Като основател на Това е Българияза мен беше истинска чест да се срещна и да
науча повече от режисьора и хореограф Коста Каракашян– артист, чиято работа
непрестанно разширява представите за това какво може да означава
„българско“.
Срещнахме се в София, в споделено работно пространство, наречено The Steps.
Беше обедно време и двамата закъсняхме – трафикът беше сковал града, който
празнуваше своя ден: Вяра, Надежда и Любов и майка им София.Вяра, Надежда и Любов и майка им СофияВътре беше по-
хладно, отколкото навън. Коста беше спокоен. Не беше спокойствие, породено от
изолация или застиналост, а по-скоро спокойствието на човек, който умее да
създава пространство – за другите, за риска, за емпатията. Когато говори, дори
паузите му изглеждат преднамерени, сякаш самата тишина е част от
хореографията му. Тялото му носи паметта на танцьор: тежестта е поставена с
внимание, жестовете – икономични, вниманието – като метроном. На бара
оставихме две чаши кафе да изстинат, докато се настанявахме за интервюто.
Широкият плот ни даде пространство да дишаме, да слушаме и да намерим
точното място, от което да започнем.
Калина: Творчеството ти често е описвано като „емпатия чрез движение“. Как
точно изглежда емпатията в твоята режисьорска стая – и как разбираш, че си я
постигнал?
Коста: За мен има два аспекта. Първият е емпатията в самото съзидание, в
творбата – независимо дали е филм или представление на живо – да се уверя, че
ценността на емпатията може по някакъв начин да бъде предадена на публиката.
Затова се фокусирам върху неща, които виждам като важни в обществото, но не
са толкова универсални, колкото бих искал: уязвимостта, грижата един за друг,
поставянето на мястото на другия и проявяването на солидарност с хората, които
по някакъв начин са различни от нас. Първият аспект е да се уверя, че тази
емоция и ценност могат да съществуват в историята, в драматургията.
Но освен това, мисля, че за да покажеш това успешно, ти е нужна емпатия и в
пространството, където го създаваш. Затова се опитваме да изградим процес,
който да е много сигурен за творците, актьорите, екипа – много отворен, гъвкав.
Искам комуникацията да е много мека и да не създава излишно напрежение в
процеса. И това е нещо, което често получаваме като обратна връзка – че нашите
проекти винаги са много спокойни, което е наистина приятно да се чуе.
Калина: Обучен си като танцьор, но си учил и „Права на човека“. Какво научи от
второто, което при чистото танцово обучение никога не би могъл да усвоиш?
Коста: При правата на човека имаш много ясна рамка – има голяма основа, върху
която се гради разговорът за тях, и споделеното убеждение, че правата на човека
са универсални. Така че стъпваш върху нещо, което всички договори и закони следват – това предположение – и работиш, като намираш институциите,
механизмите, които могат да защитят тези права. Така че, в известен смисъл, това
е нещо, което идва от идеал и намира начин да бъде практично по отношение на
този много важен, отново, универсален въпрос.
А при танца и сценичните изкуства има такава изключителна свобода, че
понякога не си обвързан с никаква основа. Мисля, че за мен беше наистина
важно да свържа артистичната си практика с нещо по-дълбоко, по-универсално
и, отново, в известен смисъл, по-емпатично. Защото виждаме, че изкуството може
да говори на всякакви теми, но аз забелязах, че винаги се връщам към този
социален аспект – затова исках да го разбера по-добре, за да мога да създавам
изкуство, което наистина докосва струна у публиката.
Калина: Waiting for Color (В очакване на цвят) се превърна в знаков проект.
Поглеждайки назад, кое е едно решение – артистично или етично – което все още
би защитил, и кое би направил по различен начин?
Коста: Решение, от което съм много щастлив – начинът, по който направихме
филма – беше, че го запазихме двуезичен. Някои от свидетелствата бяха на
английски, а други – на руски. Първоначално ги прочетохме в превод в английския
доклад, но тъй като историята ни идваше от Русия, решихме да работим с двама
рускоговорящи гласови актьори. Така, в известен смисъл, може да бъде малко по-
близо до истинските истории на хората. Но тъй като искахме да бъде по-
международен, включихме и английски – защото може да бъде доста смразяващо
да ги чуеш, а не просто да ги четеш със субтитри. Така че това беше странна идея,
да смесим двата езика, но мисля, че тя помага на филма да работи.
