LYUDMYLA MONASTYRSKA: «The Stage Is My Way of Teaching»
Lyudmyla Monastyrska / Photo from personal archive
SHORT PROFILE
Name: Lyudmyla Monastyrska
Date of Birth: May 25, 1975
Place of Birth: Irkliiv, Ukraine
Profession: Singer, soloist of the National Opera of Ukraine
This interview took place the day after a major concert at the National Palace of Arts «Ukraine,» where People’s Artist of Ukraine and Shevchenko National Prize laureate Lyudmyla Monastyrska performed one of the most famous and moving arias in the world of opera — O mio babbino caro from Gianni Schicchi by Giacomo Puccini.
We met to talk about her artistic journey, as well as the I International Opera Singers Competition Recitar Cantando, held at the Odesa Opera and Ballet Theater, where Lyudmyla serves on the jury.
But the conversation began with the topic of childhood.
Zhanna Kryuchkova: «We all come from childhood,» said Saint-Exupéry. After all, childhood is a land that cannot be forgotten. Do you agree?
Lyudmyla Monastyrska: I grew up between two villages in the Cherkasy region — Irkliiv and a neighboring village in the Chornobai district, where both of my parents are from. We were constantly walking from one grandmother, Maria, to the other, Yevdokia — on foot, across the fields, through open space. And those were truly carefree days. I loved that wide space — the village, the air, the ducks and geese on the pond. Wherever I am — even in a noisy metropolis — I still instinctively look for places where I can hear that familiar, gentle silence.
There’s one day from my childhood that’s etched in my memory like a movie scene. We arrive at Grandma’s. We go out into the field, and the irrigation is running. A little fountain. We children bathe under it, like under a shower, in our summer sundresses — laughing, splashing. I must have been about nine. The air is hot, it smells of earth and summer. It was so wonderful! And then — grandma’s house. And always something delicious: borscht, stew, pies…
Or I remember winter — I’m lying on a warm stove, and the house smells of freshly baked bread… Everything was real, everything natural. Fresh milk, fruits, and vegetables. Now everyone is used to store-bought, but back then, the food was genuine. Modern children miss out on that. Back then, food was not just food — it was care. I loved being at my grandmother’s. There was a special kind of energy in that house. I think many children today are in need of that.
Zh. K.: You’re echoing the words of Astrid Lindgren: «Give children more light — and they will light up the world.»
L.M.: I agree with that statement one hundred percent. Children need to be cherished and nurtured. They need light and love. And wise people also say that it’s important not to expect gratitude from children in return. And that’s true as well.
Zh. K.: Could you tell us how you came into the profession?
L.M.: Music was always present in our home. My mother sang, my grandfather sang, my grandmother sang. My grandfather’s favorite song was this one:
Oh, hila, hila,
Little geese, to the pond,
Good evening, girl,
For I haven’t slept yet.
Oh, I haven’t slept,
And I won’t sleep —
So give me, girl,
Something to eat for supper…
No one in Ukraine really knows this song — it lives only in our Chornobai district. I don’t want it to disappear. And in Irkliiv, in our family, there was another one that was often sung:
Hila, hila, gray geese,
Don’t stir the water.
They’ve betrothed the young girl,
And the young Cossack weeps.
Don’t cry, don’t cry, little Cossack,
Don’t cry, don’t grieve.
When I sit by my dowry chest —
Come, my love, and see.
And this song — many people know it. For me, these Ukrainian songs are like the voice of our lineage. My mother had an amazing voice — naturally placed, just like mine. I was lucky to inherit that gift. As a child, I would simply go out into the field and sing — in one breath.
By the age of fifteen, I already felt like a ready-made singer. And at seventeen, I was performing Tosca’s aria — it was with this aria that I graduated from music college, completing the third and fourth years in one year as an external student. I also auditioned for the conservatory with the same aria.
Zh. K.: You are a person of the stage, with a strong voice and a vivid individuality. Have you ever felt the desire to teach?
