The soprano Asmik Grigorian is one of the most sought-after singers in the world. And she is now performing one of her signature roles — Tatiana, the heroine of Tchaikovsky’s “Eugene Onegin” — at the Metropolitan Opera in New York.
Grigorian, 44, grew up in Vilnius, Lithuania, the daughter of an Armenian tenor and a Lithuanian soprano. Following in her parents’ footsteps, she became an opera singer, beginning her career abroad before establishing herself at home. Her profile continues to grow, in part because of her rare silky, steely, light-dark voice type of Falcon soprano and her immersive approach to acting.
Crucial to her rise have been her performances as Tatiana, a Russian girl who spends her time immersed in French literature. In Tchaikovsky’s adaptation of the classic Pushkin novel-in-verse, Tatiana is close to nature and her faith, destined for the saintliness of her namesake, Tatiana of Rome. She falls in love with the foppish rogue Onegin and exposes her heart to him in a long letter. But Onegin rejects her in person, holding an apple, Eden’s forbidden fruit.
Events turn nightmarish in the second act when Lensky, the suitor of Tatiana’s sister, is killed by Onegin in a duel. Eventually, Tatiana marries into wealth and leaves her bucolic bramble for St. Petersburg, where she and Onegin meet again many years later. She has matured into dignified radiance; he is an outcast. When he declares his love, she rejects him and strides offstage while Onegin falls to his knees, an irrelevant man.
Tchaikovsky wrote “Onegin,” which the Met will broadcast live on Saturday, for students at the Moscow Conservatory, where he taught in the 1870s. At first, just four scenes were performed — all the students could pull together. In 1879, the contralto who had recommended Pushkin’s novel to Tchaikovsky, Elizaveta Lavrovskaya, sang the role of Tatiana’s sister, Olga, at the St. Petersburg home of another singer, the mezzo-soprano Yuliya Abaza, who played Tatiana.
Calibrated for modest settings, the opera found success in salons and domestic theaters with performers gathered around the piano. Those who heard it liked it. On Jan. 11, 1881, “Onegin” had its professional premiere at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow; later, the Mariinsky Theater in St. Petersburg mounted a production overseen by the czar with new sets and costumes, as well as additional music by Tchaikovsky for the final ballroom scene.
Over time, Tatiana grew into one of the greatest soprano roles in the repertoire. In an interview between performances at the Met, Grigorian discussed what she thinks about this character. These are edited excerpts from the conversation.
Let’s begin with Pushkin and whether Russian operas like “Eugene Onegin” were often performed in Lithuania.
Yes, we read “Eugene Onegin” in the third and fourth grade, and it was the strangest thing at that age. There was no understanding at that age, no meaning to be found in it.
The Russian classics were performed then, but not now. In fact, my first Tatiana was with Vilnius City Opera, which I co-founded, and it comes with a funny personal story involving my daughter’s father, who was directing the same opera at the other company, the Vilnius National Opera. He asked me to audition. I couldn’t, but that’s how we met.
You’ve sung Tatiana for 10 years now. Has your interpretation of this character changed?
A lot. I don’t think of characters as characters. I put myself into the roles, and when I learned this opera, which is incredibly well written, I realized that we all use these words, have these memories, these teenage feelings. Now it is much easier for me to perform the third act than the first. When I got the proposal from the Met to do Tatiana, I thought that I’d already be 44 and couldn’t do it. But I remembered all the dramas you suffer when you are 16, so you still retain all those feelings. Now, the final scene is much better developed.
Olga seems less imaginative than Tatiana, more conventional. Do they have a close relationship, or does Tchaikovsky want us to think of them as opposites?
It depends on the production. Olga is considered younger, more childlike, not very deep. But in fact no one cares enough to notice her deepness. She sings in a low register that expresses her struggle. She would also like to immerse in books. Olga might in fact be a deeper person than Tatiana, but no one sees her for who she is. I’d also say that about Onegin. He’s just weak. He tries his best. He doesn’t know how to be loved. The words he uses with Lensky — I love you like a brother — are the same words people use today.
I was surprised to see how tender Tatiana was with her husband. Is there true love there, or is it a marriage of convenience?
This is the first Tatiana that I’ve sung in the original historical period. Most productions are modern, which makes it difficult to understand why she’s entered into an arranged marriage. In my imagination it’s an actual relationship, an amazing partnership; there’s a real connection.
Tatiana isn’t Carmen, or Mimì, or Tosca. The part is more intimate, a study of interiors. How do you create such intimacy on a massive stage?
I’ve been on the stage for 21 years and have learned this type of multitasking. When you are open with your feelings you are loud, and when you are closed you are silent. Having both experiences at once is the challenge. There are no monologues in opera. If you truly go inside of yourself, the voice goes inside as well. But it’s never inside. The voice, this object, needs to be outside of yourself. So there is a dialogue in this scene, me with myself, but also with Onegin in front of me.
In the letter scene, you make time stop. The climax, the fourth Romance, is exquisitely drawn out. How much control do you have over the pacing?
I’ve worked a lot with the conductor, Timur Zangiev, so I have a lot of freedom to do what I feel in the moment during this scene. This is what makes a live performance special, the ability to create in the moment is the magic, theater’s greatest gift.
When she meets Onegin at the end, Tatiana is dressed in red, and then in funereal black. She declares her love for Onegin but explains that they can never be together. And then she walks away, slowly.
Yes, this is my favorite part. As an artist I’ve come to love silences, the pauses, as much as the sounds. There is this waiting feeling, anything can happen, and a great distance opens up here between reality and something else.
What are your dream roles, and how has your voice changed?
My voice has pushed higher recently, into Falcon soprano range, but I wouldn’t want to assign myself a specific voice type, put myself in a specific box. Sometimes I don’t even think of myself as an opera singer, though I have that professional training.
I’ve never dreamed about specific roles, I never dreamed about singing, but now that I’ve sung all these roles — 60 of them — I find in them a connection to myself, also a connection to my mother and the roles she sang: Madame Butterfly, Norma. I’d like to do Katerina Izmaylova [of Shostakovich’s “Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk”]. If it’s not too late, I’d like to record the Armenian opera “Anoush,” which I sang 18 years ago. But my calendar is full until 2031.
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