А нещо, което бих променил или направил по различен начин сега – вероятно бих
намерил начин да имам повече изпълнители, които да покажат разнообразието от
преживявания. Мисля, че винаги е хубаво, когато виждаш различни лица,
различни тела, с които хората могат да се свържат. Но това беше много личен
проект по онова време – едно от малкото произведения, в които аз самият
участвам. Така че съм донякъде доволен, че така се наредиха нещата.
Калина: Значи в днешно време не танцуваш?
Коста: Режисирам, хореографирам и някак се отдръпвам от сцената през
последните няколко години.
Калина: Липсва ли ти танцът?
Коста: Не, изобщо. Беше много съзнателно решение, защото все повече моята
креативност се насочваше към голямата картина на проекта. Харесва ми да
виждам всичко – как творбата се възприема от публиката, как е настроено
осветлението, какви са костюмите – а ако си на сцената, можеш да вземеш всички
тези решения, но никога не го виждаш отвън. А за мен този външен поглед е
важен.
Също така открих, че изпитвам повече радост от продуцирането, писането и
режисирането на проектите, но не толкова от репетициите като изпълнител.
Започна да ми се струва досадно и уморително – да танцувам толкова много
часове. Така че това беше момент, в който трябваше да бъда честен със себе си –
въпреки че го правя от петгодишен – че вече не ми носи същото удоволствие както
преди. Но имам късмет – това е просто разширяване към следващото ниво. Може
би правя нещо подобно, но достатъчно различно, за да му се наслаждавам.
Калина: Исках да те попитам малко за KITCHEN. Защо имерсивно
представление точно сега? Какво може да постигне една стая, пълна с движещи
се тела и храна, което киното не може?
Коста: Коста: За мен имерсивните представления – може би един от определящите
моменти за мен като творец – беше, когато учех в Ню Йорк и един приятел ме
заведе да гледам спектакъл, наречен Sleep No MoreMore – едно от най-известните
имерсивни театрални представления на компанията Punchdrunk. Действието се
развива на пет етажа – плюс един таен етаж – в складово пространство и вплита
фрагменти от Macbeth с герои от филмите на Алфред Хичкок и процесите срещу
вещиците. Всичко това е втъкано в тези етажи, където имаш бална зала, гробище,
улица с магазини, болница и лудница, и ти се луташ из тези пространства. Има
около двадесет до тридесет изпълнители и ти избираш кой да последваш – сякаш
сам избираш своето приключение. Толкова първично, невероятно богато
сценографско решение – има различни аромати, танцьорите тичат наоколо,
скачат по стените, покрити с кръв, събличат се, крещят. Усеща се толкова опасно
по един наистина удивителен начин. И когато видях това представление, си казах:
„Как изобщо някой измисля това? Толкова е различно от всичко, което съм
гледал.“
Това беше голямото вдъхновение за мен, когато се върнах в България и се
запознах с моя приятел, Александър – той е творческият директор на ресторант
Cosmos и бивш сладкар. Решихме да комбинираме нашите знания и страст и той
разказа много истински истории на хора, с които е работил в кухнята, и всичките
им проблеми – проблеми със злоупотреба с вещества, с усещането, че никога не
си достатъчно добър, със заплаха от колеги – всички несигурности, които една
наистина интензивна индустрия може да ти наложи.
Така започнахме да създаваме тази творба в реалните кулинарни пространства на
HRC Culinary Academy и заедно с ко-режисьора Антония Георгиева създадохме
нещо много различно. Това беше по време на COVID, така че имаше ограничение
от петнадесет души на обществено място, затова го направихме за шест
изпълнители и десет зрители. Логистиката беше уникална – да се работи със
звука във всички тези пространства. Нашият композитор и звуков инженер,
Георги Атанасов, измисли идеята целият звук да бъде в слушалки за публиката. В
началото сядаш, сякаш отиваш на ресторант, но вместо храна, получаваш
слушалки в поднос. Слагаш си ги и по време на цялото представление той
миксира звука на живо – пуска всяка песен, добавя звуци от пространството с
микрофон. Но танцьорите танцуват в пълна тишина, което е наистина интересно и
освобождаващо за тях, защото не е нужно да следват музиката – те могат да
следват собствения си дъх, да развият свой собствен ритъм. Ако нещо тази вечер
се усеща по-дълго или по-кратко, те могат да си поиграят с това. Имат зададена
хореография, но могат да си позволят по-дълъг момент, да се отдадат по различен
начин на всяко представление.
Kalina: You're building institutions—Studio Karakashyan, and your dance company Karakashyan & Artists. What is the artistic risk these companies exist to take that others won't?