L. M.: To teach? No… It’s not for me. I’ve been persistently invited to do it for a long time. But I don’t want to. The very process of teaching is incredibly stressful for me. Explaining things — «correct sounds,» breathing, vocal placement… Sometimes it all feels so mechanical that you get tired just thinking about it.
And people are different. Truly — one is gifted by God, and their voice flows so naturally it makes everything around sing. And another one tries, struggles, suffers — but maybe they were never meant to sing at all. Maybe they were meant to write books, dig the earth, direct plays in a theater — anything. And here you are, teaching them to «produce the right sound.» For what? Who needs that? I’m not interested. If someone wants — let them come to the hall, listen. The stage is my way of teaching. But to teach, to «pull» someone along… I don’t like that.
A long time ago, I gave private lessons. But that’s a big responsibility — to take on a child’s fate. What if something goes wrong? That’s no longer just a lesson, that’s a life path being chosen. I say this with complete honesty. Some may judge, some may not understand — but I know myself. A few lessons — fine. But to guide someone, to shape them — honestly, I don’t have a special talent for teaching.
Zh. K.: And who were your teachers?
L. M.: I’m very grateful to my teachers from an ordinary secondary school — they were the ones who brought me to Kyiv. And I immediately ended up studying with Ivan Ihnatovych Palyvoda — at the time, he was the head of the vocal department at the Kyiv Music College named after Reinhold Glière (now the Kyiv Municipal Academy of Music named after Glière). He looked at me and said: «You’ll study vocals with me. We’ll just work on your range — there’s nothing to fix.»
My voice had already matured, the mutation had passed. And I was only 15. It’s an extremely rare case to enter a professional music institution at that age. Palyvoda gradually trained me — in discipline, in vocal sound, in real stage presence. His sister, Diana Ihnatyivna Petrynenko, also played an important role in shaping me.
Back then, I was still a teenager, having just arrived from the Cherkasy region, missing home and my family. There was only one bus from Kyiv to my village — and getting tickets was nearly impossible. Ivan Ihnatovych was like a grandfather to me. He was in his sixties, but he radiated that rare, genuine Ukrainian intellectual elegance that you simply can’t confuse with anything else.
Zh. K.: What was the strength of Ivan Ihnatovych as a teacher?
L. M.: In his gentleness and dignity. He never pressured anyone, never played favorites. He worked with all kinds of voices — he had basses, mezzo-sopranos, high coloraturas. I came in as a solid soprano. Many people, for some reason, think I’m a mezzo — but that’s not true. He understood that right away.
His task was simply to expand my range and strengthen my technique. The lesson started exactly at nine in the morning — no delays. You had to arrive already slightly warmed up, as if after a light workout. He took care of his own health and always emphasized how important it was for me to look after mine.
You know, Italians often ask me where I studied. And I really did receive an excellent vocal education. I’ve performed more than twenty roles — and they’re all very different. Even with Verdi alone, just look at the contrast: Lady Macbeth is one thing, and Leonora from Il Trovatore, which I sang just the day before yesterday, is completely different. Same composer — but such a different vocal nature is required! If you don’t have a proper foundation, you simply won’t manage.
And Ivan Ihnatovych was the one who gave me that foundation. We respected him unconditionally. We never heard a single harsh word or shout from him. I was incredibly lucky — because I’ve heard other stories, where a teacher screams or, excuse me, even puts their hands in your mouth… We never had anything like that. He guided us with genuine care. Most of us were from other towns, living in the dormitory. And he could take us to the cafeteria and buy us a meal with his own money. Just like that. From the heart. He was a true human being.
Zh. K.: Did Ivan Ihnatovych give you any words of guidance that stayed with you throughout your life?
L. M.: Yes. There was one moment… I was very young then, about eighteen. He gave me a collection of opera arias and wrote on the first page — in Ukrainian: «Only through persistent work will these operatic heroines become the jewel of your repertoire.»
