15.

‘Ladies, can I please collect your facial-hair boxes?’

The magic of a costume

‘Go into opera,’ they said, ‘you’ll wear all the pretty dresses.’ Well, sometimes that’s the case: I have certainly worn the most exquisite and intricately designed costumes. But I’ve also worn some less exquisite creations, shall we say – and some very uncomfortable ones too. We have very little say in what we are dressed in, and I don’t mind that. Decisions are based on our character, size, shape or vocal allocation in an opera. If we’re performing a production from overseas, the costumes will arrive in large crates, and the incredible team in the Opera Australia wardrobe department have the time-consuming job of finding the correct body shapes in the chorus to match the costumes.

If a production is brand new, and premiering in either Sydney or Melbourne, then the costumes are made here in Australia. There have been exceptions, when the company outsources the expertise of a craftsperson to make such things as the toreadors’ jackets in the Zambello production of Carmen. The Irish embroidery design on my Ascot gown in My Fair Lady was hand-stitched by an expert in America.

Only in exceptional circumstances will companies allow their costumes to be altered. The team can do a temporary tuck here or there, or slightly trim a piece of fabric, but not much else. If wardrobe are unable to allocate every costume, they may need to create something based on the original designer’s vision.

A costume can become like a very dear friend. When this happens, you develop an attachment to it, to what it represents and how you feel in it. As soon as I put on one of these costumes, familiarising myself once more with its fabric and fit, the character it embodies is revealed and I instantly find myself physically and mentally changing in preparation for its time onstage. I think we all have a responsibility to the designer, the makers and the director to ensure our costumes work.

When I’m fortunate enough to have a costume designed specifically for me in a new production, I will be the first person to give it life, to introduce it to the stage and to pay my respects to those who have worked so very hard to bring it from sketch to stage. My name is written on the first label and from there it begins its journey. I may be lucky enough to wear it again if the production is revisited, or it may travel and be rented out to other opera companies in Australia or around the world. New labels will be sewn on, with new names and companies included, adding to its history. A costume is given a character by every single person who wears it, and seeing your name added to the list is a wonderful feeling.

I adore the anticipation of a costume fitting. The wardrobe department has what they call ‘The Bible’ – a huge folder displaying every costume and ‘look’ for every performer in every opera. It incorporates pictures, photos and information about the historical period in which the production is set. This helps the designer develop their ideas in creating the overall look of the show. There are swatches of fabric and sketches of how the designer visualises the costumes being worn on each artist. It is an incredible process to see the ridiculously talented people in the wardrobe and wig departments bring a sketch to life. Throughout my career, I have only been given three copies of these sketches. It’s like receiving a very limited-edition print of an original piece of art because that is exactly what these sketches are. And, best of all, they have a very personal meaning to me, as they represent a costume in a production, and a character that I enjoyed inhabiting. If only we could receive more! I would adorn my walls with them.

Every time I walk into a costume fitting, I never know what’s going to be hanging on the rack, or what I’ve been allocated to wear. In a recent costume fitting for the opera Il trittico (the name given to three individual operas performed in the same evening: Puccini’s Il tabarro, Suor Angelica and Gianni Schicchi), the following conversation with the wardrobe coordinator took place:

‘Am I a nun in this opera?’

‘Um, actually, Kath, we want you to be a sex worker.’

‘Of course you do. So I’m not a nun at all?’

‘No, sorry. Here’s your costume. How short are you willing to go with the dress?’

‘As short as you like, as long as these legs are covered with dance tights and fishnets.’ (Story of my life …)

Sometimes the rack is bursting with costumes and accessories, and a large selection of shoes to try on. Not everything that has been allocated will work, so the ladies disappear behind the curtain, returning moments later with other options until we find something that fits the brief. They seem to have everything they need at their disposal and you receive your garment within a matter of minutes.