Kosta: With Studio Karakashyan, the film company—one of our big focuses is on telling LGBTQ stories. This is quite rare in Bulgaria. It's very important to show this visibility through film because it's a very accessible, very commercial medium. But still, in Bulgaria, we see that neither the audience nor the film distributors, the cinemas, are ready for queer stories. They're very afraid this will bring some negative reactions, or they will lose business. So that's why, for me, it's very important to champion these stories—not just with my own films but also as producers.
This year, we produced the short film of first-time director Georgi Petkov. His film is called Silent Mode, and again, it's a queer story tackling homophobia and friendship in Bulgaria. So it's quite nice to see this profile of the studio solidify and emerge. This year I gave myself permission to finally write scripts —I finished the script of my feature debut film. We're hoping to shoot it next year. It's a queer love story set on the Bulgarian seaside. It's going to be called July Morning. So that's very exciting.
And then, with the dance company, the risk is always in putting theater and dance in unexpected contexts—taking the audience on a very visceral, very wild journey. We've done a show in a landfill full of trash together with Greenpeace on a project called The Last Sunset. We've done shows in a hair salon. We just did an outdoor experience with Mercedes for ModaSofia, a new fashion event in Sofia—so we're very open to putting performance where you wouldn't expect to see it.
Kalina: You talked about the documentary Welcome to Chechnya.
Kosta: Yes—this is the film by David France, and I was invited, in a strange way, to volunteer my face. It's a feature documentary where he managed to go to Russia to film queer people from Chechnya trying to flee to Europe. He managed to get quite a lot of footage that is incredibly difficult to capture there. When he managed to smuggle out the hard drives, editing in a studio with no internet—they were very protective of all of this footage—in the end, to make sure that the film can be released, he and his team had to find a way to anonymize all the people whose stories they filmed.
This was, I think, in 2018—one of the first times a documentary film used deepfakes to replace the faces. And David asked me and another activist to give our faces. So we were recorded with, I think, fifty cameras from different angles, and then the algorithm approximated our faces on top of the faces of the people in the film—which is really special and very moving to be part of. To be able to tell their stories in this way and make sure it protects their anonymity.
The film was nominated for quite a lot of awards, I think for an Emmy, and it was shortlisted for the Oscars in a few categories. So it was a very powerful project. It was released on HBO in Bulgaria; we did a special screening during COVID.
Kalina: If a funder asked you to "soften" queer themes for broader reach, how would you respond—what's your red line?
Kosta: It really depends—not all of my work is on queer themes. Sometimes I create on other topics, but with queer work, of course, it's at the forefront. For me, it's extremely important that stories are told in an authentic way. So we can only collaborate with institutions or companies that know why we're doing it and why this visibility is important. I don't think there is a way to compromise on this.
Kalina: Directing and choreographing for major brands and artists—what creative constraint from advertising actually improved the art?
Kosta: For me, this is one of my favorite ways to create, because you enter a sandbox that's very specific, very unique to the brand and the concept. You have to find a way to really create something that you're proud of in a narrow sliver. For me, it's actually very creative. Sometimes, certain ads really test your creativity —once we built a huge pool of real milk for someone to dive in, and I would never come up with this idea on my own, but I can have a lot of fun with it. Or we've had a hundred people in a foam party on the street—we've had so many interesting things. Situations where I wouldn't think of putting dance, but someone creative in a different way had this idea.
You're tasked to create movement that lasts one or two seconds, and this is very different than making a performance where you can take your time. It forces you to express yourself in a very different way—and not all artists enjoy these constrictions, but I find it very fun. You never know what each commercial will bring.
Kalina: As artistic director and producer, how do you split time between art, fundraising, and operations?
Kosta: This is the topic of the hour. Now I'm starting to get more help with operational stuff, because up until now I've been doing all of the grant application and writing and budgeting—and then having to do all the creative work afterwards—it's very exhausting. But I think more and more artists should also have this business side, to be aware of it and to have a bit of knowledge so that they can support—stand up for—their own work. Sometimes no producer will fight as hard for your idea as you will, so you need to know what's the non-negotiable, which things you can let go. So it's important for the artist to also know the business side a bit of what they do.
And absolutely, I take it as a learning experience—it's always fun to learn new things you don't know. For example, for a project having to figure out where to source animals or small kids—I like these challenges. Or finding a location last minute.
Kalina: Touring playbook—what's the minimum viable team and tech rider for your immersive shows?
