Nina Perović

Nina Perović–in conversation with Alexey Munipov

 

Could you first tell me about your initial process of thinking—what to write when you got this commission?

 

When I got this commission, I was very honored, because I knew about Neue Vocalsolisten. For me, it was an amazing pleasure to have this chance to work with them, especially because I know it is connected to the subject that I myself probably didn’t process enough in a sense of personally dealing with the problem of war and going through the war, actually.

 

I was born in Bosnia and Herzegovina, in Mostar, but we escaped to Montenegro just before the war started. Then we had to escape Montenegro when the war almost reached there. We fled to Cyprus, lived in London, and later returned to Montenegro.

 

So yes, we escaped–but the theme is still sensitive. For the second version of the piece I included original videos my parents filmed during the 1990s in Yugoslavia–footage from our family while we were moving around. It seems the camera was their way of coping with trauma. There are many meditative episodes where the family and friends are just there, doing nothing but filming. But you can clearly see on most of the faces that they are traumatized, while children are always playing and having fun.

 

For me, working with those old family videos was like completing the process of going through the experience of encountering the war, from a far distance. Only by working with that video materials in a newer version of the piece–reflecting on the perspectives of my parents, and of myself and my brother–did I gain strength and insight.

 

How do you transfer and transcribe it into musical language?

 

In my piece I dealt with the theme of violence. At that time, I was completely absorbed by it. I just couldn’t grasp it. How was this possible? Why couldn’t Yugoslavia separate peacefully? Why did it have to become such a brutal war? Why did people do things that are beyond description?

 

I was reading witness testimonies. Soldiers ordering fathers and sons to do certain things under threat of death… I asked a friend of mine, who worked as a court translator, how she coped with all of this. And she told me: »Don’t rationalize. Take a pill, scream, breathe, take a walk. You need to let your anger out first. Because we cannot understand this on an everyday level.« So how do we translate that into art? How do you turn war trauma into music?

 

I recorded myself breathing and thinking about it. The sound of breath dominates the piece. I was working with the triangle of victim, perpetrator and bystander–and the question of responsibility for everything that happened (within that triangle).

 

I had just completed three years of socio-psychodrama training, and I used elements of it in this piece as well. The singers take on roles–»Yugoslavia«, »Justice« »Us« (people), etc. and pronounce the phrases that were originally spoken in a socio-psychodrama session that involved participants from the former Yugoslavia.

 

Do you feel that your childhood memories and the experience of the 90s in the Balkans shaped your identity as an artist–even if you didn’t experience the war yourself?

 

Very much so. As an artist, and as a human being. It shaped my entire life–especially because now I also work with children, and I understand how their brains work. Children never question the quality of the world–they always question the quality of themselves.

If you ask me: what was the first moment I realised something was not okay–it was when we fled from Bosnia to Montenegro. I realised that people there made a subtle distinction between two letters, »ch« and »ć«–the soft and the hard ‘ch’. And at school they expected me to know this. Suddenly there was something I didn’t know. I didn’t belong. We were children, we just played–it sounds naïve now. But that was the first moment when I understood: I’m doing something wrong. I don’t fit.

That became a recurring theme. Working with contemporary classical music in Montenegro, where contemporary music barely exists–maybe five or six composers in total–was exactly the same. It sounds strange, nobody understands it, it doesn’t fit anywhere.

I’ve spent the last three years of my life in Berlin. Here it feels natural–a lot of people are interested in contemporary music, they go to concerts, they’re curious–but misunderstanding remains. A lot of classical musicians don’t get it either. So for me this field is a place where I am completely alone. No support, no friends, no family. Just: ‘Nina and her crazy music.’ And I think–okay, this is simply who I am.

And that goes back to childhood. It reflects the moment when the whole structure of our world–beautifully and lovingly built–collapsed. I lost all my friends–some stayed, others fled to different places, we moved constantly, lived a nomadic life. We did not fit.

 

Balkan Affairs’ is quite unique in that none of the involved composers has ever worked artistically with the Balkan wars of the 1990s–neither by personal choice nor on commission. Why do you think this subject has remained so untouched by contemporary composers from the region?

 

I began to frantically recall similar projects, and failed to remember any. There was a festival two years ago called KotorArt, featuring composers from different parts of ex-Yugoslavia, but it didn’t reflect on these themes. This problem has very deep roots. Those who could decide if such a project should happen in the Balkans are probably still under the impression of everything that happened in the 1990s. I hope the future will bring more projects like this

 

How did it feel when you all gathered in one room? Was there any tension or unease?

 

When Christine made the first Zoom to bring us together, some of us joined the call even before she formally introduced us–and we immediately felt comfortable. Total love and understanding. I don’t think of Helena as »a Croatian«, or Jug as »a Serb«. It never crossed my mind. We are so similar. We speak (almost) the same language, the culture is similar… Yes, there are differences, but the level of mutual understanding is very high. And that is one of the reasons we all want to work together again.

 

In your opinion–how much time needs to pass after a war before artists from the region can start working with it? Is 25 years a realistic minimum–as in the case of ‘Balkan Affairs’?

 

 

 

It’s not for us to decide. To make projects like this you need structures–money, resources, institutions. When it becomes politically interesting–then it will happen again. Until then, let’s just meet each other and love each other.

 

Did you discuss this piece with your parents–and how did they react?

 

My father initially said that this commission should have gone to a more senior composer, like my professor, whom he admires. He thought I was too young for this theme. But in the end, my parents fully supported me–they allowed me to use family videos. At first I was excited to interview them–but then it became very challenging. My mother tried her best, but it was clearly emotional and triggering. We had to stop and take breaks–she is not the type of person who wants to cry on camera. She never saw herself as a victim–more as a winner. My parents never processed their trauma in therapy–they just coped, as much as they could.

 

I didn’t like that I put my mother in such a demanding situation.In the end, even my father–after regretting it–agreed to do the interview. And you can tell just by the way he sits that he is not comfortable. They did what they thought was best–and if I were in their place, I would do the same. But it’s all very fragile.

 

There is still tension. People who stayed and lived through everything often judge those who escaped–and vice versa. My parents feel sorry for their friends who stayed–because what they went through was unbearable, unspeakable. Leaving was difficult–but staying was much harder.

 

When I finished the interview, I asked my parents if they wanted to see the final edit. They said: »No, better not.« They want to keep living their lives. And I think that’s fine. They are the ones who know what they went through. For our generation–it’s important to talk, because we have some distance, and we can learn something from it.

 

Do you see this project as a tool for reconciliation?

 

From my personal perspective, I cannot say there is a lack of communication between our countries, as I have friends in all the countries, speaking from a personal level. I cannot say that we »need to be reunited«. The connection is already there. We just need a proper formal context so that projects like this can happen more often. We need the right people in the right place. The current situation in the Balkans is not promising at all, but I hope we will be able to work on it in future.

 

Do you think a project like this can actually change anything–or make a difference, even in a small way?

 

During this project, Helena Škiljarov and I decided to make a collaborative coda piece for the Berlin concert. For that, we exchanged very sensitive material. It was triggering for both of us. We are human–not angels–we make mistakes. The point is to learn from them. That is what this project is about. And tomorrow we will be the ones responsible for such things–and maybe we will influence other projects too.