10 Minutes with... Marin Alsop

Legendary conductor Marin Alsop returns to Tanglewood this summer. On Thursday, August 13, Alsop will appear as a guest lecturer for the Tanglewood Learning Institute, presenting The Art of Conducting at the Linde Center, an exploration of one of music’s most fascinating and misunderstood professions. On Sunday, August 16, she leads the Tanglewood Music Center Orchestra in a program featuring Anna Clyne’s Masquerade, Bruch’s beloved Violin Concerto No. 1 with soloist Ray Chen, and Mahler’s Symphony No. 5.

Few conductors have shaped the modern orchestral landscape as profoundly as Alsop. A MacArthur “Genius” and the first woman to lead major orchestras around the world, she has built a career defined by innovation, education, and audience engagement. From her groundbreaking tenure with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra and the creation of OrchKids, to the founding of the Taki Alsop Conducting Fellowship and her current leadership positions with the Polish National Radio Symphony Orchestra, the Philharmonia Orchestra, The Philadelphia Orchestra, and the Ravinia Festival, Alsop has consistently challenged assumptions about what a conductor can be. Tanglewood, however, remains one of the most important places to her. As a conducting fellow in the late 1980s, she studied with Leonard Bernstein, Seiji Ozawa, Gustav Meier, and other musical giants, forging relationships and experiences that would help shape the rest of her career.

You’ve stated that you knew you wanted to be a conductor when you were nine years old, after seeing Leonard Bernstein at a Young People’s Concert. He later became a mentor and friend. But you didn’t get to conduct for many years, because— as you’ve explained—there is no track for conductors. Ultimately, you realized the only way you were going to get to conduct was if you formed your own orchestra, which is very entrepreneurial. Tell me about how that evolved–and what were some early lessons you learned as a “start up”?

I think young conductors often ask me, “How do I get a manager?” And I

try to educate them about the fact that a manager will not make your career. You have to determine your own career. That was certainly my experience. Starting my own orchestra was really out of necessity. “Desperation” might be too dramatic a word, but it was out of necessity because I really wanted to practice conducting, and you donʼt have an instrument otherwise. So, I started my own orchestra. I gained not only conducting skills, but, really, that was almost the byproduct. The most important thing was inviting all of my friends who were very direct and very honest. I consider those friends to have been my first conducting teachers, because they gave me so much feedback. At the same time, I learned all of the ancillary aspects of the orchestral world. I learned how to build a board. I learned how to fundraise. I learned how to create a budget. I learned how to ticket a hall. I learned how to market a concert. I learned how to develop programs that would attract audiences in a very competitive environment like Manhattan. And I learned how to stay true to myself through all of that and follow my own artistic vision. The benefits and takeaways from starting my own orchestra when I was in my twenties were enormous. In some ways, one of the challenges may have been that I knew too much. I knew a little too much about how the sausage was made. But I still wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.

Young musicians are not always taken seriously. It’s also true that once you are successful, audiences (and orchestras) have certain expectations of you. Once you’re named a “Genius” by the MacArthur Foundation, there’s no going back. So, how do you navigate your complex schedule—and the mandate of living up to your own reputation?

I think one of the wonderful things about getting older is that eventually you stop worrying too much about maintaining a certain reputation or living up to other people’s expectations. I let those expectations go quite a while ago. I feel enormously privileged to do what I do. It’s a gift. It’s a joy. It’s hard work, too, of course, but anything worth doing is hard work. For me, it’s about trying to keep some kind of balance, even within my insane schedule. One challenge is that I don’t really want to do the same thing over and over again. I want to keep pushing myself. I want to do new things. I want to take on new projects. I want to visit new countries. I want new challenges. I think that’s what keeps me on this treadmill. But it’s a treadmill thatI try to direct intentionally. As soon as I start to feel comfortable—when a project is successful, when an audience has been built, when something feels settled—I tend to want to move on and see what else I can do. That’s just who I am. I think being in charge of your own destiny is one of the most satisfying paths one can take in life. I try to tell my son that he should find a job that never feels like work. If you can do that, you’re in pretty good shape. And he’s a lot like me in that he wants a collage of different activities that complement one another but aren’t repetitive. That’s what I’ve always been striving for. Even now, I’m working on a huge video project. I’m rewriting a story with a team of people, including another MacArthur Fellow. I’m starting a new orchestra in Ireland, because I’m an Irish citizen. There are always new things. They may not be as dramatic as starting that first orchestra decades ago, but if you look at my career, that’s always been my natural impulse. I stay connected to all the places I’ve worked. I maintain great relationships with my former orchestras. I go back often. But generally, after six, seven, eight years, I want to hit refresh and see how I can push myself in a new artistic direction.

