Performing Edward Elgar’s Sea Pictures is both an honour and a weight to carry.
It’s a work that lives in the hearts of audiences, steeped in tradition and shaped by so many remarkable mezzo-sopranos who have come before. When you step into a piece like this, you’re very aware that you’re entering a lineage — voices, interpretations, and recordings that people know and love. There’s an unspoken pressure that comes with that history.
And then there’s the orchestra.
A full, rich, powerful sound surrounding you. Dozens of musicians. Layers of colour and energy. And in the middle of it all — just one voice. Mine.
It can feel daunting. Exposed, even.
But standing there, something important becomes very clear: no matter how many great mezzos have sung Sea Pictures, no one has sung it quite like this. No one has lived my experiences, felt these texts in the same way, or shaped the phrases with the same instincts. And that’s where the real meaning of performance lies.
There is no single “correct” interpretation.
Of course, there are traditions. There are choices that have become familiar. There are recordings that people return to time and time again. But ultimately, this music only comes alive when a singer brings their own emotional world to it.
These songs are not museum pieces.
They breathe through the person singing them.
Throughout rehearsals and performance, I kept reminding myself of something grounding: my job is not to replicate what has already been done. My job is to respond — honestly and instinctively — to the poetry, the orchestration, and the emotional landscape Elgar creates.
Some moments feel expansive and open, like standing at the edge of the sea itself. Others feel intimate and inward. Some lines ask for warmth, others for stillness. Each choice — a breath, a colour, a phrase shaped in a certain way — becomes part of a personal interpretation.
And that’s the beauty of it.
There is no right.
There is no wrong.
There are only choices.
My choices. My voice. My emotional response to these words and this music.
Performing Sea Pictures reminded me that interpretation is an act of courage. It means trusting your instincts. Letting go of comparison. Allowing yourself to be present within the sound of a big orchestra and still feel grounded in your own artistic identity.
Because in the end, that’s what an audience connects with — not perfection, not imitation, but sincerity.
And when you stand there, held by the orchestra, telling those stories in your own way, the pressure slowly shifts into something else.
Responsibility. Ownership. Expression.
Just one voice — but a voice that carries its own story across the sea.
This is something I care deeply about in my teaching, too. In lessons, I encourage students to discover what they want to say, rather than feeling they must copy someone else or be told exactly how to interpret a piece. Many singers come to me having always been directed what to think and feel, without ever being asked to connect personally with the text. When they begin to explore the words, the meaning, and their own emotional response, something shifts. The voice becomes freer, more honest, more individual. That’s when music becomes truly enjoyable — when you realise you’re allowed to bring yourself into it and create something that feels like your own.
Amicus Orchestra with conductor Alistair Digges, New Auditorium, Royal Concert Hall, Glasgow.