Artists | Costumes | War
A Show About Home Made Me Curious About the Balkans War
And a costume designer named Boris
I think of him whenever I share this picture, though we never met; he created this sketch based solely on what two other cast members told him. His name was Boris (as you can see if you look closely at the picture). I had always wanted to know someone named Boris — so it was fun to find out he was designing a costume for me.
I had just been asked to join the cast of an ensemble workshop at Illusion Theater in Minneapolis. Originally called Letters to Etty and later changed to Bridge of Stones, it explored the concept of “home” for eight artists. What I liked most was how funny it turned out to be, with the kind of laughs that emerge from improvisation and imaginings.
At every rehearsal, a new story was formed from a personal recollection brought forth by one of the cast. We improvised stories and lines around the idea until a scene was created, and only then did we start to write it down. The more we worked together, the more we got to know each other — which helped a lot when I couldn’t attend the costume design interviews.
What I remember about Boris is that he was an intern at the theater, though I have no idea how he got there. The company’s artistic director and the co-creator who conceptualized the piece talked with Boris to help him sketch each of our characters. The co-creator told me they mentioned “long, red hair” and “storyteller” (or something like that), when they talked about me.
The result is the artwork you see.
Boris was from the country formerly known as Yugoslavia (now Serbia and Montenegro). He was in the U. S. during what is known as the Balkans war. For many years, Yugoslavia had been held together by its leader Tito (who was actually said to have been a “benevolent” and “popular” dictator, if there is such a thing). Once he died, the country fell apart.
The former Yugoslavia was home to Serbs, Croats, Bosnian Muslims, Albanians, Slovenes and others, and each group decided it wanted independence. Instead of negotiating, the groups all turned against each other and went to war — which caused more than a million deaths and countless atrocities.
I didn’t know anything of Boris’s life, so I cannot share it with you. I don’t know if he was Croatian, Bosnian, or Serbian; whether he was from Slovenia or Montenegro; or even if he stayed in America or went back home. What I do know is he was an artist with an innate sense of beauty and costume design. I still love what he created for all of us.
Costume designers may or may not have bachelor’s or master’s degrees, but they typically start working on costumes by interning, as Boris did, and later become assistant designers. Most are freelancers who work in a variety of venues. Some find full-time work with large theaters or opera companies.
To become a costume designer, you need a range of skills like the following:
· Extensive knowledge of fashion and costume history, fabrics, and other materials
· Strong visual design skills
· An understanding of how to tailor clothing
· Special design including accessories, hats, buttons, and other specialties
· Budgeting and leadership skills
Costume designers should also know how to use clothing and accessories to tell a character’s story.
I have a feeling Boris had all these skills and more. What struck me most about his sketches was how intuitive they were. My own fellow cast members told me how close my sketch was to what they perceived of me as an actor. I felt the same about them.
I thought about Boris recently because of the war between Russia and Ukraine. It is yet another senseless war in a world of them, and we don’t seem to be any better at avoiding them than we were in previous years. If there is any hope of healing from wars, though, could it possibly be in art or theater?
The question makes me think of Vedran Smailović, who became known as the “cellist of Sarajevo” in former Yugoslavia. When the city was under siege, he played Albinoni’s Adagio in G Minor in ruined buildings or at funerals.
Smailović didn’t seem to care how vulnerable his actions made him to snipers. His courage inspired others to write songs and at least one book about him. He was able to leave the city during the second year of the siege in 1993 and now lives in Ireland.
In a way, Boris was the closest I would come to understanding Smailović, because Boris was also an artist from the former Yugoslavia. His beautiful drawings showed me that you cannot weaponize art, nor can you embargo it. You cannot use it to fulfill your agenda, because your audience will know that and disown it; and you cannot distort art into propaganda, because your audience will know that too.
The drawings Boris created also make me think of a quote by Flannery O’Connor. “You do not write the best you can for the sake of art, but for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as He sees fit.” I believe this is what makes art so powerful to so many of us.
In orchestras and theaters all around the world, there are actors or musicians who might politically be on opposite sides. They are motivated by one goal when they are performing: to bring the audience to a place where they can transcend their own worlds and travel seamlessly together.
Maybe the piece or play or film or work will only be seen once; and whether it makes people think or laugh or cry or run out of the room doesn’t matter. What matters is that if we are watching something that moves us, it can also make a difference in how we feel about our own lives — and how we live them.
I’d like to think as I am writing this, Boris, that you are working for a theater company and building on the work you did as an intern. I hope other actors find the delight and playfulness you put into the costumes you made for me and others, many years ago.
I am likely too idealistic, with an overly optimistic view of art; but I can’t help feeling you agree, Boris, because otherwise you never could have made the designs you did. All I can say now is thank you. I will keep your design always. On my wall. In my heart.