You’ve built relationships over time, as you just mentioned. But when you walk in as a guest conductor, I’m sure it is a whirlwind experience, given the number of people involved both on stage and off, and the “asks” of you are enormous, whether that’s rehearsal, meeting with administration, students, or VIPs and sponsors. What is your routine, and how do you typically navigate a new room— getting an unknown orchestra “on your side” so that you can work together fast to deliver a stellar performance?

I think my greatest advice is simply to be yourself. Really. There’s no tactic. There’s no trick.

I like to work hard. I like to finish early when we can. I like to make sure everything gets done. I think I’m very fast-moving for some orchestras, and I think that can be a little alarming at first. I try to modulate that depending on the country, actually. And I find that humor is probably my best partner in building relationships. I think I have a fairly healthy sense of humor, especially about myself, and I don’t take myself too seriously. That goes a long way with artists, particularly people who have very strong personalities and strong egos. And I always try to treat my musicians with great respect.

We just discussed how you approach “the room.” Let’s talk about working with soloists. You’ll be joined this summer at Tanglewood by violinist Ray Chen. Your main instrument was the violin. How do you personally approach communicating with a soloist?

Well, I think the conductor’s role becomes a little bit different when there’s a soloist involved. It’s more of a supportive role. Of course, it depends on the piece and the context, but generally I try to support the soloist’s vision, even if it doesn’t align one hundred percent with my own vision. Unless it seems radically divergent from what I believe the composer intended, I really try to support them. So, I wouldn’t say it’s a subservient role, but it is a different kind of collaborative role. Rather than being the ultimate accountable person, you become more of a partner to the person who is taking center stage.

Without naming names, can you share a situation in which you found yourself disagreeing with a collaborator on anew work? I’m curious if there are lessons from those situations that might be useful to young conductors and musicians reading this article. How do you approach conflict—and finding resolution?

I certainly have had conflicts with composers. I’ve worked with hundreds of young composers and not-so-young composers. Again, it’s a matter of approaching everything with respect and sensitivity. If I had to identify the most common challenge with new works, I would say that often they’re too long. They need editing. And composers tend to have a very difficult time hearing that. I’ve had that conversation many, many times with composers, I would say, with limited success. But hopefully it’s something they continue thinking about as the piece evolves. In terms of working on new concertos with soloists, I try to be the advocate for the composer while also representing the orchestra. I don’t want the musicians to get sidelined. And I try to be a conduit for the soloist as they develop their understanding of the piece. So, I think it’s really about diplomacy. Which is something we could use a lot more of these days. And respect. That’s another thing we could use a lot more of.

You first came to Tanglewood as a conducting fellow in the late 1980s. What’s your first memory of Tanglewood?

It was 1988. You know, it felt very familiar. It felt like home. I had spent a lot of time in Saratoga Springs, which isn’t very far away, so the foliage, the geography, the topography—all of it felt familiar tome. Maybe I can share a couple of things. It was meaningful on many levels. Not just meeting Lenny. One of the first people I met there was Maurice Abravanel. Maurice was responsible for giving my father his first job when he was, I think, around 20 years old in the Utah Symphony. My father played violin and doubled on bass clarinet, which is pretty funny. If there was a big bass clarinet piece, he’d switch instruments. But Maurice was the one who told my father, “You have too much talent. You can’t stay here. You need to go to New York and study.” So, here I was, decades later, working with Maurice at Tanglewood. My father would come and sit in on my rehearsals. He’d sit with Maurice. It was emotionally very satisfying and very moving. So, there was that. And then in 1989, I met my partner. So, Tanglewood was eventful for me, even outside of working with Bernstein. Obviously, becoming close with Bernstein was enormous. But I was already 31 or 32 years old. I understood what an incredible and singular opportunity Tanglewood represented. So, I worked as hard as I could. I was studying constantly. Really, really working. Seiji Ozawa was wonderful to me. Gustav Meier became not only my teacher but one of my closest friends in life. So, it was rewarding on every single level.