At other times, the only thing that seems to be hanging is a bikini – no shoes, no kaftan, just two very small pieces of fabric. This was the case for me in the opening scene of Wagner’s Das Rheingold some years ago, and I certainly had a ‘You have got to be joking’ moment – I don’t usually prance around the various Sydney beaches in a two-piece, never mind wearing one onstage under harsh lighting! But I decided to embrace the limited amount of material I had been asked to wear and own it. I made sure that when standing on the revolve closer to the audience, I sucked my stomach in as much as I could before being turned back upstage where I could let it all hang out again. I also hoped that the lighting would cast a shadow across my pale body, giving me a bit of a tan.

At one point, we were directed to hide two large gold pompoms somewhere in our costumes and reveal them later in the opening number. During the first rehearsal in the theatre, I walked onto the stage quite early wearing my two-piece, with two massive gold pompoms in my hand. Director Neil Armfield, obviously thinking the same thing as me, said over the microphone, ‘Where are you going to hide those, then?’ to which I replied, ‘Hopefully on somebody else!’ A lovely male colleague happily helped me out and hid them in the pockets of his board shorts, then discreetly passed them to me at the required time. It’s essential to find a way to make a costume work for you, and he became my saviour during that production.

I wore another potentially disastrous costume in Whiteley, an opera by the Soviet-Australian composer Elena Kats-Chernin, based on the life of Australian artist Brett Whiteley. The production designer, Dan Potra, required me to wear only a towel and shower cap in one scene. I loved it, but I held that towel in place like my life depended on it. As the saying goes, ‘What is seen cannot be unseen’, and I had no intention of pulling focus by accidentally loosening my grip.

While skimpy costumes might be slightly confronting to wear onstage, we ladies in the chorus are comfortable disrobing in front of each other and our wardrobe colleagues – and sometimes a little too comfortable. Having arrived early for costume fitting one day, the designer asked me to wait in the dressing room. As usual, I undressed down to my bra and underwear, sat down and readily awaited her arrival. When she came in and saw me scantily clad, she burst out laughing, exclaiming, ‘That’s lovely of you, Katherine, but we’re only fitting the hat today!’

Bikinis on an indoor stage are manageable, but when you’re performing on a floating stage in Sydney Harbour under an open sky, you can only hope your costume provides some protection from the elements. And when it doesn’t, you improvise! During our first season of Aida on Sydney Harbour in 2015, Mother Nature wreaked havoc. Some of the gowns worn by the female chorus were ornate, like the kind of gowns you would wear to a ball, with long organza shawls used for effect or warmth. My costume, on the other hand, was paper thin, and never stood up to the elements. There were six of us in this unfortunate predicament, which meant we had to club together to find a solution to keeping warm. I have to say that on some nights, finding the magic in the moment became a very difficult task, especially while standing onstage freezing cold and drenched through to my underpants!

So, on a shopping trip one day early in the performance season, as I stood in front of a display of thermal undergarments, the skin-coloured options appeared to glow, winning my attention. Deciding that these would not distract from the overall ‘look’ of the costume, I purchased a complete set before stocking up on a few adhesive heat packs that I could attach to my lower back. I messaged the other girls in the same predicament as me, informing them of my ingenious idea, and it wasn’t long before they too had made the same investment. (The company did eventually provide thermals, but not soon enough for me!)

Getting ready for the show one blisteringly cold night, I didn’t know if the thermals would be enough to keep me warm. So, I decided to stuff a boiling hot-water bottle down the front of my thermals – essentially into my underpants – praying this would work. It certainly did for a while, and I admit to feeling rather chuffed with myself … until the moment onstage that I had to kneel and bow all the way down to the stage floor at the feet of Amneris, the king’s daughter. With a large and now very cold hot-water bottle squashed down my pants, this immediately presented me with difficulties. Suddenly it started to rain, and as I slowly but surely became saturated I had to struggle to my feet with the now very cold and heavy hot-water bottle between my legs and waddle offstage. Never to be repeated!