And that’s exactly what happened. Everything in that collection — I sing today. Absolutely everything! There’s Cio-Cio-San, and Elisabeth from Don Carlo, and Lady Macbeth from Macbeth, and Amelia from Un ballo in maschera, and Abigaille from Nabucco, and Leonora from Il Trovatore, and the other Leonora — from La forza del destino. There’s also Odabella from Attila, Lucrezia Contarini from I due Foscari, and of course, Aida. That’s an enormous number of roles… I can’t even recall all of them immediately now.
But somehow, he already knew back then. And most importantly — he believed in me. When he passed away — it was a devastating blow. Unfortunately, I began to lose the people dearest to me… In 2004, Ivan Ihnatovych passed away, in 2018 — his dear sister Diana Ihnatyevna, and two years ago — my beloved mother… And each time — it felt like a piece of me was being torn away.
Zh. K.: Lyudmyla, what role did your mother play in your life?
L. M.: A tremendous one. My mother always believed in me. She guided me through life; she wanted me to develop my voice. She worried about my admissions — both to college and to the conservatory. She was always there. We even slept in the same iron bed in the student dorm — head to toe. The kind that always sagged in the middle.
Zh. K.: What was she like?
L. M.: My mother was a true role model for me — in appearance, in upbringing, in inner strength. Always beautiful, well-groomed, refined. In my entire life, I never once heard a harsh word from her — let alone anything vulgar.
She sang in a church choir. But her true calling was teaching. Being a village schoolteacher, like my mother, is noble on the one hand, but incredibly difficult on the other — both morally and physically. I witnessed that from childhood. That’s why I always say: «God bless all teachers with health and patience. It is truly heroic work.»
Zh. K.: You mentioned that in addition to her work as a teacher, your mother also found time to sing in a church choir.
L. M.: Yes, she sang in the choir for over 20 years. Her talents could have filled several lifetimes. My mother was a true bearer of Ukrainian culture — in the deepest and most luminous sense. She had a wonderful hobby — she loved working in the garden and around the house. She always watched two TV channels — Dacha and Usadba. That’s where she got her ideas, which she brought to life with incredible love and taste.
But gardening was just one part of her world. My mother embroidered tablecloths, rushnyks, napkins, and even full-scale pictures. Not just simple cross-stitch — but so masterfully that in the finished works, you couldn’t immediately see the threads: it looked as if the image had been painted with a brush. Large compositions, incredibly fine technique. Her works were exhibited at local shows — we even have photographs of them.
She was born on January 19 — the Feast of the Epiphany — and would smile and say: «My birthday falls on a feast day, in the number.» In folk tradition, that’s how people refer to those born on major church holidays. For her, it was always a special and joyful coincidence. Diligence, care, and love for tradition — everything about her was whole and harmonious.
Zh. K.: As a child, you must have tasted the most delicious borscht in the world…
L. M.: Yes. It was my grandmother’s recipe — a rich borscht with rooster. Not chicken. That gave it a completely different taste: deeper, more aromatic. In our family, we always said «pivnyk» — rooster. My grandmother always soaked the beans the night before. And she added a lot of carrots — maybe that’s why the color of the borscht wasn’t red, but soft, almost amber-orange. Everything in that borscht was homemade — and maybe that’s why the flavor was so unforgettable.
Zh. K.: Considering such an intense touring schedule, what do you need to recover and feel like yourself again?
L. M.: We started our conversation with my memories of the village. And that’s because I truly love open space. Wherever I am — in London, in New York — I always look for some kind of oasis. A place where I can exhale, where I can feel the air, the grass, the silence. In London, for example, it’s St. James’s Park. There’s a spot there — a bit wild, overgrown with sedge and reeds…
It feels like a piece of my Cherkasy region — right in the heart of a metropolis. I’ve found similar places in Central Park in New York, in Munich, and in Paris. I’m always looking for such corners of nature. It’s like resuscitation for me. No, of course I don’t take off my shoes — I wouldn’t want to scare passersby (laughs). But I so badly want to walk barefoot on the grass, to remind myself what it felt like in my childhood!
