Gender Equity in the Performing Arts

Gender equity remains elusive in all corners of our society. The classical music industry is no exception.

A 2018 Washington Post article — partly inspired by my own equal pay lawsuit against the Boston Symphony Orchestra — documented a significant gender-based pay gap within American symphony orchestras. To this day, inconsistent, arcane, and secretive pay practices remain the norm at the highest levels of our elite orchestras.

I see hope, however, in the increasing refusal of the next generation of classical artists to simply accept this status quo. What follows is excerpted from the keynote address I delivered to a group of these young artists at the Eastman School of Music’s first-ever Conference on Gender Equity in Music in early 2020:

Today we’re going to cover a lot of ground, both uplifting and challenging. I ask you to join me as we celebrate the nobility of great artistic idealism and underscore our obligation to be more than simply extraordinary artists. Let us express our righteous outrage at a system that has held so many of us back and make the necessary acknowledgment of our own privilege and the ways we’ve benefitted from that same system. And finally, let’s explore what we can do as individuals and discover how to harness the power of community.

Let’s take the approach of “Yes … and.” Yes, we are facing deeply entrenched systemic realities that will be very hard to change … and we have more power than we realize to make those changes. Yes, as artists we must devote ourselves to the highest level of our craft … and as human beings we can and must be much more than that — more empathetic, more curious, more educated, more engaged, more compassionate and brave. Yes, many of us have been held back by unjust systems built on racism, sexism, and other means of oppression … and many of us have also benefited from aspects of that very same system, based our layers of privilege. Yes … and.

My 2019 TEDx talk The Lonely Onlys described an aspect of my life I had kept mostly hidden for the first part of my performance career. I spoke about my experiences with loneliness and isolation. I shared how, once I finally embraced the power of vulnerability, I was able to create meaningful human connections where previously I never imagined I could.

It was deeply uncomfortable to share my story in such a public way. But part of my motivation came from the understanding that the personal is political, a lesson taught to us by the women’s movement of the 1960s and 70s. Especially for those of us who have historically been marginalized — whose experiences have been considered irrelevant — sharing our stories is a way to claim our space, to insist on our relevance, to say “I matter.” Sharing our stories puts a face on difficult issues. It prevents us from dismissing entire groups of people simply because we don’t recognize our common humanity. It’s also a profound way to connect with each other and to break down the walls of isolation that prevent us from joining together and harnessing the power of community.

Each of you has a story that matters, a story that is simultaneously unique and universal, that makes you you, and connects you to others. Here’s a little bit of mine:

My story

My résumé may look like an unmitigated success story: I started my first principal flute job at age 23 and won the principal flute position at the world-class Boston Symphony Orchestra when I was 29. I now balance an elite-level performance career with a thriving Leadership & Life Coaching practice.

But reality is both richer and more complicated than my résumé might indicate.

I didn’t give a lot of careful thought to gender roles early in my career. I knew I lived in a patriarchal society, and I certainly understood that the rules were different for me than for my male colleagues and friends, but I was focused on my goals and I didn’t put much effort into understanding (or trying to change) the underlying power structures that shape our society. I now see that this casual attitude was made possible by my privilege. My ignorance was a luxury afforded to me as a middle class, white, cisgender, able-bodied, straight woman.

When I joined the Boston Symphony Orchestra, however, things changed. I was young, I was female, and in my highly visible principal flute chair I had suddenly become an “only.” (This term is used by social scientists who study the impact of identity in the workplace.)

Onlys come in many forms. You might be the only person of color in your office. Or the only first-generation college student in your freshman class. Or perhaps you are the only person with they/them pronouns in your leadership team. For me, becoming an only was what forced me to truly confront the gender- and race-based systems that exist in our society and in the classical music industry, and to begin to understand how those systems have impacted everything from our pay to whom we feature on our concert programs to our definition of artistic greatness.

To this day, most principal chairs in the top tier of American orchestras are held by men. This is true in my orchestra. Other powerful positions in my organization have also exclusively been held by men: the music director, the artistic administrator, and the orchestra manager. (Happily, we welcomed our first-ever female CEO in June, 2021.) Our guest conductors are nearly all male.