During my second season on the floating stage, 2016’s Turandot, hardly a drop of rain fell during our four-week run of performances, and this time we were dressed in warm, loose costumes with comfortable shoes – although there may have been a pair of pyjamas hidden under the costume one evening. I have the utmost respect for every single member of the public who has remained in their seats during a rainy outdoor opera season, continuing to watch the show while the heavens open. You can tell the regulars – if there’s a chance of rain or cold weather, they’ll be snuggled into sleeping bags with flasks at the ready. Now that’s what I call being prepared.

***

Costumes give you permission to become somebody else, transporting you to so many different periods and times in history. That is the beauty of a costume, and it truly is a gift. It’s like dressing up for adults, and who wouldn’t enjoy that? Even the shabby, scruffy, broken-down and destitute-looking characters are just as much fun to portray.

Some costumes will remain very dear to me, long after the curtain has descended on the last performance. My ‘gold prostitute’ costume in Gale Edwards’ production of La bohème, set in 1930s Berlin, is one of these. An ornate black-and-gold bra, a panty girdle, suspenders, gorgeous vintage-looking black stockings, gold shoes, and an array of gloves, jewellery and hats make this a winner, with a long winter coat and red-and-black feather boa added in Act Three. I love the way it makes me feel. It offers me an opportunity to become a completely different character, so far removed from how I would normally stand, move my body or communicate physically, which I find incredibly liberating. It’s a production we have performed since 2011 and surprisingly, after 132 performances to date, I can still squeeze myself into the costume … just! There may have been a slight loosening of the seams in recent years, thanks to perimenopause, and the Covid and grief kilos, but our bodies do change over time. We are all very conscious of this, especially the women, and it can be confronting, because we feel a certain amount of pressure to remain at a weight that is seen as ‘acceptable’ by society, whether we want to acknowledge it or not.

In Moffatt Oxenbould’s production of Madama Butterfly, the set and costume designs of Peter England and Russell Cohen instantly transported the audience into a traditional Japanese-style home. As a geisha in the chorus, and playing the role of Kate Pinkerton, I was given costumes that were like wearable artworks. The colour palette of the geisha costumes is divine, with layers of silk dyed in vivid pinks, purples and reds. From the audience, against the backdrop of the very simple but striking set, they must look breathtaking. Kate Pinkerton’s contribution to the opera is relatively short but her costume is exquisite. I have always felt regal, tall and elegant wearing it and am able to instantly find the character as soon as I put it on.

Elijah Moshinsky’s exquisite production of La traviata set in Paris, with costumes designed by Peter J Hall, is also a firm favourite. I have worn an array of gowns over the years in this opera, and every single one of them is sublime. Roger Kirk’s designs in A Little Night Music are exquisite, and the costume I wore as a Liebeslieder displayed some of the most intricate beadwork I have ever seen. Roger’s costumes were auctioned off some years ago, and if I’d had the extra money to purchase mine, I would have done it in a heartbeat.

But I think the costumes that will always be closest to my heart are the ones I wore in My Fair Lady. The costume designer for the original Broadway production was none other than Sir Cecil Beaton, and they were reimagined for our production by John David Ridge at a budget beyond my comprehension. Every single costume I wore had been recreated just for me, designed with the utmost intricacy and attention to detail.

My initial costume fitting lasted nearly three hours, with each design being slowly mapped out onto my body in calico fabric. We were recreating history! One particular request in the fittings surprised me: being asked to stand on a set of scales, so my weight could be recorded. I was then instructed to remain at that weight for the entire run of the show, because my Ascot costume had absolutely no wiggle room. No pressure!

