Post by Stephany on Oct 7, 2007 18:59:59 GMT
Hello everybody! 
It is highly possible that the following 2004 article has already been posted on the forum but nothing came up when I used the search engine so hopefully this is not a double-post. If not, please let me know and I'll close this topic. It's an old article but I found it quite interesting.
Stephany
It is highly possible that the following 2004 article has already been posted on the forum but nothing came up when I used the search engine so hopefully this is not a double-post. If not, please let me know and I'll close this topic. It's an old article but I found it quite interesting.
Almost a Diva
By Linda Lee.
The New York Times (April 25, 2004)
She is just like any teenage girl, but taller, thinner, prettier and she spends her spare time writing notes to the opera singer Kiri Te Kanawa. Like Dame Kiri, the teenager, Hayley Westenra, is from New Zealand and a singer, but not just any singer. She has sold more than a million copies of her classical album, ''Pure,'' and worries that turning 17 ''sounds old.''
Early this month, at the Asia Society headquarters on Park Avenue, she was performing for 150 guests invited by Tourism New Zealand. The performance was set for 8 p.m. It was now 6:30. And so Ms. Westenra killed time in her dressing room with her father, Gerald Westenra -- the surname is Dutch -- and her manager, Steve Abbott.
She wore a green sweater, jeans and clunky, thick-soled boots. Hanging behind her was the filmy Jenny Packham top she would wear on stage. ''It's glitzy,'' she said, ''so you can wear it with jeans.'' Not really a classical musician's outfit, even with the stiletto heels, but then she is working on being a Josh Groban-style crossover act.
''I should have brought something to do,'' she complained lightly. She pulled a magazine, Twist, out of her bag. ''I think it's aimed at 14- or 15-year-olds,'' she said dismissively.
She turned to her manager, ''Want some tea?'' She and her family (her parents, a younger brother and a younger sister) moved to London for four months so she could record ''Pure'' with the producer Sir George Martin (the Fifth Beatle). Now they are all moving to New York.
On a dressing table in front of her was a fruit plate that included, rather obviously, sliced kiwi.
''You don't eat kiwi before singing,'' she said. ''Too acid. Pineapples are good. No bananas. No dairy.''
''We're all vegetarian,'' Mr. Abbott said.
''The one time I've got time, and I've got nothing to do,'' Ms. Westenra complained again. She turned to a letter she was writing to Dame Kiri.
''Should I say she doesn't look 60?'' Ms. Westenra asked.
''No,'' her manager advised. ''Make it light.''
''Like happy 60th birthday?'' she asked.
''Keep it light,'' he said again. ''Happy birthday.''
She furrowed her brow and began writing. It was just a draft, not the final thing. ''I don't think I want to muck it up on the card,'' she said. ''It's pretty important.''
At 7 p.m., Mr. Abbott reviewed the evening -- a little introduction, someone gives her a present. ''And I say, it's great to be back in New York tonight,'' Ms. Westenra responded.
''So talk slowly,'' he said.
''That's my one downfall,'' she said.
At 7:30, she began writing the actual note to Dame Kiri. And at 7:50, she sprang into action, putting on more makeup. ''I've been layering on makeup all day,'' she said. ''After a while the novelty wears off.'' She warmed up with scales and vowels that made her sound like R2D2: ah-mee-ah, mm.
There was a knock on the door, and in came John Wood, the United States ambassador to New Zealand, and his wife, Rose. ''How nice to see you again,'' he told Ms. Westenra.
The ambassador left, her father and her manager stepped outside, she jumped into her filmy top, pencil-legged jeans and heels, and was ready. Dry ice created fog on the stage, where a guitarist sat. Mr. Abbott stood at the side and said, ''Break a leg,'' as she stepped out and did a half-hour show, beginning with her signature song, ''Pokarekare Ana.''
She didn't speak too fast. She seemed surprised when she was given a New Zealand pashmina. She said it was great to be back in New York. Her new video of ''Pokarekare Ana'' -- waves, seashore, sand, special effects -- played on a large screen, and before 9 p.m. it was over.