I’m the only female member of the small group of principal players who make up the world-renowned Boston Symphony Chamber Players. As a result, I’ve spent thousands of hours as the only woman on stage, in rehearsals and performances, on home turf and on tour. And as the only woman, I felt exposed.

I discovered that when you’re an only, it’s not just that you don’t fit in — it’s that you stick out. And because you stick out, you are scrutinized, you are judged differently, and you have to meet a higher standard. As the sole representative of my gender, I felt that I had to be flawless, that I had no margin for error. And I had to do this on my own, without the ease and comfort of fitting in. I felt the constant need to protect myself, to put up walls and barriers so that I would appear strong.

This was exhausting. And lonely.

It’s hard to be an only in any setting; it presents unique challenges in the performing arts. We musicians put everything out there on that stage. We bare our artistic souls and present them to the audience, night after night. Even after decades spent under the stage lights, with all my outward polish and success, it still takes work to sustain the confidence and resilience required to put myself out there.

It’s embarrassing when I make a big mistake in front of thousands. And what’s far worse, what sometimes keeps me up at night and makes me question myself, is when my artistic voice comes into question, when my most personal expressive choices are considered subpar, or mediocre or boring … or too “feminine.” Without powerful self awareness and disciplined thinking, this kind of judgment — about something so deeply personal — can metastasize into the belief that I am subpar, or mediocre or boring.

All musicians experience this kind of subjective judgment. It takes courage to get up on that stage and make ourselves vulnerable in this way. Doing this as an only, under added scrutiny and alone, is that much harder and lonelier.

Being an only has daily, practical implications, too, both big and small. I recall a high-stakes performance I once gave with the Chamber Players. The concert was to be broadcast live to a wide audience, making it an especially high-pressure event. I arrived to the venue fully dressed in my performance attire. (As the only woman in the group, experience has taught me to never count on access to a separate changing room or restroom.) As predicted, we had just one large dressing room to share, so I left while my male colleagues — most of whom had arrived in their street clothes—changed clothes. This by itself wasn’t such a big deal.

Here’s what did matter: during my absence the group was informed that our concert wouldn’t be broadcast live, after all. Yet nobody told me. I performed that night under intense (although no longer warranted) pressure, while my colleagues, who knew otherwise, were able to relax and simply enjoy making music for the local audience.

They didn’t intend to keep this information from me — this is simply the result of not being at the table. Stories like this abound across industry and profession, and these repeated injustices and inconveniences (some small, some enormous) add up over a career.

Being an only ultimately led me down an unanticipated path. In 2018 I filed — and later settled — an equal pay lawsuit against the Boston Symphony Orchestra. This might seem like an enormous step, considering that I had not been an outwardly political person for much of my adult life. But slowly, year after year, something changed. I changed. I had “succeeded,” I had risen to the very top of my field. But being an only had been eye-opening, and I was deeply frustrated that “the top” isn’t the same for everyone. I knew how fortunate and privileged I was … but I wanted to be paid equally, too. And once I took action on my own behalf, I discovered a world of activism and advocacy that opened my eyes, lifted me up, gave me hope, and continues to drive me to speak out. (It also taught me that valuable lesson about vulnerability that I speak about in my TEDx talk.)

Today’s Realities and Challenges

Right now, white women are projected to achieve equal pay in this country in 2069. I’ll be 95 years old. If you’re Black, you’ll have to wait until 2369, a date so far into the future it’s hard to calculate how many generations of granddaughters will still be waiting. If you’re Hispanic or Latina, you’ll wait even longer.

The average gender wage gap right now is about 82 cents on the dollar, which means that over her lifetime, the average woman will earn $400,000 less than the average man.

This gets worse when you break it down by race and ethnicity. The pay gap for Black women is 63 cents to the dollar, Hispanic women, 55 cents.

And even when we account for factors like education, experience, occupation, hours worked … the pay gap still exists. The pay gap actually widens for women at higher education levels. Many complex factors contribute to these numbers, but any way you look at it, women are paid less.

