Introduction: A candid moment in rehearsal
In a quiet rehearsal room, a room full of piano notes, breath, and the scent of stage makeup, Lithuanian soprano Ausrine Stundyte leans in and makes a blunt declaration: “I am totally not a feminist.” It’s a surprising, provocative start to a conversation that soon spirals into the core of her artistry—how she channels trauma and adrenaline to inhabit roles that feel centuries removed from her own life. The moment sets the stage for a deeper inquiry into how a voice and a body metabolize pain into performance.
From trauma to voice: the psychology of performance
Stundyte’s approach to singing the part of a 300-year-old woman is not just about vocal technique. It’s about translating interior storms into outward sound. In opera, the body often carries the weight of history: wounds, memory, and resolved or unresolved grief. For a soprano, the challenge is to fuse the immediacy of visceral emotion with the architectural demands of a long, intricate musical line. When she speaks of “doing pain,” she reveals a discipline that treats physical sensation as data—something to observe, map, and then transform into musical meaning.
Adrenaline as a companion, not a crutch
Adrenaline is a frequent guest in the rehearsal room for top-flight performers, but Stundyte speaks of it with a measured respect. It is not about spectacle; it is a tool that sharpens focus, informs breath control, and helps sustain a character who has endured centuries of history. The soprano notes that adrenaline can heighten perception, making every pause, breath, and dynamic shift feel like a decision rather than a reflex. In this light, adrenaline becomes a co-creator of the performance, shaping timing and texture at the edge of endurance.
The 300-year-old woman: a role that travels through time
Playing a woman who has lived three centuries requires the singer to blend period-specific sensibilities with a contemporaneous honesty. The voice must carry the echo of ages—fabrics, social mores, historical context—without becoming a mere museum piece. For Stundyte, the character is not a relic; she is a living interlocutor, one who listens to the present as intently as she recalls the past. The ethical challenge is to resist glamorizing antiquity and instead illuminate its stubborn humanity.
Crafting texture: the orchestral and the intimate
Her preparation blends meticulous text comprehension with a tactile sense of sound production. The soprano explains that the texture of the role lives in the space between words and breaths—the place where punctuation becomes a musical gesture and silence opens a window into psyche. This sensitivity to micro-phrasing is essential when grappling with composers who demand an organic flow over rigid rhythm, allowing the singer to “feel” the age of the character without surrendering contemporary truthfulness.
Identity and statement: where art meets ideology
The edge of Stundyte’s interview—her non-feminist assertion—frames a broader question about how artists align personal beliefs with public personas. Opera has long been a forum where gender, power, and voice intersect. For a performer who can inhabit a 300-year perspective as if it were second nature, the tension between personal identity and a stage persona offers fertile ground for interpretation. The soprano remains clear that artistry does not require uniform political alignment to convey universal human experiences—joy, fear, longing, and resilience.
Conclusion: the art of enduring performance
In the end, Ausrine Stundyte’s process is a reminder that great singing is a method of living truthfully within a story. Her work—rooted in trauma, tempered by adrenaline, and informed by centuries of character—proves that the most challenging roles can illuminate not just a character’s history, but the audience’s as well. For listeners and readers alike, the conversation around such performances is less about agreement and more about immersion: letting the voice carry you across time, pain, and possibility.
