“Being a supernumerary is like being handed an all-access pass to the opera”

I’ve always loved opera and tried to see as much of it as possible. When I was a university student with a limited budget, that usually meant watching livestreams and the occasional Met Opera broadcast in movie theatres. So, when I saw an open casting call in 2013 for more than 100 supernumeraries for Dialogues of the Carmelites at the Canadian Opera Company, I thought it would be fun to apply. Being a super­numerary—a non-singing extra in an opera—is like being handed an all-access pass. All I had to do was send in my measurements and a headshot. To my surprise, they got back to me within a couple of weeks with a date for a costume fitting. I was in.

A few days later, I went down to the COC’s rehearsal space, a huge hall in a former factory on Front Street. Dialogues of the Carmelites is set during the French Revolution, so I was outfitted in a ripped shirt, trousers and an overcoat with the sleeves removed. Our contracts stipulated that we’d have to attend 30-plus rehearsals, each of which was between two and four hours. We’d get an honorarium of roughly $15 for each one. In other words, it was essentially a volunteer gig.

The production staff walked us through the show, our roles and what we had to do onstage. We were common folk—meant to represent the looming uprising—gathered outside a noble’s house at night. The directions were specific: we had to stare threateningly at one of the people singing, then slowly shift our gaze to another character. Rehearsing in our street clothes in a bright room, we did our best to project menace.

Over the next two and a half months, rehearsals progressed from weekly to nightly. At first, we practised in the rehearsal space, accompanied by a piano. As the premiere approached, we shifted to the Four Seasons Centre, and then the orchestra joined us. The first time we rehearsed with the musicians was surreal—it was like diving into a deep pool, like swimming through music. Moving with my fellow supers, I was a small cog in a well-oiled machine. It was electrifying.

When opening night came around, I felt surprisingly calm—we’d rehearsed so much, and it helped that I was just one person in a crowd. Three years later, when I got my first role in the spotlight—as an apprentice bullfighter in Carmen—I finally felt the nerves. I keep a framed picture of myself just before going on in that production, complete with a stiff smile and a thousand-yard stare, as a reminder of one of the most terrifying and brilliant things I’ve ever done.

All told, I’ve appeared in 10 COC productions, including La Traviata, Madama Butterfly (I was onstage for 20 seconds total) and Louis Riel. In Siegfried, I played one of many corpses lying outside a dragon’s lair—I had to stay still on a hard floor for an hour and a half. On the plus side, I was a metre away from Stefan Vinke, the astounding German tenor playing Siegfried. He has the most powerful voice I’ve ever heard, and I had the best “seat” in the house.

My parts have gotten bigger over time. In a 2016 production of Götterdämmerung, I played a raven messenger for Odin, which involved more than an hour of makeup for just two minutes on stage. In the Italian comedy Don Pasquale last spring, I played a kid who becomes entranced with the first TV he’s ever seen—and suffers an existential crisis when it’s taken away. My costume: a lime-green communion suit three sizes too small.

Lately, I’ve had to say no to roles because of my day job, so I’m looking forward to the winter season, when I’ll be more available. Being part of a professional production is incredible—you feel plugged in to the cultural life of the city.