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Marian Anderson
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| MARIAN ANDERSON (1897 - 1993)
"It is not what the artist does that counts, but what he is." The words of Pablo Picasso spoken in 1932 suggest that an artist must offer not only his work to the world, but also himself. As an artist engages in the parallel acts of being and doing, life and work converge into a singular, inseparable force. Thus, for the greatest artist, the act of living itself becomes a kind of art. This was the case with Marian Anderson, who lived in such a way as to blur the line, and yet strengthen the bond between art and artist. Like an exceptional work of art, Anderson's life contained balance, originality and that inexplicable quality of greatness that separates it from so many other musical lives. While each epoch hosts great singers, not often does one reach the realm of national treasure or international symbol as Anderson did. She managed to combine a rare musical gift with rarer human qualities - a queenly, yet humble bearing, an aura of simplistic grandeur, a spirituality enlarged by her faith and unshaken by the turmoil that sometimes marked her career. More than mere artist, Anderson represented a confluence of forces - musical, social, political and spiritual - that elevated her to a level of grandness unmatched by others in history. Anderson's path to that realm was one she never chose, but to her credit, she did not falter when answering what seemed a predestined calling. When the Daughters of the American Revolution refused her permission to sing in its Constitution Hall, publicly stating their unwillingness to go "contrary to conditions and customs existing in the District of Columbia," it was a defining moment for the singer. Those 'customs and conditions', true to the code of the pre-civil rights South, determined that even in the seat of American democracy, blacks were barred from theaters, downtown restaurants and hotels. Questions of whether basic human rights should be accorded on the basis of skin color or circumstance of birth had long been shrugged off with dismissive whispers by the ruling powers in America's capital. But the demands of Anderson's legion of followers and the insistent nature of her own genius forced the debate onto the public stage. The result of the controversy is an oft-told tale. Anderson, unable to find a hall in the city, sang her recital instead in the open, undiscriminating air of Washington before the capacity of twenty concert halls, and in so doing stepped across the threshold where art and history meet. It seemed only fitting that on that day, when the issues of freedom and human dignity were put to public test, the voice of such an artist should be 'un-housed.' It had, after all, become the voice of freedom, soaring beyond political walls, exploding the shackles and barriers of small-minded and narrow thinking, powering in full flight above the rancor of racism and limited only by the perimeter of trees, sky and the granite edifice of the Lincoln Memorial itself. Here, finally, was a democratic voice, singing before the full spectrum of humanity - 75,000 rich and poor, young and old, black, white and brown - a vast patchwork of human hues united by the powers of art and social cause. Anderson, a dutiful if reluctant heroine, stepped forward on the platform to acknowledge the throng, smiling shyly, her face illuminated by the thinning light of evening. Before singing, she recalled, "There seemed to be people as far as the eye could see. I had a feeling that a great wave of goodwill poured out from these people, almost engulfing me." Waves of energy passed between artist and audience. Natalie Wells, a longtime resident of Washington remembers attending Anderson's 1939 concert with her high school class. "We rode down on the streetcar," she said. "She was on a platform, high up above the crowd, and when we saw her, she was like a goddess, like royalty. You almost felt that you should kneel." It was a remark often made by those finding themselves in Anderson's company, and it was an effect that would mark Anderson for life, propelling her beyond the scope of music, past the realm of public performer. By 1939, her singing voice, known for it rich darkness and oboe-like clarity, had already earned her the rank of one of the world's leading artists. Now her persona and symbolic presence (for American blacks she had become synonymous with the struggle for equality) elevated her to the league of those who shape the course of history. If Anderson, from that point on, seemed guided by the forces of destiny, the next several years would bear out the inevitable convergence of art, life and fate. In the mid-1950s, when Rudolf Bing decided to end the Metropolitan Opera's long history of barring black singers from its stage, there was no