We live in a capitalist society, where money is not just necessary for survival, but is the primary source of power. And that power is almost exclusively wielded by men. Recall the so-crazy-it’s-almost-cliché statistic from 2018, when Fortune 500 CEO’s named James outnumbered the total number of women Fortune 500 CEO’s. In 2019, of the billions of dollars of venture capital money invested in this country, only 3% went to women-led enterprises.

We also see a stark gender imbalance in the stories we tell, and who chooses the stories we think matter. As of 2017, Wikipedia contained over 1.5 million biographies written about people considered to be of significance. Fewer than one in five of these “significant” people were women. And in Hollywood, the heart of popular modern story telling, speaking roles for women remain woefully inadequate.

In the classical music industry, we do no better. Consider our leadership: Conductors, composers, principal players: mostly or nearly exclusively men. Consider our compensation: according to the Washington Post, over 80% of the top earners in US orchestras are men. And consider the stories we choose to tell through the music we play: a 2015 survey of the largest American orchestras showed that less than 2% of the works performed that season were by women composers. Programming choices are finally beginning to shift, but far too slowly.

Our industry is rife with #MeToo stories, abuses of power, and assaults by men in positions of authority. In my own career, in addition to the struggles and isolation of being an only, I’ve been subjected to repeated lewd and inappropriate sexual remarks by male colleagues, made in the presence of other male colleagues who either quietly watched or chuckled in appreciation. I’ve been asked by a conductor to model my gown, beauty pageant style, for his approval, just before taking the stage as a featured soloist. I’ve been told by a colleague (someone with daughters!) that men will always be more successful at winning big orchestra jobs because men are simply more confident and more driven. And I’ve had it easy! Many women have experienced far worse. Non-binary and gender queer folks even more so.

Issues of harassment, gender stereotyping, and abuse of power start early in our musical education and continue through the expanse of our careers, all the way to the very top of the field. It’s striking to consider the amount of creative and intellectual energy women have expended figuring out how to respond to, manage, push back at, or simply survive this environment. It’s deeply disturbing for me to contemplate how much of my own intelligence and creative powers have been wasted processing everything from micro- to macro-aggressions in the workplace. I think of the times I wasn’t able to be fully present as an artist, where I couldn’t bring my best self to the job, when I wasn’t able to experience the privilege of “just” being a musician on stage. I’ve managed to reach the very top of my field while also having to absorb, react, adjust, and take action, all in addition to making music. Would Fred Astaire have been Fred Astaire had he been put in high heels and told to follow rather than to lead? And who might Ginger Rodgers have become under a different paradigm?

Like much of our society, the classical music industry has a long way to go. But we’re starting to see change, especially in those organizations committed to diversifying their top leadership:

In 2019, led by a female CEO, the New York Philharmonic launched Project 19, in celebration of the 100-year anniversary of the ratification of the 19th Amendment giving American women the right to vote. It’s the largest women-only commissioning initiative in history and will produce 19 new works by 19 women composers.

The Los Angeles Philharmonic, led by a Latin-American music director, has stated its intention to shift its “musical center of gravity” toward women and people of color, addressing issues like slavery and incarceration.

And the Berklee College of Music just launched its Institute of Jazz and Gender Justice, asking the question “What would jazz sound like in a culture without patriarchy?”

Major news outlets like the Washington Post are providing badly needed in-depth coverage and analysis of these issues in our field. By shining a light on the culture of harassment, the persistent gender pay gap, and the lack of diversity in our orchestras and our programming, they put pressure on our institutions to do better.

Questions

The problems are big, and although hopeful signs exist, what else can be done? What can YOU do about all of this? I offer a few questions for you to consider:

• Who defines genius? Or “greatness”?
• What does equity mean to you? What would equity look like in your field?
• How do you define fairness? What does that look like? Is it possible to be truly fair? If not, who benefits from inherent unfairness?
• Who determines our value? Ideally? And in reality? And since compensation reflects value in our capitalist society, what does unequal compensation reflect?

Individual and Institutional Values and Responsibilities

To answer these questions, it helps to identify our core values, as individuals and as institutions.

To begin, we have to understand why fairness, diversity and inclusion in the arts matters. It matters because our work, at its core, in its very essence, represents the aspirational ideals of humanity.