But not her work. She scraped the makeup off her face -- ''I hate wearing foundation,'' she said -- and went out front to sign albums and greet guests. A young admirer approached her in the lobby and gushed, ''You should be in Teen People.''
''Oh,'' Ms. Westenra said. ''I've heard of that.''
By Linda Lee.
The New York Times (April 25, 2004)
She is just like any teenage girl, but taller, thinner, prettier and she spends her spare time writing notes to the opera singer Kiri Te Kanawa. Like Dame Kiri, the teenager, Hayley Westenra, is from New Zealand and a singer, but not just any singer. She has sold more than a million copies of her classical album, ''Pure,'' and worries that turning 17 ''sounds old.''
Early this month, at the Asia Society headquarters on Park Avenue, she was performing for 150 guests invited by Tourism New Zealand. The performance was set for 8 p.m. It was now 6:30. And so Ms. Westenra killed time in her dressing room with her father, Gerald Westenra -- the surname is Dutch -- and her manager, Steve Abbott.
She wore a green sweater, jeans and clunky, thick-soled boots. Hanging behind her was the filmy Jenny Packham top she would wear on stage. ''It's glitzy,'' she said, ''so you can wear it with jeans.'' Not really a classical musician's outfit, even with the stiletto heels, but then she is working on being a Josh Groban-style crossover act.
''I should have brought something to do,'' she complained lightly. She pulled a magazine, Twist, out of her bag. ''I think it's aimed at 14- or 15-year-olds,'' she said dismissively.
She turned to her manager, ''Want some tea?'' She and her family (her parents, a younger brother and a younger sister) moved to London for four months so she could record ''Pure'' with the producer Sir George Martin (the Fifth Beatle). Now they are all moving to New York.
On a dressing table in front of her was a fruit plate that included, rather obviously, sliced kiwi.
''You don't eat kiwi before singing,'' she said. ''Too acid. Pineapples are good. No bananas. No dairy.''
''We're all vegetarian,'' Mr. Abbott said.
''The one time I've got time, and I've got nothing to do,'' Ms. Westenra complained again. She turned to a letter she was writing to Dame Kiri.
''Should I say she doesn't look 60?'' Ms. Westenra asked.
''No,'' her manager advised. ''Make it light.''
''Like happy 60th birthday?'' she asked.
''Keep it light,'' he said again. ''Happy birthday.''
She furrowed her brow and began writing. It was just a draft, not the final thing. ''I don't think I want to muck it up on the card,'' she said. ''It's pretty important.''
At 7 p.m., Mr. Abbott reviewed the evening -- a little introduction, someone gives her a present. ''And I say, it's great to be back in New York tonight,'' Ms. Westenra responded.
''So talk slowly,'' he said.
''That's my one downfall,'' she said.
At 7:30, she began writing the actual note to Dame Kiri. And at 7:50, she sprang into action, putting on more makeup. ''I've been layering on makeup all day,'' she said. ''After a while the novelty wears off.'' She warmed up with scales and vowels that made her sound like R2D2: ah-mee-ah, mm.
There was a knock on the door, and in came John Wood, the United States ambassador to New Zealand, and his wife, Rose. ''How nice to see you again,'' he told Ms. Westenra.
The ambassador left, her father and her manager stepped outside, she jumped into her filmy top, pencil-legged jeans and heels, and was ready. Dry ice created fog on the stage, where a guitarist sat. Mr. Abbott stood at the side and said, ''Break a leg,'' as she stepped out and did a half-hour show, beginning with her signature song, ''Pokarekare Ana.''
She didn't speak too fast. She seemed surprised when she was given a New Zealand pashmina. She said it was great to be back in New York. Her new video of ''Pokarekare Ana'' -- waves, seashore, sand, special effects -- played on a large screen, and before 9 p.m. it was over.
But not her work. She scraped the makeup off her face -- ''I hate wearing foundation,'' she said -- and went out front to sign albums and greet guests. A young admirer approached her in the lobby and gushed, ''You should be in Teen People.''
''Oh,'' Ms. Westenra said. ''I've heard of that.''
Stephany
