Boston Designer Series:
Costume Designer, Robert Morgan
Creating Visual Drama

This interview is the second of a series of articles focusing upon Boston area designers that will appear in installments. Robert Morgan: is the current Costume Designer for The Huntington Theatre production of “The Cherry Orchard” who served as director of the Theatre Division at Boston University from 1987 to 1992, and has designed many productions for The Huntington, Broadway, Off Broadway, regional theatres and television, spanning a thirty five year career in design. He is a founding Associate Artist at The Old Globe in San Diego, and is currently preparing for upcoming productions of Hamlet and Measure for Measure.

EPOCH:
It is interesting to note that you’ve created both Costume and Scene Designs. I had always put costume and set design in sort of mutually exclusive categories. How did you end up doing both?

RM: That’s a particularly American practice—the separation of the two fields of design--due primarily to rather severe restrictions on time in production. In Europe, the reverse is more often the case: a “scenographer” designs both scenery and costumes, and sometimes the lighting. Here, because we produce on such a compressed schedule—due to need to reduce cost, always an American priority—a designer who does both needs at least two very able associates, one in scenery and one in costumes, to manage the details of each area of design. I enjoy working both areas, but neither obsesses me.


EPOCH:
When you design Costumes for a time period like Chekhov’s Russia, we are so far removed from it, where do you go for your inspiration for the period clothing?

RM: Primary research, meaning either photos from the period or portraiture. But I’ve been working so long now that I often sketch before I do the research, just to clarify initial character thoughts and silhouettes. At this point in my career, research helps me mostly with details of cut, trim, and accessories like hats, gloves, shoes, etc. And, in fact—truth be told--inspiration doesn’t come from the research; it comes from the play itself and the characters who inhabit it.

EPOCH:
Sometimes when costuming is really quite good, it draws attention to itself in a kind of wonderful way, and then adds meaning to a production. How do you define characters in your mind when drawing out a costume?


RM: In most cases, when design is at its best, it doesn’t draw attention to itself. Instead, it sits so comfortably telling the same story as the actors and director. When that happens, the audience never even thinks of it. I always think of character. There is a difference designing character, from genre to genre. For instance, a lot of what one does when designing Chekhov is to support subtext—the unconscious part of character that is often unspoken but is revealed in action. That’s usually not the case with Shakespeare, where the words are literally the action. Character description via costume design is usually reduced to social status and interpersonal affiliation or conflict so that the images often become more iconic that idiosyncratic.

EPOCH:
When you are designing just the costumes, and someone else is designing the scenery, how do you normally collaborate to make it all come out?

RM: Well, often you talk quite a lot to make sure that you are understanding how to tell a story in a certain style with a shared color palette. This discussion usually takes place with the director as leader; designers are cautious with the kind of private exchange that might happen without the director’s ear. You want whatever you are thinking, to be in sync with the director’s perception of the whole. Shared taste is everything. My relationship with Ralph Funicello, the scenic designer for Cherry Orchard, goes back to 1972. Ralph and I rarely talk now. I look at his models, and I know where we are headed. It’s ridiculous, actually; we are in direct contradiction to all conventional wisdom about collaboration. We don’t talk, we just do it, and it all turns out as a piece.

EPOCH:
How many rehearsals do you usually attend in the design process? How does that work?

RM: Never enough. I absolutely have to be at the first read-through. It’s my chance to hear each actor read and get a sense of where they are headed with character. When I hear the play though their sensibilities, that gives me a very specific framework for how to proceed. The designer has to be out ahead in front of the actor.


EPOCH:
I’ve seen some modern Shakespeare productions that really worked, like this past summer there was a production of “Taming of The Shrew,” which took place in 1950’s North End. It was so clever and really colorful. What was your favorite modern Shakespeare design, and why?

RM: I believe all of Shakespeare is in the words, and when you are too busy watching clever things, it’s hard to hear. So I am not a big fan of transposition to really modern settings, at least those that are in the 20th century. By and large Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century transpositions of period have the advantage of taking place in the past, allowing a lot of social detail in design choices, that helps place the characters in context. Contemporary settings often do the reverse: you spend your time thinking about symbols and historical parallels, and the experience is Brechtian.

