Svetlana Aksenova is a name that, in today’s operatic world, has become synonymous with a rare synthesis of flawless vocal command and confessional dramatic truth. A soprano from St. Petersburg, she trained at the Rimsky-Korsakov Conservatory, where she first drew critical attention as a student with her performance of Tchaikovsky’s “Iolanta.”

Aksenova belongs to that select category of artists often described as “muses of demiurge-directors.” Her career is not merely a list of major stages—from La Scala to the Metropolitan Opera—but a sustained history of deep artistic collaboration with some of the most visionary theatre-makers of our time.

Her international recognition is inseparable from her work with Dmitri Tcherniakov. As a central figure in his productions, she has created performances critics now regard as definitive: Fevroniya in “The Legend of the Invisible City of Kitezh” and Militrisa in “The Tale of Tsar Saltan.”

Another crucial chapter in her artistic biography is her collaboration with Christoph Loy, a master of psychological theatre. In his widely discussed production of “Eugene Onegin,” Aksenova presented a Tatiana stripped of convention and rhetorical pathos. Equally striking was her Elisabeth in “Tannhäuser,” staged by Loy in Amsterdam.

Today, Svetlana appears in Madrid in Smetana’s “The Bartered Bride,” and we spoke to her about contemporary opera and the psychological depth of her characters.

OperaWire: Svetlana, good afternoon! We are very happy to see and listen to you again in Madrid.

Svetlana Aksenova: Good afternoon. I’m also very happy to come back to this stage—Madrid inspires me.

OW: The audience at Teatro Real has been waiting for “The Bartered Bride,” this wonderful comic opera, for more than a century. Why do you think that right now, in 2026, Czech classicism—through the lens of the French director Laurent Pelly—has proven so resonant for Spanish audiences?

SA: This year, almost all the major houses are staging it—I assume because of an anniversary, as is often the case. Munich, Vienna for sure. It’s 160 years since the premiere. Presumably, the last Madrid production was also tied to a jubilee—in 1924 the Madrid stage marked the centenary of Bedřich Smetana’s birth, and now we have another anniversary. That’s very nice.

And yes, it resonates—with the Spanish temperament and with Spanish theatre. The first thing that comes to mind is the abundance of dance and choral music, that vivid folkloric element. You could probably draw a parallel with zarzuela: there are no spoken dialogues, but there are recitatives that are very similar. And there’s a certain lightness—there is drama, but it’s not heavy, not convoluted, not a bloody story, as is often the case.

OW: Gustavo Gimeno makes his debut with this score as music director of Teatro Real. From the auditorium, it seems he deliberately strips Smetana of “romantic syrup,” making the sound more transparent, almost Mozartian. As a soloist, does that give you more freedom, or does it demand more from your vocal work?

SA: People tend to put conductors and singers into boxes, don’t they? I’d like to point out that the conductor’s work with the orchestra doesn’t directly affect me. It affects how I perceive and hear the music. But a conductor doesn’t demand a specific kind of sound from me the way they might from instrumentalists.

Gustavo and I worked a lot—really a lot—on tempos. He wanted things faster, for the recitatives to really fly. Then, once we got on stage, we realized we had to take the acoustics of Teatro Real into account: it was too fast, and the recitatives needed a different pace, just like the music.

So we had to broaden things a bit to make it sound ideal. I wouldn’t say it was easy in Czech, but we managed—it came out beautifully.

What I would really like to highlight about working with Gustavo Gimeno is that he’s an extremely kind and decent person—truly delightful. And that doesn’t always automatically come with a conductor’s professionalism and talent. You can’t imagine how important and comfortable that is for an artist, and how crucial it is in working on an opera and a character. You can suggest things, ask questions. He may not like something, or you may not. But I never once felt that he was “the boss” and I had to obey. That’s so liberating—it opens me up as a singer. I feel free, and he’s willing to follow that as well. It’s about working toward a result, a win-win, as they say in business. Not a conductor on a pedestal, but two adult musicians thinking together.

We have two casts, don’t forget—so two Mařenkas. And something I encountered for the first time: he listened to each of us. We’re different, we breathe differently, we have different capabilities. He noted where each singer breathes. It wasn’t “we breathe here because it’s convenient and the phrase goes there.” He asked me if I wanted to “take a breath” in a certain place, and I explained that in Czech, here, my text repeats, and I take a breath where I first say it, and the second time I say it with a different emotion, a different dynamic.

And he said: “Yes, I see—got it, noted.” And we just moved on. That’s fantastic. Because I know many other conductors who say, “I said together with me!”—and that’s it. Breathe here and here, no matter what.

I love a musical anecdote—or maybe it’s not even an anecdote, but a real story. I think it was Toscanini with Beniamino Gigli, at the height of his career, the most sought-after tenor in the world, with his famous “Sipó, More, si More…” Toscanini says: “Maestro Gigli, I would take a breath here.” And Gigli replies: “Take it.”

So yes—pure happiness for me in Madrid, that’s what I want to say.