other choice for the historic honor but Marian Anderson. (By then the aging voice had begun to pale and a younger black singer might have delivered a more sound musical performance, but no one else could have lent more poetic import to the occasion.) Later, she would be chosen as a delegate to the United Nations General Assembly. And when an international spotlight focused on the American South as it battled the issue of racial segregation in schools, the U.S. Department of State sent Anderson on a 10-week, 40,000 mile Goodwill tour of India and the Far East to show the watching world its most prominent artist - a black woman. Throughout the turbulent 1960s when the civil rights movement reached full flower, black leaders issued fiery rhetoric with raised fists, pulpits and choir lofts vibrated with the strains of "We Shall Overcome", and Marian Anderson, in a more quiet way, continued her journey toward becoming an American myth. She no longer sang, having retired from music in 1965, but demand for her presence, as orator, narrator and public symbol, did not decline. It was then that I, as a young person, first encountered Anderson on the stage of an auditorium in my hometown. Like all others in her presence, I was struck by the power of the voice that rang with operatic sonority (unaffected by the fact that she was talking, not singing), the nobility of her face, the regal bearing, the sheer dignity of her countenance. Years later, in her farmhouse in Connecticut, I would meet her. Ninety-three years of living had reduced the woman of larger-than-life scale to diminutive proportions, the once ample bones seemed small and fragile, and arthritis had rounded that stately posture. But in speaking, the voice rang with the authority and power of a youthful spirit. Sitting at her dining room table, she invited me to wander through the rooms. In that modest farmhouse were the vestiges of history and of an auspicious life. On a mantle sat the Congressional Gold Medal President Carter had struck in her behalf, and reflected in the lacquer of her grand piano were framed photographs autographed "To Miss Anderson from John and Jacqueline Kennedy," and "Best Wishes from Eleanor and Franklin Roosevelt." It occurred to me that here was a woman who not only had lived nearly the full expanse of a century, but had also helped to shape it. Musically, she had contributed a voice unlike any other, velvety, broad in range and rich in pathos and depth, whether she sang Schubert or Burleigh, Bach or Bonds. Politically, she had helped, with her voice and presence, to raise a banner for human dignity as she endured the profanity of prejudice. Socially, she gave African Americans a different kind of heroine - one who did not raise a fist against injustice, but instead lifted her voice to it. Anderson, finally, reached beyond the normal limits of music to create a life that was, in itself, a work of art. "In both her singing and her presence is an incredible amount of strength that is serene," said James DePreist, Anderson's nephew and renowned orchestral conductor. "It is the kind of serenity that comes from being completely at ease with your faith and your art, so that it is impossible to separate what Aunt Marian is as a human being from what she was as an artist. When people talk about the incredible warmth... the magisterial and regal bearing, and the poignancy and tenderness with which she sang in German or the spirituals, it comes from a deeply rooted, wonderful kind of power." Marian Anderson died on 8 April, 1993, at the age of 96, and did not live to attend her 100th birthday celebration in Carnegie Hall, February 27, 1997. Honoring her that evening (in a sold-out house) were Isaac Stern, Roberta Peters, Betty Allen, Jessye Norman, Denyce Graves, William Warfield, Sylvia McNair, Florence Quivar, Rita Dove, Robert Shaw and Anderson's nephew DePreist. It was a stellar night, and the clamor outside for tickets must have resembled the night of Anderson's début at the Metropolitan opera, 40 years before. Throughout the lengthy performance there were tributes - spoken, played and sung. But despite the caliber of talent assembled on Carnegie's stage, few in the audience would forget the opening gesture; in the dim lighting of the hall an image of Anderson appeared on a screen accompanied by a recording, the clear and resonant voice of Anderson singing "Deep River." Few would have disagreed that hers was the greatest voice of the evening. The concert ended with a choir, led by Norman, Quivar and Graves, of Anderson's favorite spirituals. It had been a celebration of one of the world's great artistic lives, and when the music ended, there was only the lingering echo of a rare kind of art - one that traversed the length and breadth of a century's landscape, and left heartprints in its wake. |
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