Zh. K.: Besides borscht, what else do you remember from your family’s traditional cuisine?
L. M.: Oh, I remember the poppy seed dishes. My grandmother even planted a bit of poppy in her garden — it was allowed back then. She ground it herself. It was a whole ritual. She would sit on the floor, place a large mortar — a makytra — between her legs, and grind the poppy seeds with a pestle, adding just a bit of water.
Imagine the effort — it was real physical labor! The poppy would turn pale, and a milky liquid would appear. Then my grandmother would bake fluffy flatbreads. While still hot, she’d tear them into pieces with her hands, pour that poppy milk over them, and add a bit of honey.
That was shulyky — a traditional dish from central Ukraine. It’s often mentioned in literature — for example, by Nechuy-Levytsky in The Kaidash Family. Back then, it all seemed ordinary, but now I remember it and my heart fills with tenderness. Simple food, but it held so much love and warmth.
Zh. K.: Tell us about Irkliiv. That’s where you’re from… What do you remember?
L. M.: It’s an urban-type settlement in the Cherkasy region with deep Cossack roots. It’s over four hundred years old. Even during Soviet times, despite the aggressive Russification, the Ukrainian language continued to live on — in families, in schools, on the streets, in songs. It was passed down from generation to generation. That’s why Ukrainian is my native language. I learned Russian later.
Interestingly, as early as the 18th century, Irkliiv had four functioning Orthodox churches. During the Soviet years, they were destroyed. But in independent Ukraine, the Holy Trinity Church — the one on the hill — was rebuilt. That’s the church where my mother sang. You know, there’s something beautiful — almost ceremonial — about approaching Irkliiv: the church greets you from the hill. In my childhood, Irkliiv was full of life and activity. We had a bakery and even our own butter-and-cheese factory, whose products were exported — can you imagine, from our little town!
And I remember how a boat ran from Cherkasy to Irkliiv, and you could get to Kyiv by river on the Raketa — a high-speed hydrofoil. We even had an industrial port: barges were loaded with sand, stone, and other building materials. There was a proper pier and landing station with a beach nearby — we used to swim there. Now it’s all abandoned, but in my memory — it’s alive.
In addition to the regional airport in Cherkasy, there was another small airfield in the area. I remember flying from there with my parents to Crimea. And Irkliiv even had an amusement park with its own Ferris wheel.
The settlement itself was divided into two parts: the historic part and a more «modern» one. The new part housed an experimental school that implemented progressive teaching methods. I was a child at the time, but I clearly remember how often commissions came to evaluate the innovations. My mother, as a teacher, was deeply involved in that process. It was her life’s work.
Zh. K.: When people talk about your debut in Berlin (Tosca, 2009) or jumping into Aida at Covent Garden, the phrase «at the last moment» often comes up. How do you handle that kind of stress, and what helps you stay calm?
L. M.: I’m really glad you focused on this. I would’ve asked myself the same question. I guess I’m truly very stress-resistant. In general, my motto is: «Be ready — always ready.» I don’t need a long warm-up. I can go into battle at any moment — without overthinking. By the way, I enjoy shooting — both archery and rifle. I hit the bullseye. I think I could’ve been a sniper if I hadn’t become a singer (laughs). It’s all about focus and concentration.
Zh. K.: You’re known as a leading interpreter of Verdi roles — in Aida, Nabucco, Macbeth. Which roles are especially close to your voice — and your soul?
L. M.: I’ve realized that Verdi suits me very well. Especially the bel canto-inspired roles, where everything is built on breath, on the vocal line. For example, Leonora in Il Trovatore — that’s one of them. Or Elisabeth in Don Carlo. And also Amelia in Un ballo in maschera. These three, I’d highlight. And Leonora in La forza del destino — she’s different, not like the Leonora from Il Trovatore. More complex. At least for me. Of course, that’s subjective, because everyone has their own vocal instrument, their own body, their own physiology.
