I’ve often joked that costuming in Regina, Saskatchewan, is part artistry and part extreme sport. Despite the wealth of theatrical talent here—seen in organizations like the long-running Regina Little Theatre, in smaller community troupes across the province, and of course at the Globe Theatre where I head up the wardrobe department—the reality is that we don’t have the same resources or infrastructure that larger cultural centers take for granted. We’re physically distant from major cities, which means fewer local shopping options for fabric and notions, higher shipping costs when we order online, and much longer wait times for deliveries.
We also have to contend with our climate. Saskatchewan winters can be fierce enough to disrupt deliveries or make unexpected last-minute road trips for fabric nearly impossible. I remember occasions where a storm shut down highways, and I was left crossing my fingers, hoping a crucial package of shoes or fabric would arrive in time for fittings. Sometimes it did; sometimes we had to improvise with whatever was on hand.
One of the biggest heartbreaks I’ve encountered lately is the degradation of once-sturdy vintage clothing. These older garments were traditionally a gold mine for costumes, offering authentic patterns, superior fabrics, and a flair that’s hard to replicate. Sadly, many of these pieces are now literally falling apart at the seams, disintegrating under even gentle handling. Replacing them with modern buys isn’t an easy fix, because mass-market fast fashion—often mislabeled in fiber content and questionable in quality—usually won’t survive the rigors of repeated performances. Under stage lights, costumes must endure sweat, movement, and frequent laundering, and poorly made garments can easily tear or fray mid-run.
Online shopping, which seems like a great solution in theory, comes with its own set of problems. For starters, many retailers who advertise global shipping either don’t deliver to Canada at all or charge exorbitant rates. Then there’s the matter of misinformation: a fabric listed as “100% cotton” might arrive only to reveal it’s mostly polyester, which throws a wrench in any planned dye jobs or specific draping requirements. Returns can be prohibitively expensive and time-consuming, so we often find ourselves stuck with subpar materials that need extensive alterations or reinforcement just to be stage-ready.
I’ve learned to adapt by becoming a scavenger of sorts. Places like thrift and vintage/antique stores have turned into my treasure troves for sourcing or repurposing garments. When our shipment of shimmer tulle and velvet for Tinkerbell’s costume got detained en route to Regina, we turned to Value Village for a top that, after some careful patching and a re-cut neckline, took on the fairy sparkle we needed. A clearance dress from Suzy Shier (purchased amid some unsolicited size commentary) provided the perfect shimmer for the sleeves, and once we pieced everything together, it looked every bit as enchanting as Rebecca Donison’s original design. Sometimes, the most magical solutions appear when you’re forced to improvise.
Of course, I’m not alone in this resourcefulness. There’s a real sense of community in Saskatchewan’s theatre world, whether in Regina, Saskatoon, or smaller towns across the province. When one of us needs a particular trim or prop, we reach out to see who might have it squirreled away. We share surplus bolts of fabric, exchange advice about reliable online retailers, and commiserate over delayed shipments or mislabeled material. I sometimes envy costume shops in bigger cities that can drive to a large-scale fabric district or have access to specialized millinery supplies at a moment’s notice, but I also take pride in our collective resilience. It shapes our design aesthetic, pushing us to innovate in ways that might never occur in a more resource-rich environment.
Still, it’s not easy. Budgets are tight, especially when the cost of “cheap” clothes is higher than ever. If we purchase a large order of supposedly leather shoes, only to realize they’re a flimsy foam and pleather that won’t hold up, that’s a major hit to both our timeline and our finances. Then there’s the emotional drain of juggling these unforeseen complications while still meeting directors’ visions and audiences’ expectations. The moment a seam bursts or a zipper sticks onstage, you can feel your stomach drop, knowing someone backstage is going to have to sprint into crisis mode with a needle and thread. I’ve become adept at swapping out faulty zippers for rows of hooks or sewing in heavier linings to give flimsy fabrics a fighting chance under the rigor of performance use. Although these processes can be time-consuming, there’s also a certain satisfaction in rescuing a garment headed for the landfill and giving it new life.
Looking ahead, I believe things are at a tipping point for costume makers, not just in Saskatchewan but across the country. Sustainability has become more pressing as we confront the consequences of fast fashion. There’s a growing awareness that durable, ethically produced textiles might cost more initially but are far more economical in the long run. If more local or regional textile producers emerge—and if online retailers become more transparent about their materials—that could lighten our load considerably. I hope to see the day when we can access high-quality fabrics from within the province, drastically reducing shipping costs and improving our environmental footprint.
Until then, I’ll keep using the tools I have: a sharp eye for thrift store gems, a good sewing machine, and the knowledge that there’s a supportive community of theatre artisans around me. Every time the lights go down on a new production, I feel a rush of excitement and relief, knowing how many improvisations and focused sewing sessions brought us there. When an audience applauds, they’re applauding not just the performances but the sheer tenacity behind the costumes, the sets, and all the hidden work that made the illusion possible.
If you’ve noticed the decline in everyday clothing quality or have struggled with misleading online purchases, know that you’re part of a larger conversation about how we source and value the things we wear. Theatre happens to amplify those issues because our garments are put to the test so intensively. But if we share our stories and solutions, we just might see a shift toward better quality, more honest labeling, and a deeper appreciation for what it takes to clothe a character—or even just ourselves. After all, the magic of theatre is in transforming constraints into creativity, and I can’t think of a more rewarding place to make that magic happen than right here in Regina.
Anamorphique 