Michelle Obama once said, “paintings and poetry, music and fashion, design and dialogue, they all define who we are as a people and provide an account of our history for the next generation.” We cannot wait for society at large to figure out these issues while we artists stand by and provide entertainment. We have the power and responsibility to set the benchmark, rather than simply reflect the status quo. Musicians have the capacity to connect with the deepest, most elemental parts of human nature. Artists open up hearts and minds, and expand our collective capacity to feel and to imagine.

When we share music, we shine a light on our humanity, in all its glory and its failings. This light can illuminate the past and guide us towards a better future. But with this ability comes responsibility, on both an institutional and a personal level.

Institutional Obligations

Classical music organizations risk causing their own obsolescence when they are so oriented to the past that they fail to correct the problems of today or reach for the opportunities of the future. When these organizations continue to sustain practices that result in the exclusion or minimization of the voices and contributions of women, people of color, the LGBTQ+ community, simply because they can’t figure out how to balance honoring our traditions while also questioning their function in today’s society, they demonstrate a profound lack of imagination and courage.

When we collectively turn a blind eye to the pay gap in our orchestras, universities, and conservatories, just because we aren’t willing to acknowledge that our systems actually perpetuate bias, and when we can’t find the creativity to solve this problem, we are binding ourselves to the past rather than embracing the future.

How can our orchestras and institutions wring their hands with worry about the “death of classical music” when their very actions and choices double down on obsolete world views? No wonder our industry has trouble raising money or making the argument that classical music remains relevant. Organizations like the LA Phil, the NY Phil, and Berklee are starting to take the lead. But many more classical music organizations — as well as flagship organizations in so many other industries — remain stubbornly committed to the status quo.

Individual Obligations

Although institutions possess the greatest opportunity to make systemic change, we as individuals can do a lot on our own.

We can challenge the messages that pervade the classical music industry and prevent us from taking action. These messages tell us that individualism is more important than community; that the arts are somehow above the messiness of politics; that we are built for competition more than cooperation; that happiness comes only from winning the big job.

Each of us has a role to play in making this change. And the best way we can do this, each and every one of us, is to start with conversations. The personal is political. Some of those conversations will be uncomfortable. But we owe it to each other to share our stories and to really hear, to truly listen, to the stories of those who differ from us.

Building Blocks of Meaningful Conversations

Before we do anything else, it’s necessary to understand privilege and implicit bias. Until we understand these concepts, we will be talking at each other instead of with each other.

A well-intentioned peer said this to me recently: “Gosh, I’m really surprised you were paid less than your colleagues! You’re obviously deserving … but did you ever ask for more money? I mean, when I’ve asked, I’ve always had a good response. Maybe you needed to have asked differently.”

And another: “I’m not sexist, and I don’t know anyone who thinks women should be paid less just because they’re women. It’s not about sexism. Nobody hates women here. It’s funny that the women are still paid less, though. Well, who knows…”

These statements were made by wonderful male colleagues who have stood by me through all of the challenges I’ve faced … and yet their words reflect their unconscious biases and blindness to their privilege. If we can start to educate ourselves and others about bias and privilege, these conversations will start to look different.

Privilege

Most of us have many layers of identity, some of which increase our access to power and some of which decrease it. Here are some of mine: white, able-bodied, cis-gendered, straight, college-educated, upper-middle class, female. Nearly all of those give me privilege and power — with the exception of the last one: female.

Most of us struggle to acknowledge our privilege. Doing so forces us to accept that our success isn’t entirely due to our own efforts, that we benefit from a system that supports us at the expense of others. The whole concept of privilege challenges the idea that our society is purely a meritocracy. The more privileged we are, the harder it is to acknowledge that the playing field isn’t level. The less privileged we are, the more obvious it becomes. Remember, too, that privilege isn’t just about access to benefits and power. It’s also about the absence of obstacles and barriers.

I invite you to consider the privilege you may hold:

Does your race give you privilege? Your gender? Your class? Your education? Your gender identity? Your sexuality? Your physical ability? Your citizenship status? Religion? Age?

As you think about these layers of privilege, it’s important to recognize that the more privileged you are, the greater your responsibility to work to dismantle the very systems that have given you this privilege.