Kosta: It depends. Now we made some smaller works that are more flexible for one performer, and they could travel with just me and the performer if there is technical support on site. And we have bigger works that need a similar venue to where they were created—KITCHEN takes place in over six or seven rooms. Some of the shows require this modular type of space. That's why it's important to create different configurations—because some festivals want a bigger work, some festivals want a solo, some want a ten-minute show, some want something that's three hours. So it’s important to also diversify what you can offer and not have one strict formula.
Kalina: Education and platforms—Columbia's dance training and your Human Rights master's. How do they intersect in your rehearsal ethics?
Kosta: Luckily, in the rehearsal context, I try to keep a very gentle environment—so everything is much less severe than talking about human rights. But even in an art context, there is—in the industry as a whole, I think—abuse of power and unethical treatment of performers and dancers.
The things that I'm really aware of: I'm always trying to negotiate higher fees for the artists, because they are still underpaid in my opinion. With a creative practice, the paradox is because it looks easy people would assume you love doing it, or it's something you can just do with no preparation. I'm always trying to educate the people on the other side. And at the same time, I work hard not to put the dancers in precarious situations—which with our work sometimes is harder. The audience is a touch away from them. You don't know what the audience would be like, you don't know what floor they'll be dancing on—it's different than putting it on stage.
Sometimes they're touching the audience, interacting with the audience, and this does bring—I don't want to say danger—but uncertainty. We rehearse a lot of situations, and ideally there's always people on the side so the dancers are not in a precarious situation. Sometimes we even take one audience member in the hallway somewhere with one dancer—so it's important. It's a balancing act because you want this intimacy, but you also want both sides to feel safe. It's very tricky.
Kalina: Glance from the Edge maps bodies onto Bulgarian landscapes. What specific sites or histories are inscribed in the choreography that a foreign viewer might miss?
Kosta: This was a very special project because it was my first project after graduation, and I managed to bring part of the same team that did Waiting for Color from the States to Bulgaria. We worked with an American cinematographer – Kevin Chiu and an American composer – Jude Icarus, and they came to Bulgaria for the two weeks we were shooting—so it was really special to see these locations through the eyes of foreigenrs, someone who has no context for them.
We were weaving them in a very fantastical, very abstract way. We worked with some very recognizable, very iconic for Bulgaria places—like the cave with "God's eyes." We worked with some locations at the sea—Tyulenovo, this very beautiful rocky cliff formation. We went to Plovdiv, the old town, and we found a really interesting marble quarry. And then we also went for some more anachronistic moments—we took them to Sunny Beach; there is a scene on the streets with all the nightclubs.
It was a very diverse project, and it was really fascinating to see you can recontextualize some of these places, because we didn't want it to be a very historical documentary film. We wanted to create something more magical-realist based around these locations. Even this year, it was selected in a program in Poland mapping the body as landscape—so it's really fascinating when an old project keeps getting some unexpected attention.
Kalina: Rapid-fire to close. A movement you overuse and don't care?
Kosta: In the dance context—movement that's very just connected to the music, but it can be—if you turn off the music, it can look like a hundred other things; it doesn't make sense. There is a lot of choreography that's hitting the accents in the same way, but if you watch it without sound and you watch a hundred of them, they will look the same. So—deeper into the texture, getting into sound.
Kalina: A note you give too often—as a director?
Kosta: Go slower. Take your time.
Kalina: An artist outside dance you'd steal from?
Kosta: So many... David Lynch.
Kalina: A risk you're hungry to take next season?
Kosta: I'm starting to write a novel—so that will be very different, a new form of expression from everything else. Hopefully next year it will be ready.
Kalina: Five-minute rehearsal warm-up that never fails?
Kosta: When I'm not sure how to lead the room—we sit down on the floor, we close our eyes, and we kind of know what the project is about. We do this exercise where we use the eye of the mind. We put on music that is relevant to the piece, and everyone kind of directs the scene in their head. If they know their character or one thing to go off, they start to imagine it as a movie—they see where the character goes, what happens to them. They experience this for five to ten minutes, and then we sit down and we each say what we saw. That kind of gives the backbone of the narrative.
People see crazy things, and then you talk about it. It's like a mental rehearsal—connecting to a very deep inspiration you can't quite place. And because it came from their mind, they believe in it—so they don't question it. It's very easy to put it in the work: "I saw it, why not?" It's tricking the mind.
Kalina: The last idea you killed—and why it deserved to die?
Kosta: A choreography we were doing yesterday—and sometimes you create, create, and then you see there are moments that kill the energy. So you have to take out the bits that are not adding anything. You start to trim it down, because something shorter and more explosive can be better than something that feels very flat.