I fell in love with every one of my costumes, and as soon as I put them on for the first time in the theatre, their characters and personalities were born. When reunited with each costume in every city we toured to, I’d add another layer of character, trying new things and experimenting more with bringing the costume to life. On opening night, we all received a special gift. Inside a piece of white card, the designer had placed a coloured copy of the original costume sketch, mine being the gown I wore as Lady Boxington in the Ascot scene. Hands down, this is my most treasured opening-night gift. The gown had been originally inspired by a photo of an upper-class woman in Paris at the turn of the century, and I was also given a copy of the photo in which she poses in a gown designed more than 100 years ago.

As the Ascot scene is one of the most eagerly anticipated moments in My Fair Lady, every time the curtain rose to reveal it, the exquisite designs of our individual costumes were received with an audible gasp that filled the auditorium. The audience showed their appreciation immediately with extended applause, and as I held my pose, I felt such a sense of pride. I always allowed myself a moment to soak in their response, and on more than one occasion I nearly cried before I’d sung a single note. Every person in wardrobe and wigs at Opera Australia had once again exhibited the wealth of their skill and talent, and the result was breathtaking. That applause was for them, the people who work tirelessly beyond the lights of the stage. We couldn’t do any of our shows without them.

***

With opera companies around the world renting and even sharing the costs of some productions, we are now adding our names to costumes that have come from such companies as Teatro alla Scala in Milan, Royal Opera House, Covent Garden and Opéra National de Paris. I find this quite special, as it adds a little bit of history to a costume. A connection is created across oceans, and it brings international performers closer together: we all share the same experience but offer our own interpretations of a costume, telling our own stories. I’ve been lucky enough to meet one of my ‘costume doubles’ – a British mezzo in the chorus at Covent Garden, who wore the same costume as I did in a production of Faust. Back in 2015, I had posted a photo on social media of the female chorus in our Act One costumes, and a friend showed it to her chorus colleagues in London. Soon we were sharing photos of our respective groups wearing the same costumes, and I got to know my ‘double’. In 2019, we finally met in person, and as we chatted about the productions our respective companies shared, we realised that because we were the same size, we’d shared several costumes in different operas. I also connected with my costume double at La Scala thanks to social media.

But not all costumes are enjoyable to wear. The magicians who work in the wardrobe department will always do their utmost to make sure it’s as comfortable as possible, but sometimes, no matter how hard they try – and believe me, they do try – it just isn’t. It may feel awkward or sit too low on the hips, be too wide or too restricting, or feel cumbersome or heavy. Now that I have the pleasure of experiencing horrendous hot flushes on a regular basis, I will instantly look upon any thick, woollen, suffocating or layered costume as my archnemesis. It doesn’t take long for my mind to start planning a reduction of fabric, or working out what piece or layer of the costume I can eliminate without interfering with the required look. Sometimes I do this on the quiet, without drawing attention to my illegal manoeuvres. At other times, I am honest and approach the ladies in wardrobe with my request in advance. Recently they very kindly agreed to take away an entire piece of the costume, thus alleviating potential episodes of overheating onstage. Thank God, because it would have been difficult to resist the urge of stripping onstage during what was supposed to be a Nordic winter.

There’s usually a corset in every opera season, and this one piece of costuming will either be embraced or loathed. For me, it all depends on the fit, whether it is the right length for my torso and for how long I’m required to wear it. But corsets do have their advantages. I love the wall they create around my ribcage to sing against, and I always feel supported. They’re incredibly flattering on any size or shape, and they do look glorious, but getting strapped into the thing on nights when you’re not feeling 100 per cent isn’t much fun; at times, we’ll all be holding onto walls or the back of our chairs while getting them on. It usually feels tight when it’s first laced, but as your body warms up, the corset tends to loosen slightly, so some will ask for it to be tightened even more. I have no idea how women centuries ago managed to wear these contraptions day in and day out. They’re certainly not my best friend when it’s the middle of summer, or I’m feeling premenstrual, suffering from sore or tender breasts, feeling bloated or, worse, suffering from hot flushes. When that happens, and I’m heating up like an oven inside, I just want to get the bloody thing off.