EPOCH:
When you design for Broadway do you feel more commercial pressure than when working with resident theatre? How does that impact the work?

RM: Pressure? You bet. The stakes are big, financially and in terms of career building—for everyone. Often the experience feels as if it has little to do with art, though it’s theoretically judged on artistic merit. In New York expectations are absurdly high. But if you or I are paying a minimum of $100 a seat, wouldn’t we expect the absolute best? The whole system is set up for a propensity to fail; the best being the enemy of the good. To take the risk in New York, you’ve got to have brass balls. It’s rare to work in a relaxed atmosphere, and the demand to “pump up” production values to make the theatre-going experience exciting is often detrimental to serious work. I prefer work in regional theatre. The quality of the work is high while being pleasurable to accomplish.


EPOCH:
Okay, I’m a college student wishing to become a designer for stage or screen. What is the difference between going to a big university program and an Art College, or Conservatory?

RM: Everyone is best served by his or her own path. My advice would be to do it your way and trust your intuition. All the rest of your working life as a designer you’ll have to do the same, so start practicing that trust now. If you don’t like your educational situation-switch. Be in charge. Don’t let older people tell you that you have to do it their way. But for God’s sake, get the best liberal arts education you can. No one will care about your designs—they will be empty of content--if you have no knowledge of the historical context of the dramatic text, the period décor of the time, the art history, the philosophy, et. al. Don’t hurry to get to be a designer too soon. Develop some content as a human being.

EPOCH:
The American theatre scene is quite small when you consider it as a business, the number of people who “make it” is predetermined. I see a lot of designers design for multiple theatres, and projects. Designers just starting out must find it difficult to break into the “market”. How would you advise some one just out of college to get the experience?

RM: I don’t know how kids do it these days. It’s so hard, and there is so little opportunity. When I came out of graduate school in the late ‘60’s, there was work for everyone. Regional theatres were springing up all over the country. The big New York designers weren’t willing to travel to regional stages, and the young theatres could neither afford them. But we young kids were available, cheap, eager to work in any conditions. And so we started. I advise students to get a paying job for six months, save every penny, then go to the best theatre they can find or contact the designer of their dreams, and then volunteer to work free for three months. If you’re good enough, in three months you’ll become indispensable, and worth paying.

EPOCH:
The flow from the page to stage has to happen pretty quickly. What are the stages, and how long does it take for you to design something.

RM: The real answer to this would be a treatise. In general, it goes something like this. First discussion with the director to establish the director’s comprehension of the story and the style the production might have to convey this particular point of view, and specifics of each character, especially regarding how the casting will affect it. Then comes time to think, read and research for at least two weeks. Afterwards, a second discussion with director to compare designer’s ideas with the director’s vision, which leads to roughs. The designer does fast, rough drawings for discussion with director; for at least a week, and then the roughs are revised. Production of color renderings comes next and takes two to six weeks. Fabric purchase and preproduction budgeting takes at least a week. Shop constructions, assembly of rentals, fittings then follow- usually lasting about four to six weeks. Dress rehearsals and previews for further revision and cleanup; about a week and a half to two months depending upon the theatre.

EPOCH:
With your years of experience in designing for theatre, what was your favorite production?

RM: You know, they’re like children. You tend to love most of them, though some can be enraging or saddening to live with. Among my favorites is a production of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” that I designed scenery and costumes for. Jack O’Brien directed with enormous imagination and verve, and it was the inaugural production on the outdoor Festival Stage at the Old Globe Theatre in 1978. It was revelatory, overwhelming, a staggering event of great inner beauty and depth. More recently: “The Cherry Orchard.” I’ve waited for years to do this, my favorite play of all time, and the opportunity to do it with Nicky Martin, whom I revere, Ralph Funicello, Donald Holder, and, of course, Kate Burton, proved worth waiting for. It was, in many ways, the perfect theatre experience: blissful in the day to day production of the design in the shop and overwhelmingly satisfying in performance. Now I’ve done it the way I wanted to see it done, and with dear friends. I don’t ever need to do it again.

Richard Campbell is a writer living in Boston, his articles and graphics may be viewed at http://home.earthlink.net/~photocafe/