Kalina: A folklore image you haven't cracked yet?
Kosta: I have a new idea—it's gonna be a piece about Bulgarian rituals based around different herbs and spices and bread, and all of the flavors that make Bulgaria, Bulgaria. A piece for a few dancers and a folklore singer. We're starting next year to crack this idea—hopefully bring it to New York; that's the goal for this project, for a festival there that I can’t share just yet…
Kalina: One note you wish collaborators gave you more often?
Kosta: I'm not very strict—I like to paint a rough picture. It would be nice if they encouraged me to be even more picky with certain things. I like to create very fast, and then I say, "okay, it's good enough," but—slow down, like I said before—slow down and fine-tune the details. I know this is not always my strength, so I try to have someone in the team that can work through those small details after I paint the broad picture.
Kalina: Cut on breath or cut on beat?
Kosta: On breath—because it's more authentic to the moment.
Kalina: A costume detail that does half the choreography?
Kosta: Fringe.
Kalina: The lighting trick you overuse—and won't apologize for?
Kosta: I like chaser effects—where you put different lights and then you alternate. It creates a lot of dynamics and shadows in the space. It can also hide choreography if you're not sure why it's not working.
Kalina: The biggest myth about "immersive" you want to retire?
Kosta: That it's always interactive in a way that is awkward or cheesy for the audience. When they hear "immersive," they imagine someone bringing them out on stage and asking them to dance—and this is a lot of people's weirdest nightmare. Immersive can be done in a way that makes you very invested in the story without causing you discomfort.
Kalina: A smell or taste that instantly gives you a scene?
Kosta: Something smoky—like incense, or wood. Anything that has this burning, smoky sensation.
Kalina: The compliment you don't trust?
Kosta: "It was interesting."
Kalina: A dream Bulgarian location you're still waiting to film?
Kosta: Buzludzha Monument. It would be amazing—maybe for an immersive performance as well.
Kalina: A failure you actually hope to repeat?
Kosta: It happens quite often—I don't think it's a big failure—but with projects, I have one idea, and then when we start rehearsing it I see that it's totally not gonna work, and I need to change the whole concept and the approach. Sometimes you have to do it in front of the performers, or even when you go to a location and you see it would be a very bad idea to do that. So—just forget, and you try to do something from scratch.
I'm very happy I have the courage to do that and not feel like, "oh, but we rehearsed this, so it has to be this." I try to scrap ideas if I know they're not the right one. You're never a computer that can perfectly imagine a venue or a location or a set in your head. When you go, it's always different—you have to adapt a lot. You never know until you get the first audience in the venue how they'll react. You have assumptions where they'll go, which side they'll be on—but it's always different. So you adapt mid-performance—and then after the show, change for the next audience as well.
Kalina: Is KITCHEN coming back soon?
Kosta: Maybe November, for the Night of Theaters—we might bring it back. It's a very special show for us. It's one of those pieces that's hard to "see" on video—you have to be there, in the rooms.
Kalina: And the feature—July Morning—how real is "next year"?
Kosta: The script is close to being done. We're working to shoot next year. It's a queer love story on the Black Sea, and I think it's the right time. Ordinary visibility, like I said. Film can carry that further than a stage sometimes.
Kalina: And the novel?
Kosta: I'm writing. But it’s a new muscle, so it takes time. Hopefully next year it will be ready.
On a day when the city celebrates the very virtues his work insists on, our conversation closes the way it began—quietly, deliberately—leaving room for the next step.
As we wrapped, I thought of all the spaces Kosta has made: a film where testimonies flicker between languages; a kitchen where dancers move in silence while audiences drown in sound; a landfill seeded with choreography; a cave turned into a cathedral of bodies. What unites them isn't spectacle but risk—the risk of empathy, the risk of intimacy, the risk of making space in a country where space is too often denied.
In Bulgaria, where corruption trains people to treat the law as optional, where Pride meets counter-parades, where rules bend for those who can pay, Kosta insists on different rules: care, presence, attention. That's the paradox. In a society built on exceptions, he makes art that demands honesty. In a place where silence often hides complicity, he builds silence that reveals truth.
Leaving The Steps and walking into Sofia’s lively streets, I thought of his new project—rituals with herbs, spices, bread. The flavors of Bulgaria, turned into dance. Perhaps that’s what art does best: take bitterness and burn, failures and fragments, and make them into something worth sharing. Something that asks us not just to watch, but to sit with it—in silence, together.