When faced with a show or a long day of rehearsals that requires me to be in the corset for hours at a time, I have had to learn what I can and cannot eat for dinner. Timing is everything! Eating a large bowl of pasta and then rushing to get into costume can have dire consequences. It can feel like I’ve pushed the entire contents of my dinner back up towards my throat, and I know it’s going to stay there for as long as I’m strapped in. I also learned to always, and I mean always, put my shoes on first (after the stockings, that is). Once encased in boning, it can be practically impossible to bend at the waist to put your shoes on, especially if they require buttoning or lacing.

Corsets can accentuate the cleavage, making it look fabulous. Once strapped in, one chorister’s party trick was resting her head on her breasts, they were pushed up so far – like a wee cushion to snooze on until being called to stage. For me, on the other hand, if the corset is laced within an inch of its life, and I attempt very little movement, I too can sport a somewhat decreased but present cleavage for a short period of time … until I breathe deeply enough that it shrinks and disappears, never to be seen again that evening. That is where the magic of the baby-oil-and-eye-pencil combination comes in handy, a winning formula for creating a cleavage from very small foundations. It looks ridiculous close-up but, according to those who have witnessed the transformation from out front, it does the trick, thanks to some distance and that all-important lighting.

Every costume I’ve worn over the years presents me with a new challenge: to be able to go to the toilet without taking it off – because, let’s face it, that’s much easier. And I’m not the only one. Many a chorister has announced that they should have gone to the toilet before getting dressed, then decided it’s just too hard, with some proudly announcing how long they can hold off before their bladder starts screaming. I have succeeded with nearly every costume, but it became impossible to achieve my goal in Verdi’s Don Carlos. The opera is set in the sixteenth-century Spanish royal court, with set and costumes designed by Paul Brown. I can’t recall the exact width of my gown, but let’s just say I couldn’t even walk through a double door front-on due to the large frame and crinoline underneath, designed to support the dress over the top. I felt glorious in it, but my body did not, especially my hips!

I also feel a sense of achievement if I can get ready on my own. I know that sounds rather lame, but believe me, some of them are challenging – and some of them, forget it. One chorister made it her sole mission to dress herself as if her life depended on it, only calling for help if she could no longer physically contort her body to do so. She was held in high esteem by the rest of us. Our dressers are our daily lifesavers. They very rarely complain, and before the curtain rises on a performance, they will have whipped around that dressing room, sometimes lacing up to 24 corsets in the space of twenty minutes, not to mention securing the undergarments and skirts, and sometimes even having to lace our shoes. They’re a great bunch and we’d be lost without them.

***

Characters cannot come alive with costumes alone, and each opera’s design also incorporates wigs, hats, makeup and accessories. The skill of the people in these departments is beyond words, and the handmade wigs are a result of long hours of very detailed work, a craft that is learned and perfected over a lifetime. There are some wigs I have worn that fit like a glove, feeling like a natural extension of me and the costume, as if they were always meant to be together. Graeme Murphy’s production of Aida gifted me the most entertaining wig of my career. I had been cast, among other things, as a prisoner in the Grand March scene of Act Two. It required a complete wig and costume change from a rather elegant ensemble outfit into clothing suitable for my character. Too focused on the quick change during a stage rehearsal in the theatre, I thought everything was going smoothly until I entered the stage in said wig – a marvellous combination of dreadlocks and afro. With no mirror backstage, I had absolutely no idea what I looked like. But it didn’t take long for me to start noticing my colleagues crumbling with laughter, unable to sing, and of course I reacted to the hysteria. During the season, my wig became a desirable object, with other cast members wanting to give it a go. Even the chorus master enjoyed wearing it one night backstage.

For most productions, the makeup we wear onstage is an extension of an everyday street-makeup look, slightly exaggerated but still creating a natural appearance. But when certain productions come along that allow me the opportunity to get creative and experiment with a wider colour palette, offering bolder shades and makeup design, I relish the chance to indulge in my preferred approach: more is always more. Anything that requires glitter or false eyelashes is a favourite, and I’m a big fan of a ‘smoky eye’, which creates a bold, theatrical appearance. I can literally achieve that smoky eye and a full face of makeup in about five minutes – and faster if necessary. It has become my go-to look unless we are directed otherwise.

