When I stare at a costume, I’m already on a stage in my head. I ask: what’s the story this fabric wants to whisper, and what does it need to shout? A loose cloak can hide a shy soul, but a crisp corset? It’s all about the tension. If the character’s secret is hidden, I’ll let the costume tuck it away with subtle folds, maybe a hidden pocket. If the character wants to command attention, I’ll go bold—bright colors, sharp silhouettes, a daring cut that says, “I’m here.” And of course, a touch of the unexpected, like a fringe that swirls as they move—makes the audience feel the unseen personality. It’s a dance between fabric and intent.

Exactly, the costume is the silent partner in the performance. I love testing it on a quick run—watch how the fringe feels when the character jumps or how a long cape swirls when they’re on their feet. If the movement feels stiff, that’s a red flag. The best outfits let the actor’s energy flow, not choke it. Think of the costume as a tool, not a costume, and the story really pops out when the fabric and the action dance together.

Totally, I get that. Last week I had a dress that kept slipping off my shoulder mid‑take—freaking out on stage and in the editor’s room. After a quick test run, I swapped the seam for a hidden hook and bam, it became part of the character, not a roadblock. The little quirks of fabric really tell the story before the actor even hits “scene.”

Yeah, it’s like a secret code—every slip is a clue waiting to be read. I love the mystery, like a puzzle that has to be solved before the audience even sees the character.

Exactly, the wardrobe is a silent spoiler—those little slides, the tug of a hem, they’re the hints the audience gets before the first cue. I love turning a slip into a plot twist, like a character who can’t keep their cape in place because they’re always on the brink of a new identity. The trick is to make the movement feel intentional, not accidental, so it adds a layer to the story before the lights even go up.