Zh. K.: And which of these heroines is the closest to you on a human level?
L. M.: Elisabeth from Don Carlo. That story is pure drama: she loves Carlo, but marries his father — King Philip. Out of duty. For the sake of the country. For the sake of honor. Can you imagine? That’s very feminine. Sacrifice. But not a showy kind — an internal, deep one. I feel a strong connection to such women — those capable of self-sacrifice. I don’t know why, but something in me resonates with that.
And Aida… that’s a tragedy in its purest form. If you really think about it: she dies in a tomb, alive. No air. She begins to hallucinate. Even the musical phrases reflect that — the intervals are such that you can hear the heroine slowly losing her mind. And it’s so piercing. I love to dive into that. To understand, to live it.
Maybe that’s why my son went into psychology. He’s been studying it for many years now, and I can see that he’s passionate about it — and truly good at what he does.
Zh. K.: It’s well known that you’ve worked with world-renowned stars. How did your collaboration with Plácido Domingo influence your vocal style or stage vision?
L. M.: It had a significant impact. Plácido Domingo and I performed together in I due Foscari — that’s early Verdi — then in Macbeth at the Staatsoper in Berlin. We sang Nabucco in London, Los Angeles, New York, and even in some concert versions — I’ve lost count.
People like Plácido always give you something. For example, he once told me: «Don’t get carried away with your chest register.» At the time, I was singing Macbeth, and some of the phrases — especially in the lower octave — settled easily into my chest voice; my vocal cords allow it. And he said: «If you overuse it, you’ll burn out early. It’s better to focus the sound, to gather it.» I remembered that.
Zh. K.: Is there a particular story involving Plácido that stands out in your memory? What is he like at work and in life?
L. M.: Plácido is a true Spanish caballero. Even now, at his respectable age, he never misses the chance to compliment beauty. When we first met, he walked up to me, smiled, and said, «What beautiful eyes you have!» — and that said it all. For him, that’s natural, it’s in his blood.
But most importantly — he is a professional. In the rehearsal room, whatever the director says — he does, no matter his age or status. If a duet needs to be sung half-lying on the floor — he’ll sing it half-lying. If he has to climb a steep, slippery staircase with no railing — he’ll climb it and sing. Darkness, slanted stages, no support — none of it fazes him. If that’s the concept, he commits.
And many modern productions are dangerous — harnesses, tilted structures, sudden appearances «from nowhere.» Plácido accepts all those risks as part of the art. That’s why working with him as a colleague, and even under his baton (since he’s also a conductor), is easy: full attention, respect for his partners, and total readiness to go all the way. The stories from those «extreme» productions could fill hours — that’s probably a topic for a whole separate interview!
Zh. K.: And how do you remember working with Leo Nucci? That was your debut at La Scala, wasn’t it?
L. M.: Yes, it was my premiere — the role of Abigaille in Nabucco. In 2013… and it feels like it was just yesterday. Time flies. Leo Nucci gave me a true master class during that production. We worked in depth on the heroine’s most famous aria. I recently performed Nabucco in Riga, and colleagues told me: «Perfect!» And that’s all thanks to him.
He shared his secrets, explained the nuances. His main advice — everything must come from the breath. That’s the foundation of both musicality and technique, and of proper placement. The key is not to be «under» the note, but right on it, to keep the intonation pure.
You know, I’ve sung under conductors I once couldn’t have even dreamed of.
James Levine, Riccardo Muti, Zubin Mehta, Christian Thielemann, Daniel Barenboim…
That’s an experience that stays with me forever. Each one of them is a legend, and each has its own school, its own vision, its own approach.
Zh. K.: During the war, you replaced Anna Netrebko in Turandot at the Metropolitan Opera and appeared on stage with a Ukrainian flag. Was that your idea?
