ANDREW TESTA/PANOS for TIME

The Civljaks have crafted filigree for two centuries. Marsel Civljak hopes his son will follow tradition

the 1960s. The word Terazije means "weighing scales" in Turkish, and during some 400 years of Ottoman rule — and well into the 19th century — this was a street of merchants and craftsmen. These days it's lined with shops selling imported goods. But squeezed between a boutique and a kitchen appliance store, and very easy to miss if one doesn't know exactly where to look, is one of the few remaining filigree shops in Serbia.

The ancient art of filigree — making fine jewelry and ornaments out of silver threads — is still common in the Middle East and some Asian countries but is very rare in Europe. Perhaps it's only fitting then that filigree should survive in the Balkans, a twilight zone between Rome and Byzantium where cultures collide and things are rarely what they seem. Inside the workshop, which is the size of a large elevator, labors Marsel Civljak, a pleasant 46-year-old with fair hair and a short, stubby beard. Civljak's father, grandfather and great-grandfather were all in the same trade, and he's not sure how long filigree has been in the family. "I think Civljaks have been doing this for about two centuries," he says. His father died when Civljak was still a boy, but he learned the secrets of the trade from an uncle. "I never wanted to do anything else," he says, "I love working with silver." Civljak can talk endlessly about silver and its properties, which he puts above any other precious metal: "You can combine an opal or a coral with gold or platinum, but it will only look good with silver. There is a unique shine to it."

Working with silver requires patience and a steady hand. To make a relatively simple piece — a pendant inset with semi-precious stones, for example — Civljak starts by stretching the metal into a 0.15-mm thread. He then carefully heats the thread, just enough to soften the silver but not enough to melt it, before using special tools to weave a delicate lace pattern. "It takes between four and six hours of work to make one of these," he says, holding up a pendant. "It sells for about $10."

Long ago filigree earrings, hairpins and heavy silver belts were a vital part of Balkan wedding gear, but those days are gone. The price of silver jewelry has seldom been lower, and Civljak barely earns enough to survive. But he seems content, and deeply in love with his craft. "There will always be people who appreciate beautiful things," he says.

"Sometimes, pieces that my father or grandfather made are returned to me for repairs. I did not just inherit the shop and the trade, but generations of customers as well. I am my own boss, and if I don't feel like working, I can just sit here and watch life on Terazije." Outside, people rush up and down the boulevard, oblivious to Civljak's modest shop. His 14-year-old son Simon sits in a corner hunched over a broken snake-shaped ring. Simon has his father's dreamy eyes. Filigree may be a dying craft in the Balkans, but in this small space in Belgrade, it is very much alive.