Greg Stepanich

Hail to Erika, patron of the late bloomer

The Society of Late Bloomers has a new patron saint, and her name is Erika Sunnegårdh.

Sunnegårdh, for those who missed the story Saturday, made her Metropolitan Opera debut Saturday in Beethoven's Fidelio, singing Leonore. She's 40, and made her official professional debut only in late 2004, in her native Sweden, singing Turandot.

The wonderful thing about this story is that she's lived over here for about 20 years, and most of that time, she's been waitressing and singing gigs at various church ceremonies and that sort of thing. She has a great pedigree, as this story shows, but she's basically been toiling outside the full-time music industry for a long time, and now things are starting to happen for her.

She's got a nice Web site, and she's made a recording, too, of some new music (here's the site for that; I can't call up the clips on my computer, so I don't know how it sounds). I heard most of Fidelio on Saturday without knowing who she was, and I was doing other things while it was on, but I remember a big, strong voice as Leonore, and now I wish I'd paid more attention.

Sunnegardh has an interesting little essay on her site about obscurity and fame, part of which reads:

I think we all grow up thinking that somehow, at some point in our lives, we will arrive at this place where we feel significant. Where we rise up out of obscurity. Magically we will feel that we have had some impact, some purpose. I believe we all secretly suspect we ought to be up to something big, something that in the most idealistic sense could be classified as “good.�And unfortunately, I think most of us are attached to the idea that we need a serious number of “witnesses� to our deeds.

She goes on to say there's nothing wrong with obscurity, as long as you make some connection to one other being in your life, and I think she's right about that. There's nothing more important for me than the creative work I do, but it doesn't mean as much unless my wife Sharon has listened to my music or read my writing. In a certain sense, it's all for her, anyway, and when that happens you can count yourself blessed no matter how unknown you are in the wider world.

The thing I like most about the Sunnegårdh story is that she kept at it, finding a new vocal coach a few years ago who steered her in the right direction. She always was working on her art, even when standing around in a polyester tux holding champagne bottles at a party in the Hamptons. And it's that path — the solitary one of seeker and their art — that's important.

We tend to forget that a lot of famous composers and writers were artists first, and that if the fame and recognition came, so much the better. But even the most money-obsessed composers were still trying to solve artistic problems, and it's those things that we remember most, not where they were at the time, or what they were doing, or how broke or rich.

What we remember is what they did as artists, and that's why it's important that even if you write, say, only small works for your local church choir, you have to think about it as a great artistic problem that must be solved, not as something you can do a half-hearted job on because no one's ever heard of you or the choir. It's the art that matters, and the age at which you do it doesn't make a difference.

I think we're going to hear more stories similar to Sunnegårdh's in the future, as people live longer and longer and find fewer reasons to stop them from pursuing their art. For now, she's the role model for folks like me, in our 40s and still at it. Most of us will never make it as far as she has, but she shows us it's still possible.