On Saturday, we were invited to a gathering at Uncle Boshko’s atelier.
Boshko is an old painter who lived in Mostar before the war. I first met him when Maxim introduced us after I arrived in Novi Sad. For the past twelve years, the artist has lived alone in a small house in Grbavica, tucked away in a courtyard. In that courtyard, he transformed an outbuilding into an atelier. Inside, neatly arranged shelves hold thousands of vinyl records—primarily jazz and related genres.
Most people around me develop an interest in such music after they turn thirty, but Boshko has been captivated by it since he was sixteen. By his twenties, his collection was already significant, and people in the city knew about it. Jazz musicians from across the former Yugoslavia, passing through Mostar during their military service, would hear of him, visit, and spend hours listening to records. Some even left behind rare albums of ad hoc jazz ensembles they had been part of—recordings from the 1970s, pressed in runs of just one hundred and fifty copies. Despite their obscurity, they sounded world-class. Exceptional compositions, brilliantly played and surprisingly well-recorded. How they achieved this remains a mystery.
Even foreign visitors who stayed longer in Mostar eventually heard about Boshko. They sought him out to marvel at his famous collection. In the 1980s, a man named Larry, a businessman from the United States, paid him a visit. They spent the day listening to records, and Larry shared stories of his childhood in a poor family.
Larry’s father had been a miner in a small Kentucky town during the 1930s. Despite his grueling shifts, he always found time for his children. After work, he’d gather them on his lap and sing to them. Larry vividly remembered one particular song—its lyrics, its melody. But after his father’s passing, he had never found a recording of it. No matter where he searched, he never heard the song again.
Boshko, ever the quiet and unassuming host, let his guests carry the conversation. He would close his eyes, tap his foot to the rhythm of the music, and sip his drink, occasionally interjecting a comment every twenty minutes or so. Rarely did he speak at length, unless we managed to draw him into a reflective mood.
After Larry finished sharing memories of his father’s song, he began talking about his early adulthood in the post war times. The music stopped. Boshko stood, carefully returned the record to its sleeve, and selected another with the precision of someone who knew the exact location of every album in his vast collection. Moments later, the room filled with music again.
Larry froze, his face a mix of shock and disbelief. For a few moments, he said nothing, listening intently. Then he spoke, his voice trembling.
“That’s the song my father used to sing. I’ve spent my whole life looking for it.”
“You weren’t looking in the right place,” Boshko replied quietly.
Overwhelmed with gratitude, Larry gifted Boshko a rare book he had been reading during his travels.
Just as in Mostar, musicians began flocking to Boshko’s atelier in Novi Sad. He welcomed many visitors, often younger friends and acquaintances. It wasn’t something he pursued; it simply happened naturally. The visits pleased him—he had no family in the city—and there were always a few regular groups stopping by. Alongside them, new faces would often appear. Among the familiar visitors were Uncle Milan and Uncle Matija, whom Maxim jokingly called Boshko’s angel and devil, his good and bad friends.
It wasn’t just the priceless record collection that attracted people. Boshko’s warm demeanor and unpretentious hospitality created an atmosphere that drew everyone in. Despite his fragile health and the hardships he had endured, he exuded a quiet resilience that inspired those around him.
I was one of those brought to see the collection and meet Uncle Boshko. After my first visit, he gave me an open invitation to return anytime, along with his phone number so I could call ahead. He even handed me a gift: Leb i Sol, a 1979 album from his collection. While most of his records were jazz, he was more willing to part with albums from other genres, sometimes gifting them to visitors.
Over time, I became a regular at the atelier, and through me, Elena and Ian joined, Milica too, when she was in town. Even Yanko came once. Besides us, there were five or six young musicians—mostly in their late twenties or early thirties—who often gathered there. I gradually got to know them, and eventually, they started inviting me to play football with them.
Football with musicians… I have to pause here. I still don’t know how to describe that game with a ball, which only vaguely resembled football.