Implicit Bias

Along with privilege, it’s important to understand implicit bias. Implicit biases are our unconscious beliefs about a particular social group. Studies show that implicit biases impact everything from how doctors provide health care; to how resumes are screened; to how we view the leadership potential of politicians; to how we are perceived when we negotiate for salary. Implicit biases are subtle (because we’re not aware of them) and incredibly powerful (because they influence so much of how we move through the world.)

Implicit biases are a universal phenomenon. If you are human, you have biases. Admitting this is uncomfortable, especially for those of us who like to think of ourselves as fair and open-minded people. But we all have biases. We cannot escape this fact. Today, given the years of study and data on this subject, if we continue to assert that we are wholly free of bias, we are being intellectually dishonest.

Even more uncomfortable is the fact that our biases are often contrary to our values. This is one reason we so often deny having these biases. We don’t want to be racist, and don’t believe we are, but research shows that we nevertheless hold race-based biases. Same for gender. Denying this realistic likelihood is intellectually dishonest and, worse, continues to perpetuate those very biases. And to make things even more complicated, although we are often biased in favor of our own group, we can also hold implicit biases against our group. We are all vulnerable to internalizing stereotypical beliefs about our own identities or others.

In the classical music industry, for example, women who consider themselves feminists can still hold implicit biases that favor male artistic leadership. We see so few examples of women leaders that our entire concept of leadership has been shaped by men. I often question the extent to which my own perspective has been shaped the simple fact that I am accustomed to working nearly exclusively under male leadership. I can’t ever really know the answer to this question, but by asking it I am challenging myself to be aware of my own potential bias.

A strong understanding of privilege and bias is essential, but it’s just the first step. We have to continually confront and acknowledge our own bias.

I’ve grown up bombarded by, shaped by, and influenced by countless social messages that are rooted in sexism, racism and capitalism. As have most of you. I can’t help it and I can’t wish it away. Neither can you. But by denying it, we are denying reality and erasing the lived experiences of so many people profoundly impacted by these systems. By denying the existence of my bias, I may make myself more comfortable, but the very fact that I am able to deny it is a reflection of my privilege.

If you live in a black or brown body, racism is a fact. It’s also a fact if you live in a white body, but rather than being negatively impacted by this fact, you are its beneficiary. If you are a woman (cis or trans), sexism has impacted you. If you are a man, it has also impacted you, but largely in the form of a benefit. (It’s important to also acknowledge that gender isn’t binary, and that the costs and benefits of sexism are nuanced when considering, for example, trans men, who do not experience patriarchal privilege in the same way cis men do.)

By acknowledging both privilege and bias, we can begin to open our minds and start questioning some big concepts we have taken for granted about how the world works. This is how change starts. This is how we reshape our society. This is the framework for all the activism and advocacy and coalition-building that is required to improve the classical music industry, and so many others.

Next Steps

We lead busy lives, with projects underway and goals to chase. It takes nearly every fiber of our being and nearly every minute of the day to become highly accomplished professionals. But we are also more than that. Our lives are rich and complicated and multi-faceted. Our professional work may be deeply meaningful, but it doesn’t exist — and can’t thrive — in a vacuum. We don’t exist — and won’t thrive — in a vacuum.

I invite you to take these steps:

1. Stand up and be seen. Tell your story and share your experience. Take inspirations from the outspoken women in sports and Hollywood: they understand their role in advancing these issues, and they primarily do this by sharing their stories.
2. Be a cheerleader. In the aftermath of filing my lawsuit, I experienced something I can only describe as magic: at every rock bottom low point I reached I would, without exception, receive a letter, or an email, or a handwritten note cheering me on. Until I was the beneficiary of this international cheering squad, I had no idea how valuable those personal messages of support can be. Now I consider it part of my activism and advocacy to send encouraging messages to brave girls, women and others who are standing up for their rights. You can do the same! Whether it’s someone in your community, or a public figure, or just someone who you see taking a risk to make the world a better place, reach out personally and let them know that their actions matter.
3. Be an ally. Gender equity can’t exist without racial equity, nor can any of us be equal when entire groups in our midst are still marginalized. If you are in a position of more privilege or power, stand with those who have less, or even better, step aside to make room for them. Insist that they be given a seat at the table, that their music be programmed, that they be evaluated fairly without bias. Use your privilege to make space for others. Share your privilege by sharing your salary information, because knowledge is power, and if you withhold knowledge you are hoarding power.
4. Be vulnerable in order to build community. This applies to all of us, but especially to those of us with status or visibility. Try to find the courage to reveal your more vulnerable selves. By allowing others to see your full humanity, flaws included, you will help break down the barriers that can prevent us from fully seeing each other. It’s hard to admit our failings or insecurities, but by doing so we build community and help others find their voice. There’s power in this community.
5. Learn how to talk about money. It’s not easy to talk about money — trust me, I know! If you’re well compensated, there’s a certain pride in believing that your compensation makes you special, that you’ve earned it entirely through your exceptional skills and accomplishment (again, an understanding of bias and privilege should give you pause here.) If you’re poorly compensated, you get the flip side — the sense of shame or embarrassment that comes from the implication that your low compensation reflects your actual value, that your compensation is a fair representation of your low worth. It requires integrity to acknowledge that your high compensation might partially reflect your privilege; it requires bravery to argue that your low compensation doesn’t fairly represent your value. The key to solving this is knowledge. We can’t do anything without knowing where we stand. Talk about money. Share your salary data. Demand transparency from your employer. Be willing to acknowledge the unfair systems and biases behind compensation and help educate others about these issues. Money is power in our society. We cannot afford to cede this power because of discomfort.
6. Learn how to talk about race and privilege. This is deeply important for those of us who have a lot of privilege. It’s not enough to just acknowledge our privilege and shrug our shoulders. It’s incumbent on us to make room for the other voices who have been shut out.
7. Educate yourself and others. Read widely. Listen to the experiences of those whose lives are different from yours. Share your own stories, especially if you’re a member of a disenfranchised group. And if you hold a lot of privilege, listen, listen, listen — and learn. Do not assume that your experience is universal. Rather, assume that your ignorance is in direct proportion to your privilege. Get out of your natural community and make an effort to spend time with people who aren’t like you.
8. Demand more from all your organizations. Ask about bias training. Ask about equal pay audits. Ask about gender and racial equity and representation. And if you don’t get an answer, keep asking. Know your rights and don’t apologize for demanding them.

Final Thoughts

In closing, I’d like to leave you with this: above all, do not succumb to hopelessness. Hopelessness can be seductive, given today’s immense challenges and the obstacles we face. But when we give up hope, we give up power. Hope — sometimes fueled by rage, often filled with laughter, humor and creativity — is what will sustain us on this long journey. Hope is our moral obligation.

Performing artists dedicate ourselves, with passion and commitment, to something we can proudly aspire to — to artistic greatness. But that goal can be pursued in an even more satisfying way, not only as performers on stage but as human beings, living in communities which we can enrich, not just with our artistry but with our commitment to making those communities reflect our highest ideals of justice.

Everyone reading this can make a difference. It can be as small as widening your reading list to include women and authors of color, or as large as organizing a rally. It can be as personal as making the effort to meet people who look different from you, or as public as filing an equal pay lawsuit. It can be as concrete as sharing your salary information or as simple as encouraging your friend to speak her mind.

Together we are building a staircase that leads us to a better, more just world. Each small step we take helps lay a new brick in that staircase. Each brick rests on the brick that was laid down before it and provides a platform for the one that follows. We can and will build this staircase.

About the Author

Elizabeth Rowe is a leadership coach and the principal flutist of the world-class Boston Symphony Orchestra. She is a social justice advocate, a public speaker, and a mentor. After she took a stand to demand equal pay from her employer in 2018, The Boston Globe honored her as a Bostonian of the Year, calling “The Fighter.” Her ongoing commitment to opening up dialogue about complex subjects led to her TEDx talk, The Lonely Onlys, where she shared her personal story of learning to embrace the powers of imagination and vulnerability to create connection and community. Elizabeth’s coaching practice is a high impact process, where she supports leaders and creative people of all types as they work to achieve their biggest vision for themselves, while remaining grounded and connected to their humanity. You can learn more about her work here: https://iamelizabethrowe.com/