OW: Let’s move from the musical side to the staging—it’s also very interesting. Laurent Pelly is known for his own “surgical” humor. Your Mařenka exists in a space of bright geometry and almost surreal farce. How does this visual aesthetic affect your vocal delivery? Does irony get in the way of experiencing the character’s drama—or does it help?

SA: Again, I hear a certain external definition of what’s happening. But when I’m on stage, inside it—especially during rehearsals—I don’t think about that at all. Laurent is not the kind of director who spends two hours explaining a concept and immediately puts you in a box.

You don’t see what’s in his head during the process—you only see the result from the outside at the very end. It’s a matter of trust on both sides. Laurent himself is a very sensitive person—vulnerable, empathetic. But so am I. So it all makes sense to me. HSP—Highly Sensitive People. He reacts to everything, to the smallest nuances, to things you don’t even know about yourself yet. And he waits for you to reveal yourself, your emotion—and he will integrate it. He doesn’t want to break you, he wants to understand your nature, how you’re built, so he can carefully incorporate you into his concept, not endlessly explain it.

Later I saw how much time was devoted to choreography, to the staging itself—there’s enormous work with the chorus as well. So the sketch we made together ended up fitting perfectly into his vision. And again, I’m sincerely happy about that.

As for the role’s inner content, he spoke to me about it at the very end. He said that for Mařenka this is a nightmare of a day—and everything that happens on stage is really about her. Even though I only learned this explicitly at the end, we coincided perfectly in feeling. And I added movement based on what I felt.

Another important point: I like to joke around, and this is a comic opera—it seems simple. But every time I did something “comic opera–like,” Laurent immediately removed it and asked me to be as serious as possible. “Give me the real thing,” he said.

OW: That was very clear on stage—and very deep. We all truly felt for your character.

SA: Thank you. For me, that’s easier—I live in drama, like a fish in water, it’s home territory. I just added a bit of rustic flavor—a slightly different walk, a gesture. In German there’s the word bodenständig—grounded, simple, without pretension. Like: I can go dig potatoes right now, if needed.

It was very interesting. And I would have happily rehearsed more—I think we could have. Next time.

OW: That leads directly to my next question. Critics are also writing about the strong “tragic profile” of your character. Does that mean Mařenka here is more of an existential role than a comic one?

SA: How is she comic? Not at all—it’s not funny what’s happening. That’s what makes her modern: she goes against her parents, she refuses to accept her fate, she follows her love. She clearly says that if she can’t marry the man she loves, she’ll remain alone—and she won’t marry anyone else. For her, it’s all real, and quite harsh.

And look at the aria in the third act—it’s extraordinary. It was written and inserted into the opera 20–25 years later, when Smetana had reached a completely different level of maturity. It feels like music from a different opera. There’s nothing dance-like about it. Here we have a mature composer, and such beautiful music. Of course it invites more drama—and you want to give it.

And then immediately after this fully shaped vocal piece—“chick-chick-chick,” as Laurent called it, Chicken Run—Mařenka turns around, not knowing what to do, running back and forth. What is this? How is it possible? Why? How could he? For the voice, it’s actually difficult—the transition, the sudden shift in rhythm and intonation.

Then there’s also the “Chicken Duet,” with humor. These are the collisions happening both in the music and on stage.

OW: The chicken image is great—and the costumes are fun.

SA: Yes, the costumes are almost Easter-like, joyful. But the drama is still there.

OW: The plot about the “sale” of the bride today sounds like a satire of social contracts—or even an insult. Your Mařenka seems like a woman who doesn’t wait for salvation or marriage like manna from heaven, but plays her own game. How did you build her inner strategy of fighting for personal freedom?

SA: By walking in the park and genuinely enjoying the beauty of Madrid.

OW: And if you could give your heroine advice from 2026 about those famous 300 florins and her choice—what would you say?

SA: I’d say: “That’s not enough.” Personally, I’d also think twice about Jeník. He’s staging all this, but he tells her nothing—she suffers, his beloved! And how do you live with a trickster like that? What’s the next surprise—what will he sell, to whom, for how much? “Another surprise, darling?” You’ll always be on edge—where did the money come from, who else did he deceive? And what about your child—is he trading at the market now? And so on.

OW: Indeed. But Jeník is one character, Mařenka another—and your duets with Pavel Černoch are described as a model of tonal unity. How important is your partner’s “Czech background” in this opera? Or is Smetana’s music inherently international?

SA: The music is, of course, international—but I love Pavel in a special way. This is my third opera with him, third Czech opera—and all three with him. He invites me; he’s a wonderful partner. It just worked out that way, and it’s great.

He’s very supportive. If I ask, he’ll correct me, but he never imposes—never says “this isn’t ideal Czech.” He respects you and always points out what worked well. And he’s funny, sincere—I adore him. It’s so good to work with someone you simply enjoy being with. He’s very positive—whatever happens, his positivity helps.

OW: What else have you sung together?

SA: We did “Rusalka” in Paris (Robert Carsen’s production), and then “Jenůfa” in Vienna. It was a great pleasure for me.

OW: Teatro Real has very particular acoustics. Does the Madrid stage have its own “character” that you had to adapt to in this role?

SA: I already mentioned the recitatives—we had to adapt them. I also noticed that when you sit in the auditorium, the sound changes a lot depending on where you sit—not just stalls versus balcony.

