her art so generously that she was a glowing example of the vital importance of passion. Everyone should love something that much.
In Sills's mouth, opera had an American accent. The Brooklyn native was born Belle Silverman and nicknamed Bubbles by her mother. The daughter of Ukrainian and Romanian Jewish immigrants, Sills started in show business as a child, shepherded by her stage mother. She did her opera training in the United States instead of in Europe.
"What Beverly has shown since 1966 is that an American singer can take up where Maria Callas left off," Time magazine declared in 1971.
The shining Sills smile, which lit up so many photographs over the decades, was warm and a product of driven persistence. Presidents of the United States would come and go. Pop stars flashed through the top 40 charts. The fortunes of New York City rose and fell. And Sills kept singing.
She retired from the theater in 1980, having already become general director of the New York City Opera, a move into administration that launched a new prominence on the stage of the country's cultural life. She later became the chairwoman of Lincoln Center. All along she remained ever-present as a cheerleader, fund-raiser, and administrator.
And Sills shared the wealth, opening doors for other young American artists. That work will continue, in a way, through the Beverly Sills Artist Award, an annual award of $50,000 that will continue to be given to a young singer at the Metropolitan Opera to help further the singer's career.
What is harder to hold on to is the sheer force, size, and joy of her personality, the way she took music and made it as important -- and on some days more important -- than the daily news stories full of woes about crime, transportation, or taxes.
Perhaps it's in September that Sills will be missed the most, when a new opera season is born -- when audiences will crowd into auditoriums to listen and feel mighty gusts of music. Life's stage, missing one of its leading players, will seem emptier. 