For some operas, we are instructed to wear absolutely no makeup, which means no base, foundation, eyeliner or anything else. Some singers, myself included, can find this a very difficult request. With theatre lights known to be incredibly harsh and at times unforgiving, an element of vanity comes into play. I may find a way, on occasion, to add a subtle smattering of base, just enough to cover blemishes and pimples but not too much that I stray from the required brief. I know there is always a reason for a designer to choose the no-makeup option for added effect, and when all the elements are combined onstage – costume, lighting and scenery – the designer’s vision is achieved. On the upside, there is a general rule in show business that you don’t leave the theatre with a full face of makeup, so a show requiring next to nothing always makes for a quick exit from the theatre, preventing embarrassing encounters on the way home!

Even when I have been diligent in trying to remove makeup after a show, there have definitely been times I’ve left the theatre with a certain amount of greasepaint still very apparent on my face, especially in shows where I have had to wear glitter – and of course I’m known to use a tad more than I’m meant to. Some call glitter ‘the lice of the art room’, and I’m sure you could expand that to include the dressing room. The trusty makeup wipe used to quickly remove glitter from my eyelids will only redistribute it across the rest of my face, resulting in me looking like a disco ball. Leaving the theatre with a complete face of untouched stage makeup is never recommended, and after one Saturday-night’s performance of Aida on Sydney Harbour, I learned this the hard way. It had been a horrible night – freezing cold, wet and miserable. My costume was soaked through, and I just wanted to get home and have a hot shower. The walk to the car park takes around fifteen minutes so I started out on foot, head down, with only one goal in mind – to get to that car, get home, shower and get warm! As I approached the Anzac Bridge, the glowing lights ahead indicated a random breath test checkpoint and – of course – they signalled me to pull over.

When the policeman saw the face peering back at him through the window, he laughed and asked if I was going to or from a party. We had a bit of a chuckle and while he proceeded to compliment me on my excessive use of glitter, I blew into the mouthpiece quite impressed that he’d noticed. Being given the signal to drive on and suddenly realising I needed petrol, I crawled towards the nearest station on Parramatta Road. To top it off, there were cars everywhere. I decided to own my exaggerated appearance, filling up my car anyway. Perhaps they thought I was heading home from some fancy-dress extravaganza, despite wearing activewear. After that evening, I decided I would at least remove most of my makeup before leaving work in the future!

Over the last few years, I have become very aware of the effects glitter can have on the environment, which is reason enough to move towards a product made from plants. But after touring around Australia with Oz Opera during 2012–13, I realised that it’s not everyone’s favourite accessory. A good number of regional theatres across Australia advertised a ‘no glitter’ policy, with posters plastered on walls and doors backstage, citing possible damage to curtains and upholstery. One poster read:

Glitter Gel

Body Gel

Hairspray Glitter

Or any other form of glitter products

ARE PROHIBITED

I felt bitterly disappointed! Not that Donna Elvira would wear glitter, but after performing in numerous productions where it happened to be part of the makeup design, I had accumulated a rather envied collection of the sparkly substance, occasionally sprinkling a tiny amount on my face to bring a bit of shimmer to my performance. When we originally staged La bohème in 2011 for Opera Australia, the makeup brief clearly stipulated that glitter for certain characters should only be applied to the eyelids. Try telling that to a group of singers who have copious amounts at their disposal. As the opera seasons ticked over and the years passed, the glitter somehow began to fall from my eyelids, distributing itself further down my cheeks and, most recently, onto my chest. I firmly believe it adds to the effervescence and overall glitz of the scene in Café Momus – and, as they say, a little sparkle goes a long way!