L. M.: Yes, it was my idea. Some believe it, some don’t, but that’s exactly how it happened. When Peter Gelb, the general manager of the theater, invited me to sing Turandot, I immediately thought: «I won’t just sing — I’ll walk out with the flag.» I understood it might not be easy — after all, the Met is an international theater, with audiences and artists from all over the world. I went up to Peter and asked, «Can I go out with the flag?» He said, «Let me think about it,» and went to consult with others. Then he came back and said, «Yes.» And he brought me the flag himself.
It was important to me. I was proud to step on that stage not only as a singer, but as a Ukrainian. In that moment, I stood on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera and sang, knowing that, across the ocean, my country was going through terrible days. And I felt: I was her voice.
One of the performances, by the way, was a matinée — from the French matinée — meaning it was still daytime in America but already evening in Europe, and the show was broadcast live in HD. That day, all of Europe saw the Ukrainian flag.
Zh. K.: What is your view on the so-called «cancel culture»? Especially in the context of war — is it justified to remove certain names from programs?
L. M.: It’s a complicated question. I studied back when singing Rachmaninoff in the chamber class was mandatory. It was an integral part of our professional development. I myself performed Lisa in The Queen of Spades, Tatiana in Eugene Onegin, and Iolanta — three Tchaikovsky roles, each one brilliant in its own way. Yes, it’s great music, and that can’t be denied.
But today — we live in a different reality. Our homes are being destroyed, our children cannot sleep in peace, and all we can do is pray. It still feels like a nightmare. In such circumstances, the perception of culture in Ukraine changes. This isn’t about censorship. This is about pain.
At the same time, Europe has not introduced any restrictions. The Queen of Spades, The Nutcracker, Swan Lake — all are being performed in full. Because they are not at war. But Ukraine is in a different situation — and this sensitivity should be treated with understanding. It is a reaction to trauma, a wound that hasn’t healed.
On the other hand, in Ukraine now, there’s been a powerful revival of our own, often forgotten music. For example, Keri-Lynn Wilson, the wife of Peter Gelb, general manager of the Met, is working to uncover lost Ukrainian compositions — not only in Ukraine but in archives in Sweden, the U.S., and Canada. This is truly important work. Because it’s not just about a reaction — it’s about reclaiming our own voice.
Zh. K.: How did you respond to the invitation to join the jury of the opera singers’ competition?
L. M.: Honestly, they had to persuade me. I don’t really like competitions — I once took part in them myself and I know how subjective they can be. One person likes coloratura sopranos, another prefers mezzos, someone is into baritones, and someone else is into tenors. Some are drawn to Carmen, others to Lucia. You can’t please everyone.
I really don’t like judging people or hurting anyone’s feelings. But in wartime, any initiative that supports talent and says «life goes on» is more important than ever. So I couldn’t say no to the leadership of the Odesa Opera.
I’ve been working closely with the Odesa National Academic Opera and Ballet Theater for quite a while, primarily with its long-standing director, Nadiya Matviyivna Babych. Alongside her is a reliable team: deputy director Serhii Mühlberg and chief conductor Vasyl Koval. It’s a strong, professional leadership — a pleasure to work with.
And I must say something about the Odesa audience — I’m truly impressed! They are incredibly talented, absolutely sincere. When I’m in Odesa, I love going to the opera house — as a listener. I’ve attended many performances — both opera and ballet — I try to see everything. And every time I look at the audience and think: what a magnificent public Odesa has!
I admire the people of Odesa — they are talented and resilient — so stress-resistant, so strong! Despite all the hardship we’re experiencing now, they continue to grow, to laugh, to enjoy life, to live fully.
Zh. K.: What would you like to see in the competition participants?
L. M.: Our participants are between 18 and 36 — they’re no longer children, but already conscious performers. I don’t expect them to have the maturity of masters, but I do expect individuality. I want to hear not just the note — but character coming through the note. You can feel that right away — whether there’s something alive inside.
Who knows, maybe we’ll discover a natural gem — a voice that makes you think: «Wow! That’s a gift, that’s from God!» That kind of moment is always inspiring. That’s what makes it all worth doing. And that’s the best outcome any competition can have.
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