The World Motivation
I'd go over to my grandmother's house, and she'd be playing opera. They loved opera. Not only did they play it on the radio, but they played it on their piano. Everybody learned how to read music and how to play.
“I'd go over to my grandmother's house, and she'd be playing opera. They loved opera. Not only did they play it on the radio, but they played it on their piano. Everybody learned how to read music and how to play.”
I'd go over to my grandmother's house, and she'd be playing opera. They loved opera. Not only did they play it on the radio, but they played it on their piano. Everybody learned how to read music and how to play.
I can't really walk well. The muscles don't get the electronic signals from my brain, not that there's anything wrong with the muscles themselves. It's just my brain.
The constant fear of a performer is to become what is reflected back at you.
I miss singing every day. I can't sing anymore. My voice doesn't work. I have Parkinson's disease, and it sometimes takes my words away from me.
My grandmother always taught me, 'If you don't have a home, family, and church, you don't have anything.'
My grandmother was not a great storyteller.
My grandmother was a Jewish juggler: she used to worry about six things at once.
At about 40, the roles started slowing down. I started getting offers to play mothers and grandmothers.
I work for wardrobe. Whenever I need clothes, I take a job. If I get maybe like six changes, then I'll be a grandmother, I don't care.
I didn't think I was a famous singer. I didn't think I was a star or that I could make the waters part - just that singing was what I was going to do.