That’s true in any theatre, of course—but here, even within the stalls, the experience varies greatly. It’s a unique acoustic—every time you can sit somewhere new and hear it differently. In that sense, both singers and audience are lucky. Sometimes you sing on stage and it’s uncomfortable—dry acoustics—but it sounds good in the hall. Or the opposite: comfortable on stage, but not audible in the hall. In Madrid, I think it works both ways—you feel good on stage, and it carries in the hall. That’s wonderful.

On stage, there are specific key positions, but in the auditorium many seats don’t see them. When we all came on stage together, everything shifted and narrowed. If I used to walk this way, now I had to go that way. But I adapted quickly. And of course, there’s a huge chorus on stage, which must both look good and sound good.

OW: Where does Mařenka stand in your personal gallery of roles? After this Madrid premiere, did you discover something fundamentally new in yourself or in Smetana’s music?

SA: For me, it’s less about Smetana and more about the genre—I’ve never done anything quite like this. I’ve sung the Countess in “Le nozze di Figaro” and Donna Elvira in “Don Giovanni.” That’s Mozart—two heroines who also don’t die. You can bring character, add humor, although their lives aren’t exactly comedy—there’s deception everywhere.

It’s a completely different feeling to sing a role where you don’t have to suffer intensely—or die. It’s wonderful—a rare case in my repertoire! And those lovely Smetana coloraturas—there aren’t many, but they require a certain vocal work. I really enjoyed it. I’d happily “cluck” some more.

OW: Then let’s return to our beloved dramas and tragedies. What role do you dream of singing?

SA: One I really want is Katerina Izmailova. I know I’ll be a bombshell Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk! I understand that woman completely. I’m waiting for it—with a good director, preferably, and definitely a good conductor.

There are many roles still. I dream of Káťa Kabanová—it’s very much my nature. It’s based on Ostrovsky’s “The Storm.” There are also roles from the standard repertoire. I have a long story with “Il trovatore”—I rehearsed it but never performed it. A whole story, with psychologists and hypnotherapists—put away somewhere inside me, waiting.

I love “Hérodiade” by Massenet—it’s almost never staged, I don’t know why. A beautiful opera! The tenor part is difficult, yes, but the opera itself is stunning. I once sang it at an audition in Antwerp and got the job—but the theatre didn’t release me.

And of course, I’d like to sing all of Puccini. It’s interesting to sing different things.

OW: So, let’s talk a bit about your acting, which I find extraordinary. Which dramatic school or system do you personally rely on—Stanislavski, Chekhov, or perhaps Bertolt Brecht?

SA: Mostly Stanislavski. His method is about immersion and truly living the role. So everything is honest, everything is real. I live through it all, I think through everything.

OW: It should also be an innate gift—the ability to enter and exit a role. Do you remember yourself as a child?

SA: Yes, I feel like I’ve been performing since childhood. I remember—sorry for the detail—that in our bathroom there were all these little bottles and sprays above the toilet. I’d walk in, sit down for a second—and even in that second I’d already done a commercial: “Now I’m going to tell you about this magical spray!” Where does that come from? I don’t know!

Then I’d go into the kitchen to cook—and by the way, I cook well, because I’m always cooking for someone—and I imagine guests have come over, I’m cooking for them, talking to them. There’s always this kind of “dialogue with the audience.”

OW: That makes it even more interesting! So why didn’t you go into dramatic theatre, but opera? How did that happen?

SA: First of all, I did try. I applied to a Theatre School in St. Petersburg. I was also dancing at the time—until I was sixteen. And I thought: why not try acting? It seemed logical. I signed up for the entrance exam, but I wasn’t very confident. I have a good memory, I know a lot of poetry, but I realized I probably needed more preparation.

I was studying at a specialized mathematics and physics school, and with my grades I could enter any technical university without exams. But acting school—of course, that required serious work.

And there was another part of my life: at that time I was already singing in the church choir, from the age of sixteen—in the church and at the Theological Academy. And one day I had the most beautiful dream of my life, where my path was simply shown to me. I saw clearly where I had to go, that this was exactly it. After that, everything became easy, because I understood that when I sing, a kind of light opens up—and it needs to be carried further.

OW: I also think that an artist is, in essence, a kind of conduit, transmitting something through their talent.

SA: That’s a very important thing you just said—and it shouldn’t be forgotten, especially by young artists. You must not forget that the voice doesn’t belong to you. That’s crucial. Once you understand that, you start treating it completely differently. Not in the sense of “I’ll try here, I won’t try there.”

It also becomes much easier to protect it—even to say “no.” To say, for example: my voice needs me to eat this or that right now. And that’s truly important. Because sometimes we see that someone has a voice today, and tomorrow it’s gone… These are sacred things. Talent must be served. You cannot neglect it. You cannot subordinate it. And you cannot think that it serves you.

Well, after everything I’ve told you, I decided to become an opera singer.

OW: Thank you very much—this is incredibly interesting. We wish you to sing all the roles you dream of, and of course we hope to hear you often here in Madrid!

SA: Thank you, hope to see you soon.