Let me prove to you that diction is a pianta ascosa.

Plants are reputably silent creatures and diction, just like them, is mute.

Diction's audible consequences have nothing to do with diction per se, diction is mute.

Diction is a structure you impart to your though (or viceversa? that is being debated): hence, in its truest essence, diction is mute.

I should begin every coaching session and masterclass with such statement, in order to avoid all possible misunderstandings: if you come to me to be better understood - like, verbally - when you're singing, you may as well save your money: not even Italian audiences understand operatic Italian, verbally, not anymore anyways, and that is so not the point.

The plot, all together, the narration, is so not the point.

Do you need to know the plot behind a Raffaello painting - the facts of the life of the portrayed saint, or madonna - in order to appreciate it? Not at all. The plot, the narration - in any (elevated) art form, and most definitely in Opera - is a lame excuse. Myths, mythology... that'd be talking.

Sometimes the plot was meant to be smoke and mirrors for the non-professionals to be distracted by, for the non-subscribed to the Dead Poets Society (or to the Cantare Italiano Newsletter) to be entertained.

But you don't need a plot, if you have a plan...t.

And if you have plants, you may likely have feet, too. Y'know?

Alright, let me explain.

1. Vieni, ben mio: tra queste piante ascose... (Susanna in Nozze)

2. L'error d'un'alma amante fra quest'ombre e queste piante sempre ascoso... (Fiordiligi in Così)

Does the similarity of these two DaPontian quotes raise any suspicion, in you?

What the hell are these piante? What is with these girls, wanting to be ascose (in their error, furthermore) amidst them?

Ferrando comes in help: "Io tremo e palpito dalla testa alle piante" - so the piante are the feet! Piante is a synecdoche for piedi, and (drumroll, please)

piedi are the most elemental metric elements of the poetic Italian verse.

Piedi are the Lego bricks of Italian, hence of Music: be them oxytone (parole tronche: the 1, in Music), paroxytone (parole piane: the 2, in Music) or pro-paroxytone (parole sdrucciole: the 3, in Music).

As I have already said elsewhere, in the bohème of the poet Rodolfo la chiave (the rhyme) della stanza (of the verse) al buio (to the word buio) non si trova (cannot be found, for buio knows no rhyme, in Italian, in spite of the fact that trovare the rhyme is the very job of the expert trovatore, one who "conosce il mestier"), because it's poetry slang, before it being a plot twist.

And so are the piante ascose where Susanna and Fiordiligi are hiding: they are hardly plants of the green kind, they are poetry plants (of the tricolore kind)!

Tra queste piante ascose ("amidst these hidden poetic meters")

Ti vo' la fronte ("I want to make fronte": that is the name of the initial part of the stanza)

Incoronar di rose - ("rhyme with the word rose" in the sirma: the final part of the stanza).

The entire Susanna solo night scene in the garden is some sort of poetry speakeasy, and not by chance it is another Da Ponte invention from scratch, there is no trace of it whatsoever in the original Beaumarchais.

In this scene, as we all know, Susanna is impersonating the Countess. The two literate girlfriends had previously written a plan of such scene, which was of course delivered in verses (la Canzonetta sull'Aria), and which involved the piante (i pini del boschetto) from the beginning.

So now Susanna is there, dressed as the Countess and furthermore faking her voice by imitating her previously heard recitativo "E Susanna non vien...", simply changing the words into "Giunse alfine il momento...", but keeping the same notes and values in the same key of C major.

For that is how you rendered the making of an impression on a score, back in time: you are welcome (and yes, understanding all this dropped my, jaw, too).

But this scene doesn't serve the plot, it serves poetry.

Susanna is not only imitating Rosina in the clothing and in the sprezzatura speech, but also in the content: just as Cherubino's songs are copy-pasted by Da Ponte from Petrarch's, Susanna's nocturne is a Tasso madrigal:

Ecco mormorar l’onde [qui mormora il ruscel]
e tremolar le fronde a l’aura mattutina [qui scherza l'aura]

...
l’aura è tua messaggera, e tu de l’aura [che col dolce sussurro]

ch’ogni arso cor ristaura [il cor ristaura].

This scene was not contemplated in the original plot because not necessary: this is poets, speaking in poetry, to other poets, of Poetry itself, across the centuries, in secret.

Then of course, Susanna is a servant, so she is purposedly butchering a little the original madrigal and filling her mouth with nice-sounding words that she is parroting without knowing their meaning... but isn't that precisely what Opera is all about?

(Have you seen The Shawshank Redemption? That's exactly what the main character says, in the Canzonetta scene.)

So diction is mute. And quite secretive. Secret society stuff.

Not only diction must never - ever - be detectable visually, on your face (which is what Belcanto calls suono coperto) but diction shouldn't be audible either. Coperta, ascosa.

Can you see the steel structure inside a finished building? I guess not. Is it there? I guess so.

Can you see the preparatory carbon drawing, in an oil painting? I guess not. Could that painting have been painted without it? I guess not either.

If you raise your hand against the sky, do you see a black line defining it? I guess not. Can you tell, though, where your hand ends and the sky begins? I guess so.

Diction is all those structures and shapes - the piante ascose - you think in, and they're mute. Which doesn't mean that they're not there, or there would be no there, there.

You relate diction to your mouth because you are singers, but instrumentalists use it, too; or better, diction is possibly even more, crucial, to instrumentalists, who do not have the support of verbal words, than it is to singers. A pianist, a drummer must have the most excellent diction, phrasing, syntax. (Have you ever heard an Italian pianist play Bach with Italian legato? LOL.)

Diction is the name we give to what we perceive as the architecture of language in Time: it's nothing but abstract, left-brain-encoding-decoding, delusional-perspective-making sh*t. Diction has nothing to do directly with a narration, with a plot.

What we need, deep inside, aren't stories, but perfect shapes in vivid colours: our eyes, ears, mouths - need patterns of tangible, inexplicable, memorable pleasure.
For, if something doesn't come in an exact, simple pattern, we will hardly memorise it.

You need diction like solfège.

(And yet, can you hear a musician's solfège when he's playing at Carnegie Hall? I hope, not.)

In fact, diction is, the most basic and ancient form of solfège.

Before we found ways and supports to notate music - which of course happened in Italy and in Italian, for the same reasons of binary, simple chiaroscuro and prospettiva intrinsic in the language elsewhere explained, the meter of the verse was the only solfège available: it provided rhythm and a certain degree of intonation, too (most of the times, from the lyrics we could also figure out the mode it had to be performed in, hence retrive the melody).

You need diction - and need it badly - like you nee solfège: to read and comprehend Music - you, yourself.

Secondarily, and as a consequence, you will benefit of that same diction to be understood by others when you make Music - but that's trivial, really.

What matter is that it takes a poet, to get (an aria from) another poet.

The last phrase in our national anthem recites: "Stringiamci a coorte: l'Italia chiamò." (Let's come together in cohorts, for Italy is calling us".)

Poets heard such call from the very voice of l'Italia.

By calling her poets, Italy called herself together, she found herself.
It took her almost one thousand years, but she managed. Brava.

That voice and her call, I hear it, and I try to make it heard.

That is my job: conosco il mestier. For it takes a poet, to get a poet.

Cantare Italiano is an aria che spira tra piante ascose: a breeze breathing through hidden, silent meters (diction). And if this I've just formulated isn't the most perfect and synthetic analogy for Belcanto technique, I don't know what is.

L'Italia che io vedo è una trovata. Poetica. Geniale.

La Maestra

extremely good at this (Graham Vick)

a fantastic coach, extremely helpful for young singers as well as experienced ones (Barbara Hannigan)

lingual and linguistic genius, almighty for vowel purity (Peter Tantsits)

bringing the language, the music and the characters to life; results of the very highes quality (Paul Nilon)

the foundation of a role, doesn't go on stage if she hasn't worked with me on it (Jennifer Rowley)

magic keystone of vocal technique, musical interpretation and building of the character: a radical rethink of the act of singing (Anna Piroli)

her incredible breadth of knowledge makes me feel entirely prepared (Heather Lowe)

opened up my voice, and a world before my eyes; every Conservatory should benefit of her teachings (Giulia Zaniboni)

a 180° turn in my work with the singers (Theophilos Lambrianidis)

like four professionals in one: taking all those elements and conveying them into one single intention (Yiselle Blum)

invaluable to make a role really succeed on stage (Ariadne Greif)

thoroughly prepared and professional (Marie Kuijken)

her work favours deep understanding, which makes the phrasing and vocal line.

she is entirely devoted to the art of Opera singing, and her students (Ida Falk Winland)

incredibly informed, consistent, knowledgeable Maestro (Michael Corvino)

a lifeboat; carrying the torch of finest Italian Opera (Nathaniel Kondrat)

a cure and a respect of the Music and the words’ musicality

that can be learnt so deeply nowhere else in the world (Matilde Bianchi)

an unconventional guardian angel (Giulia Ferraldeschi)